We had our entire duct system thoroughly cleaned a day ago, by a really great company. They were fantastic. Apparently our ducts have not been cleaned in years, certainly not in the 7 1/2 years we’ve lived in that monstrosity we call home. They came out with old Legos, toys, socks, all kinds of crazy things, back from the days that Nat enjoyed throwing everything he could down our Byzantine floor heating units. Even after this activity no longer enthralled, he continued to pursue it because of how much it bugged Ben.

So this is why, night after night, for years, but more acutely this year, I have been having trouble breathing at night. Our air has been filthy. You put the heat on, and dust puffs out onto the floor, immediately. And with someone as wimpily allergic as I am, this is a terrible situation. It’s just that I have been in denial over my dust allergies. Who wants dust allergies? It means either you have to clean more, take antihistimines, or suffer. Needless to say, I don’t want to do any of that.

Truly, there is nothing as terrific as clearing the air, literally and metaphorically. I have now had two wonderful nights of cough-free, itchy-throat-less sleep. (Also, I dreamt that I was a Middle Eastern Studies grad student and I woke up thinking, “Hmmmm.” I could, at very least, take Arabic at Harvard Extension or something like that. )

I am a real believer in the air power-cleaning, otherwise known as the confrontation. I am sitting in Boston Volvo right now because I told them honestly how I felt about being greeted with the “ABS system in need of service check” message every time I drive The Amazon. It seems that every time I go over a little patch of ice, she feels it is necessary to tell me, “Oh, my, I may have skidded, and I had to use my anti-lock brakes, I’m not at all sure that is what you wanted from me.” Why would such a large, powerful, beautiful creature be so self-conscious, and lack so much confidence? Why indeed.

So two weeks later, after Boston Volvo told me “not to worry,” the light came on again. Instead of driving around with a Lego on my dashboard to block unfavorable messages (like I used to do when I drove Fat Boy, my Jeep Grand Cherokee, a car that I absolutely hated; if you get one, you have only yourself to blame), I called Boston Volvo and pretty much made them see The Amazon today. And now I’m sitting at a salesman’s desk blogging. And I feel great. Also because I’m still under warranty. And all my Legos went down the drain — er, the vent.

You go to work
You be a jerk
You do your job
You do it right:
T.V. tonight!
–Frank Zappa

Now that I’ve mailed off Dirt: A Story of Gardening, Mothering, and a Mid-life Crisis, I feel myself walking close to huge pockets of time; that huge void is threatening to open up. There is no rest; I hate rest. I’ll rest when I’m dead. I want to work. I was raised to work, work, work for everything. From the time I could stay by myself, I was a babysitter. I worked in a movie theatre selling (and eating) popcorn and candy. I waitressed at restaurants and country clubs. I had work/study in college.

And now, my work is an odd mixture of housework, boycare, volunteer stuff, teaching, and writing. Not enough of any one thing. Not enough big blocks of time to expand any of them.

So I tried to get a part-time job at my favorite clothing and home furnishings store, Anthropologie. The interview was great, I was assured they were “so hiring,” and then I filled out the online “opinion survey” set up by the corporate headquarters. Beware corporate headquarters. Somewhere in there I displeased someone. Or maybe I am too old to represent their demographic? Me, with my closet full of Anthro clothes, my house decor of the same. I have a scary knowledge of their products and how their stores are laid out. I get my friends to shop and buy there. Yet, somehow, I was not right for the job. Eeek. That stung.

I heard a similar story about CVS Pharmacy from a dear old friend. Her “high-functioning” autistic son walks to their CVS all the time; it was his first independent outing. He stocks shelves there at a school program. He knows and loves CVS and their products better than anyone I know, knows it like he knows his own bedroom, or better yet, like he knows the train routes. You know what I’m talking about. And yet this wonderful young man cannot get hired there because everyone must fill out the corporate questionnaire, which has statements like, “I work well with people” to which you answer yes or no.

This dear boy does not know how to lie. He knows he does not work well with people. He works well in the stockroom. As long as everything is operating according to expectations (toaster in cafeteria working, and as long as you don’t say one particular kind of statement to him, he will do beautifully. But he cannot answer “correctly” because he cannot be imprecise.

Which made me wonder: what does “reasonable accommodation” mean? Is it only about building ramps, low toilets and reserving parking spaces, or is it also about training your staff and your corporate survey-makers in the particular ins and outs of neurological differences? This is an able young man who has overcome tremendous behavioral and sensory difficulties (bolting, tantrums, undressing in public) to be the responsible, sweet young adult he is. But he can’t get hired by CVS.

We need employers to understand that “accommodation” can mean many different things in today’s world of well-educated autistics and the college-degree-holding cognitively disabled. If little kids can be trained to work next to their atypically developing peers to the point where they barely bat an eye at a guy who flaps in class, why can’t the business leaders of today get a clue? I don’t need that job at Anthropologie, but my young friend really does need to be able to work at places he is trained to work in. For now, that might mean he has to be trained to lie on a job questionnaire. Stupidly ironic, isn’t it?

Total whiteout outside. Last night we heard we were going to get 8″ – 12″ of snow and by evening, our superintendent had already canceled school. This was a very good thing, I felt, because I had made a terrible glitch on Nat’s calendar: I had thought that today was MLK day, because actually tomorrow is MLK’s real birthday (Happy Birthday, Martin! I wish he were still alive. I remember when he was shot. I was in kindergarten and the principal announced it on the loudspeaker. I remember thinking, “But I thought we don’t have a king!” And indeed, we no longer did.).

So I had written, “No School, Martin Luther King Day.” And yesterday, Nat kept insisting that there would be no school tomorrow because of that. I went over to his calendar to show him that MLK Day is next week, but there, in my chicken scrawl, it said, “No School, Martin Luther King Day” on today! D’oh, D’oh, D’oh! Addled Mommy strikes again! No amount of apologizing would change Nat’s mind or attitude. He was hopping mad about it. I even rewrote it on his calendar, in the correct space, and he picked up the pen, and crossed it out, saying, “NOOOO.”

Nevertheless, Nat had a terrific time at the MLK tournament (yes, MLK, another reason I was confused!). He is a great team member, provided you don’t require your team members to either catch the ball or throw the ball. But if you want a team member who is always where the action is and smiling his face off, Nat is your man.

He will run and run and run,
His face shining like the sun
up and down the court,
Among those boys he is short!
Arms in the air,
Completely without a care
He is Basketball Man
Though nary a ball gets in those hands.

His candle goes out when he is called out. He hates sitting back down.

And so, I woke up at 4:17 a.m. thinking of snow and Nat. I looked outside and the street was black with rain. “Stupid!” I muttered, about Superintendent Chicken Little (whom I actually hired, and whom I like, in reality).

But then, while sleeping a little more,
I thought I heard a distant roar
that was — for once — not my Ned’s snore.
And I knew that the plows were coming, for sure.

When I looked out the window, a gorgeous heavy snow was falling. Nat came down fully dressed as if it were a holiday. To us, it is.

Yesterday was fantastic. I could tell that it warmish outside because the grass actually looks greener (literally on on the other side of the fence: my neighbors all have better lawns than we do). I packed my gym bag but I thought, maybe, maybe… and sure enough my car thermometer read 42 degrees. If I put up my hoodie hood and pulled the sleeves over my hands…? The Reservoir looked beautiful in that winter ghostly way, with a white surface, empty of birds. I parked in my usual spot and took a three mile run. The air did not hurt going in, and by the third mile I could undo my hood. There was almost no one there, an added bonus (no distractions). I felt powerful and healthy.

I spent a lot of the day right here, diningroom table, finishing my Dirt manuscript. Well, I guess it is done, at least this round of editing. Every time I open it to a random place and read it, I like what I see and I don’t feel the need to change anything, so that tells me I am done. 80,000 words, 279 pages. And no, (dear Matt), it is nothing like Danielle Steele, it is more Sue Miller meets Mark Haddon meets Curtis Sittenfeld meets Nick Hornby. Meet Susan Senator. This book, I promise you, is worth reading. I have read and reread it countless times and I’m still not bored of it, and I’m a tough crowd to please, believe me.

Nat had a swim with his buddy, which went fairly well (the Brookline pool is always too cold) and then they walked to Starbucks. Max was at his friend’s house learning D & D. Ben spent hours writing a script and designing characters to a game he is making. All three boys = happy.

So I was free to do more stuff. I bought coffee downtown and a new bok, the new Sue Miller as a matter of fact. I got home and all was well, so I worked on my lesson plan for the Care for the Caregiver workshop. I did this into the evening, making three pages of bellydance instruction and accompanying songs.

We went out to dinner, all five of us, at Zaftig’s, which works best en famille, because of the huge menu, breakfast all day long, and excellent wait staff. Only one meltdown, this time it was Ben, over where he would get to sit.

Max helped me burn the music for my class CD and I printed out a lovely jewel case cover listing the songs. I have over an hour’s worth of appropriate music for the class. I also organized all my hipscarves and veils (I have about 14 each) and realized my new silver zills are truly lost. 🙁 Ned said he’d get me a new set.

By the time everyone was in bed and Ned and I had time to ourselves, all I could do was lie down against his chest while he watched Dave Letterman on the Tivo. I tried to stay awake but I was so comfortable that I fell asleep, and slept until it was time to go to bed!

Nat’s basketball tournament is today!

The language of a family is unique and fascinating. By living together and by sharing a collection of genes and experiences, you learn to speak each other’s language. Most humans — and indeed, many animals in general — have the capacity to read each other. Some are more adept than others.

I had always loved reading and figuring people out. I was a communication major at the Annenberg School at Penn, and there we mostly studied how people interact, all the various modes and media. But even before that, I prided myself on my ability to decipher others’ minds. My parents were probably my first “projects.” They have always fascinated me, because they are like me, and then again, they are completely themselves. Sure, you could say that my deep interest in understanding my parents sprung from a kind of Freudian survival instinct; who doesn’t need to be in sync with their parents during childhood?

My connection with Mom and Dad continued into adulthood because they have continued to be full-fledged people in their own right. They have their own lives that they are still leading, and a marriage that has so far lasted 50 years (on the 25th). And they have their own language, complete with history, baggage, and jokes that they have shared with me, somewhat. I feel that I know so well how they think that I can imitate them and predict certain of their reactions.

Dad and I have always played a game called “opposites,” ever since I came home in first grade describing this bit of curriculum I had learned. It started out with Dad giving me fun little quizzes like, “What is the opposite of up?” That kind of thing. But, like other family interactions, this opposite game took on a life of its own. One time, on his way back from work, Dad reported that he almost went off the road laughing because he had finally nailed an opposite to “Yassir Arafat:” No Ma’am, I’m Skinny. It goes like this: Yas = No; Sir = Ma’am;
Ara [You’re] = I’m; Fat = Skinny. You may think you understand this now, and maybe you get the basics, but there is also so much family history here. Like the fact that many of Dad’s opposites are about historic figures, particulary World War I and forward. Dad is a historian. But also, he is fascinated/obsessed with certain questions in history like “How could the world have let the Holocaust happen?” It is personally and also intellectually interesting to him.

Mom, who is kind of a walking encyclopedia, almost always can provide Dad with the accuracy checks. They are perfectly paired, in some ways.

I am not doing this subject justice. Thinking about Dad and Mom and their way of thinking just makes me laugh and laugh, a love-filled laugh. I think you know what I mean. Maybe you know your own dad this way or your mom, or your sibling. Here, I will try to give you an example of the most recent set of opposites that came my way. They exemplify Mom and Dad’s obsession with breads, eating, not eating too much, history, etc.

See if you can get any of these Bakery Goods.

1- an ordinary German citizen of the pre World War 1 era/to remain stable at sea
2- girl/guy
3- treat people harshly/five dollar bill
4- ally/throw/she/i’m not surprised
5- mom/under
6- buck/very sane person (slang)
7- very speedy runner
8- worker/ounce–speaks softly–ear

Last night I had my Prozac dream, which I have not had in such a long time. It is odd because I am now reducing my dosage, so you would think that I would not have that dream. My Prozac dream is of a place I call “The City,” for want of a better description. Years ago, when I was in the throes of therapy, grieving, OCD, growing up (even though I was in my early thirties), and all sorts of other mean-and-nasty things, I dreamed about The City all the time, and its various neighborhoods.

The City is probably not a real place, but — to utterly remove all the magic from it for a moment — a collage of places I’ve been to and then some. Its urban part is like Philadelphia (especially the South Street neighborhood, and also the subway system); its excellent shopping district is like Harvard Square the way it used to be ante-Starbuckum, pre-chain boutique; and like Paris. There is store after store of antique, Fin-de-Siecle gowns, jewels, etc., which actually fit me. There is also a mall that is kind of low-rent but has its fun stores, too; some kind of department store with tons of great sweaters.

There is also a very bad neighborhood in The City. It is very close to the subway area, and sometimes it is the subway itself: extremely complicated with gears and machinery that can actually kill you if you don’t understand how the mechanism works. The worst part of The City is this area that is very much like West Philly, where I used to live when I went to Penn. Only West Philly was not this way, in reality. It only looked this way. I never had anything bad happen to me in the five years I lived there; just a lot of run-ins with very interesting people who somehow were always interested in me (like the man who sat down with my friends and me in a booth at the McDonald’s on 40th and Walnut (?) or Chestnut (?) and tried to be a part of our conversation and the three other young men I was with froze in fear (one was Ned). Eventually the guy leaned in and said, “Tell ‘er I said ‘hi'” and left. Another time, a different man sat down with us at our booth there and was much more animated. When I said, “Ned, I want those fries!” the guy yells out, “Don’t be so selfish!” At which point the four of us made a mad dash out of there. Another time there was the guy at the movie Witness, who interrupted every scene every few minutes and we were scared of him, too, and it turned out he was a midget. And when we got outside of the theatre, several blocks away, Philadelphia was on fire, but never mind…)

The bad part of The City is not populated with interesting homeless men; it is full of gangs and killers. So whenever I get lost in that part of The City it is sure to be a bad dream.

The best part of The City is the part that leads to the seashore. You have to go through these beautiful wooded trails to get there, and you are almost there when you get to this amazing resort. This place is psycho-gorgeous, over-the-top fun. This resort puts The Atlantis to shame. There are indoor pools with slides that turn you upside down! Pools with ball pits, somehow! Outdoor pools with multi-level waterfalls you can slide down!

After the resort you eventually go down winding beach roads that lead to an area where there are cliffs. This is the most beautiful ocean vista you have ever seen. I mean, up there above and beyond the beauty of Ocean Drive leading to Coast Guard Beach on Cape Cod. But like that. But the cliffs. Well, the cliffs. The thing is, every now and then the ocean in The City rises up over those cliffs, huge waves, impossible to predict. Then the dream is scary again.

Last night I was only at the resort, and having the time of my life. I was going to head out to the ocean anyway, despite the danger, but I woke up before I got there.

Sometimes what I think is that The City is kind of like an uber-world, a bit like C.S. Lewis’ real Narnia, which you learn about in The Last Battle, the last Narnia book, a world that was somehow more real than the world we are all in, but you could only get there in certain ways somewhat beyond your control. I don’t know what makes me visit The City, I only know that I wish and wish that I could really be there, even with all of its fearful parts.

I don’t want to talk about what I think The City really is because I don’t want to ruin it for anyone, especially me. I’m just happy to have been there last night, and that I had the good sense not to go all the way to the cliff.

I am having an incredibly good day. First of all, it was really warm! The snow has been reduced to ashen gray piles here and there with brown crackly leaves sticking out of them. Mud is everywhere. The sky has strange light; even Max commented on it!

And, aside from getting that workshop flyer finalized, I also had a class tonight with Melina, a teacher I’ve had before (a year ago), and I had forgotten how great she is! She is so bubbly and positive and lovely. Her style is Greco-Turkish, which is a little different from the Egyptian/Arabic style I love, which I’ve been learning (and will continue to learn with my pal Najmat). Greco-Turkish is a bit more wild and less straight up-and-down than the Egyptian. It seems a bit more suited to my body and my personality. You wear flowing skirts and fringed belts rather than the straight stretchy skirts. You can imagine dancing around a fire with a sword on your head with this style.

(And, by the way, I bought a real, curved sword while in San Juan, from a fantastic bellydance shop. I practiced with it in the store and the shopkeeper was quite impressed! It should arrive any day and that will be a whole new dimension in my practicing.)

She also makes class interesting by throwing in tidbits of Greek culture, Goddess references, and all with the same happy demeanor. She never criticizes or singles anyone out; she keeps everyone laughing but working very, very hard. We had bent knees and ultra-straight backs for long minutes at a time, practicing slow, controlled knee shimmies and also alternating hip lifts. The class was packed, and no wonder. We ended with a traveling step back and forth, and this looked really good en masse. We moved to the song, “Simarik,” by Tarkan. It is a great dance song, that starts with a kiss and periodically has the kiss sounds punctuating the ends of the phrases.

On another front, I have been very busing writing. I am nearly done editing Dirt: A Story of Gardening, Mothering, and a Midlife Crisis, (my novel) and so I will be sending it back to my agent for her to give it a final read before shopping it around! I absolutely love how it came out. I love the characters so much I don’t want the book to be done because I’ll miss them! It is just the kind of book I like to read, and I now think it is one of the strongest, loveliest things I’ve ever written.

And just now, quite incongruously, I had a gut-busting, pants-peeing laugh with Ned about this blog post he came across. (I hope no one is offended; I just think typos, etc. are so funny.) Ned and I first got together over having a similar sense of humor, and that, my friends, is the best adhesive a marriage can have!

• Work with breath to calm body and mind
• Experience the intrinsic beauty and grace of your body moving to the rhythms of an ancient dance form.
• Improve body confidence, posture, and poise
• Enjoy a deep relaxation
• Instruction is for absolute beginners – bare belly not required!
• Get a fun workout, too!

Here is a little piece of Heaven that floated my way, from a certain website that is my Enabler…

Many of you who read this blog perhaps feel disappointed or frustrated by the breaks I take from autism, advocacy, etc. I am diseased-to-please, so I feel bad about disappointing people. I’ve always been that way, from birth.

So why can’t I just keep it to myself? Because I just crave the written word. I feel such a pink, sugary pleasure just by writing about bellydance. If I could, I’d always be doing it, I’d be much better at it, I’d perform, etc., etc. It just takes my mind and wraps it in pink satin and chiffon.

One of my sinful secrets is that I love the movie Gigi, with the beautiful dancer Leslie Caron. It is pure fluff, but so much fun. The Fin de Siecle, Hollywood-style costumes alone are worth the rental. I love the way Gigi just grows up overnight, and the dashing Louis Jourdan falls for her.

So, at the risk of sounding like Maurice Chevalier, I have to talk about little girls. I just finished my first class of Session Two Baby Bellies, my after-school bellydance class at our elementary school, and I am on La Nuage Neuvieme. There are now seven girls in my class, all first and second grade, and I am just in love. I think that sometimes when God gave me– well, not lemons; let’s say crisp tart apples — I have made apple pie, let alone apple juice! But you also really appreciate summertime peaches sometimes. Am I making sense, or do I sound like fruitcake?

They are so up front, no-bullshit, about how they feel. They are also all over the place, rambunctious, chatty. One of the girls sat down next to me and said, “I get to sit next to you!” Another, at the end of class, said, “I want YOU to teach me how to bellydance!” And the same old questions, from the new girls: “Is that you ? (It was Ansuya, God bless them! See below)” And “Why do they wear that?” (Because it’s pretty!) “Do you always have to be skinny like that?” (No, that’s why it’s the best! I’m not skinny like that!)

I got through very little material. They did learn two isolations and some veil work, and a basic Egyptian shimmy, however. But I had to turn off the music because there was just such noise!

I find I have to be firm about what we’re doing, the rules, the goals, and such, “Okay, you guys, now get in a circle. Everyone, try raising your arms like this. This is called…” And so forth. They loved the little hip scarves I had bought and the veils, just their size. They wanted to keep them, and I had to tell them that they cost money! “Why?” a few of them asked. Why indeed.

In Plato’s Apology, he writes that Socrates claims that a wise man is wise in that he knows that he does not know. I think the truth here is that we all think we know something, and no matter how hard we try not to become closed by what we think, still it happens that we make assumptions, and we are sometimes dead wrong.

I have been thinking for months that I want to be a bellydance teacher to disabled girls. I had a feeling, I suppose based on my experiences with Nat ten + years ago that mainstream places which offer extracurriculars like art, music, and dance, were in fact often less than accommodating when it came to my boy. I developed an inner certainty, based on this experience, and on the fact that there were organizations like KOALA in my area, which stands for — I forgot — but which was an organization that would come in and teach extracurricular organizations how to include guys like Nat effectively. I never did apply to KOALA; I only heard that they did wonderful work — through the ARCs — in getting places like your local art center or music school to accommodate properly.

It always seemed like a huge task to me. To have to apply for such a thing — how long would it take to come through — and then to hope that it would really do what it promises. And then, by the time it all shakes out, would Nat even still be interested in the art or music activity? I quit before I even began.

This did not mean I gave up; instead, I formed my own alternative groups, like a special needs soccer team. And then I found alternative groups like Special Olympics, and Alternative Leisure/Trips Unlimited (a privately run group that takes special needs kids on outings). I liked the solidarity found in these separate groups, I liked the way we did not have to apologize or feel extra grateful that they allowed Nat to be a part of things. (I hate, absolutely hate, having to ask the world to do me a favor and put up with Nat, when really, he is such a good kid with so many good qualities; they should be trying to get to know him even if some of his issues are hard to deal with. He’s never rude like so many of his typical peers; he is willing to try new things, also unlike many of his peers.)

In terms of inclusion, I have ever had a chip on my shoulder. I want to see great examples of places that include without an attitude of “we’re doing this wonderful thing for you, poor Special Needs Mom, be grateful, while you pay an additional $100 for an aide, as well as the cost of our fantastic program.”

So I wanted to make my Baby Bellies class at the school fully inclusive. I went into the substantially separate classroom and told the teachers that their kids were welcome. I emailed and talked to friends with autistic children and urged them to come to my class. Then, I went up to a friend whose kid has some intense physical disabilities and told her she should consider the class. I was so excited when she said her child would! I felt proud of myself, for offering a truly welcoming environment for these kids who are so often left out.

But so far, none of these have signed up! When I inquire, they all tell me it is because my class conflicts with after school therapies. Or harried lives. And I checked in with that friend the other day, and she told me that her child would not be taking my class! “Oh,” I thought, “is the child nervous about taking a physical activity with non-disabled kids? Is she afraid of being different?” I wanted to explain that in my class, unlike so many others, all kids would be welcome and helped!

Then the mom explained, “It’s just that she’s got so many other things going on, soccer, basketball… She really thinks of herself as a jock rather than a dancer. But thanks!”

I had to laugh at myself. Even when you think you know, you don’t always. Meanwhile, I have seven kids signed up. There are three new girls coming in, who I’m sure will present me with their own delights and challenges, even though they do not come with IEPs!

Sometimes, that which is old can become new again. And sometimes, that which is old is just plain old. Today, as in most weekends for the last six months or so, Nat became very anxious because of a neighbor’s outdoor light being on, and Max and Ben still not down for breakfast. The yelling and the vicious arm-biting ensued, but I tamped down my natural responses of fear, sadness, and worry to present Nat with the much-vaunted neutral bearing of the positive reinforcer.

True to my ABA rearing, (the positive reinforcement of little steps that lead up to one larger goal. In this case, staying calm in the face of great anxiety. This is not a great strategy for teaching many kinds of skills, such as those involving conversation, or the joy of socializing; however, like many educational approaches, ABA has its uses, in terms of teaching more concrete skills where the teacher’s expectation is a clear and obvious one that can be easily rewarded and encouraged.) I offered a bland, emotion-free schedule of what was and would be going on, with no accommodating his demands, which are — let’s face it — a little bit unreasonable. The sooner one learns that one cannot control too well what others do, the easier ones life will be, no? E.g., Max and Ben should be able to sleep late and eat when they want on their days off from school; my neighbor cannot always be expected to shut off her light at daybreak:

Nat ate breakfast
Mom and Dad ate breakfasts
SOON Max and Ben will come down and eat.

Nat can sit on the couch and watch a movie.
The outdoor light is on and will be off later.

Upon reading that schedule, Nat said, “Noooooooo,” and scratched it out with a pen!

It is the end of a era. Our Nat Book Propaganda no longer works! Hallelujah! Or help!

Here are some great things that do not fail to make me happy. Most are shallow and consumer-oriented but who cares? If they make you feel good, isn’t that worth a blog post?

1) Princess Farkhana. She is a free spirit bellydancer, full of fun and playfulness. There is a movie coming out about her, in March, called Underbelly, and you can be sure I’m going to see it.
2) Aerolatte miniblender. It creates a latte or a misto or a capucino without the expensive machinery. Heat up a tiny bit of cream with Splenda, froth it up, and gently pour the coffee in and you have yourself a great afternoon treat. Mom bought it for me because she knows how I likes my coffeez. Thanks, Mommy!
3) JCrew right now (January 2008). The colors are as beautiful as a rainbow, and the styles and cuts are forgiving.
4) Anthropologie sales area. They always have amazing sales, tons of stuff, towards the back of the store, and some of it just came out even last month!
5) Northeastern University job-listing service: I got tons of great students to hang out and work with Nat. Most of the students who go there are looking for real vocational experience while they get their college degrees. They are mostly sweet, dedicated, competent kids.
6) Shopping with a friend. What could be better, even if you buy nothing? Share a dressing room and it’s even more fun because you can trade off stuff and learn from each other how to wear new styles.
7) Whole Foods 365 brand salted almonds. A healthy fat, a source of protein, and a salt fix all in one.
8) Every now and then, a massage at my gym, or an occasional house cleaner. Take your pick, they are worth saving up for. Even once a year, you’ll be so happy right afterwards.
9) My shoe repair guy, on Alton Place in Brookline. He is a hardworking Armenian immigrant who always smiles, and fixes anything I bring in (I’m very hard on shoes), always done on time.
10) Old Seinfeld episodes. Even if I’ve seen it a million times, there is no show, I defy you to come up with a show, that is funnier. Today my friend said I was Elaine and I said she was Elaine, too. This was while we were feeling crabby about having to go all the way down to level B to park at the Atrium Mall which is such a small mall, with just the right stores, that I could have made it number 11.

Pardon the cliche, but one of my resolutions, should I actually stick to it, is to try to enjoy my life as it is. I think I do a lot of wishing and fantasizing about what is not yet, or what should be, and I suppose that’s fine because it gives me something to work towards. But it is not fine if it blocks me from feeling good moment-by-moment. Of course one can’t always feel good, but I think I feel bad a lot more than is necessary. The official diagnosis is depression, but I don’t always accept that.

As I said yesterday, it was a good day. I felt strong and capable and creative. Nat came home from school and when asked, said that he had had a good day. I, of course, checked in the notebook because he might have just been saying, “yes” to get me to stop talking to him. Sure enough, it had been a really good day for him. In music they had studied Mozart. I don’t really know what that means, that they “studied” Mozart, but I’m sure it involved a lot of listening to the complicated themes and feeling how wonderfully they resolve in one of his pieces.

I asked him if he wanted to hear some Mozart, and of course he said, “yes,” so I asked him a few more times in all different permutations to be sure he really wanted this and would not just walk away when the stereo went on. And yes, he did mean it. I chose a flute concerto or two and a collection of “Greatest Hits.” He settled on the couch and sat through all of it, listening carefully. I wonder what he thought or felt. I know I think of Mozart as hilly music, that builds up pleasantly, and then glides down, in crisscrossing paths (like the bike path at Provincelands National Park on the Cape), meeting up at last in perfect resolution.

The flute concerti took me right back to childhood, playing in that yellow basement playroom, while Dad listened to Mozart and made candles or something like that. Dad knows how to live in the moment. Back then, he had a candle-making studio down there next to the washer and dryer, with a burner and all kinds of jars of scent and color, and large white blocks of wax. He loved to experiment with molds (half-gallon paper containers from milk, or foil-and-sand) and with stuff inside the melted wax, like ice cubes (the ice cubes would cause holes in the final candle!). Once he even made a candle in a coffee mug. It could not come out, and the mug would have to be broken, so we left it in there.

Another time, he made a candle shaped like a Poodie, which is a creature he created when Laura and I were little, kind of a guy with a round head and stick figure body and big ears and glasses (I suppose it was a cartoon of Dad, come to think of it!). The friend he gave it to set it on a windowsill and it melted in such a funny way, with the head all bent and stretched, along with the goofy smile. Candle Poodie still makes me crack up.

He made us tons of Poodie dolls. They were made of socks, with buttons or rubber bands. Each new grandchild got a special Poodie, too. The infants got Poodies that were only stitched, because of the danger of swallowing stuff. I think the Poodie-de-resistance was a goat Poodie, made because he discovered a goat several blocks away. We had all been wondering what was that weird, “Raaaaa” noise, and finally, on one of his jogs, Dad saw a real goat! In the suburbs of Connecticut!

While Nat and I played Mozart, I was not making candles or Poodies, but I was writing. I had my coffee and my laptop and my ideas. And that was enough. I was nourished enough to make dinner, and even helped Beastie do his homework with a light heart (homework really gets him down, but I think from now on I will make him do it right next to me so that at least I can joke him out of his funk when it comes over him). Kind of the way Wolfgang Amadeus and Precious and candle memories lifted me out of mine.

Now is the winter of our [dis]content;
made glorious by this noble son of [York] Ned and Sue
–Bill Shakespeare, and me

This morning, in honor of a very good team meeting at Nat’s school, I post for you my column in the Brookline Tab. I feel that Ned and I did very well in expressing ourselves and representing our young man. Today is a good day.

Opinion: The winter of our content?

By Susan Senator/Edge of Town

Wed Jan 02, 2008, 04:31 PM EST

This morning, Ben came down in a snit over his hair. He has baby-fine, lanky hair and it becomes easily tangled and full of static. He also was blessed with all of my stubborn cowlicks, so he has it rough when it comes to hair. He has a definite idea of what he wants to look like, (so familiar) so it was not surprising for me to see the odd clump rising in the back of his head, and then his hand wrenching it downward (to no avail), his teeth gnashing in rage.

I did not notice Nat, hiding his face behind his cereal box, grinning broadly.

All I saw was Ben, over-the-top angry, spitting nails at everyone, and saying, “And if you so much as smile at me again, I will rip your face off,” or something like that, at Nat.

“BEN!” I said. “I know that you’re mad about your hair and sad to go back to school, but you can’t put all of your feelings onto Nat and everyone else! It is NOT his fault!”

“Yeah, but he’s laughing at me!”

I looked and saw that Nat was hunkered down behind the Lucky Charms, and was indeed smiling. Oh, what do I do, I thought. Nat is laughing at him, technically, but that is because he is giddy and nervous (in general) and because of Ben’s anger. It is not actually Nat’s fault that he is laughing —

But wait, I then thought. To Ben, Nat is laughing at him. Ben doesn’t recognize the subtle difference of someone who is disabled and anxious and prone to giddy laughter who doesn’t intend to upset —

And then I caught myself again. How do I know he doesn’t intend to upset Ben? Why should I assume Nat can’t help it, when I know that he probably is actually laughing at Ben, though far more innocently than Ben thinks?

Why split hairs? Ben thinks that I am sticking up for Nat over him, and in a way, I am! I would never tolerate Ben laughing at Nat if Nat were upset by something. Is there some way I can remonstrate Nat but still be fair to him, knowing that his autism makes the situation subtly different in intent, but not different in appearance and outcome?

Here are the facts: 1) Ben is angry already, from having to go back to school, and having crappy hair.
2) Nat is laughing — and at him — but not because he thinks Ben looks stupid. He is laughing because of Ben’s anger vibes.

Was there a way I could discipline Nat that would be fair to Nat and teach him what was right, but that would satisfy Ben?

So I said, “Nat! You don’t have to laugh when you know Ben is upset!”
Nat said, “Yes,” and his voice slid down into a soft giggle.
I tried again. I said, “Nat! As the big brother, you should know better not to laugh when someone is upset.”

This time Nat was quiet. But he looked at me and something flashed in his eyes, something like, he was surprised at me. Something a little shocked, that seemed like he knew I was sacrificing him a little for Ben. This fear weighs especially heavily on me now, because tomorrow we are having a meeting with our educational team about putting Nat on a waiting list for housing at his school. He’s eighteen, he’s eighteen, I keep telling myself. But.

I checked in with Ben a little later, to see if what I had done had been worth it. Still angry, he said, “He’ll just forget it in five minutes!”
And I said, “Yeah, maybe, but that’s not his fault. That’s the disability, see?”

I don’t know if I did any good at all.

This sez it all. As so often the i can has cheeseburger-lolcats do. Let’s remember what’s important for 2008.

1) Loving our children for who they are
2) Loving ourselves — if you truly do, all else emanates from there.
3) Helping wherever you can
4) Not being part of the problem/don’t be that guy
5) Bellydancing (oops, that just slipped in there)