Susan Senator

One of the reasons I write this blog is that it gives me a medium for working crap out. Another reason is that I want people — particularly autism parents — to understand that autism is not the only challenging thing someone can face in this life. But rather than saying, “Hey, autism is not so bad,” I’m saying sardonically or with a kind of wisely ironic cynical sneer, “Hah, there’s so many things that are bad, why just pick on autism?”

Sorry. A bad day for me. Stop reading right now.

While many people are so glad to see their kids back in school, I am a bizarre weirdo who misses them when they go back. I like having them to fuss over, talk to, cook for (except dinner. I hate making dinner as much as I hate going to the dermatologist. But more about that later.).

I think a good New Year’s Res for anyone is to do the things that make you feel good, and to keep away from people who make you feel bad, even if it’s a doctor. Let’s say a dermatologist. But for some of us to stay away from those who make us feel bad, that would mean staying away from the entire world. Other people more wise than me would advise me to focus on something outside of myself and see what’s good rather than notice what’s bad. I found myself telling Ben to do just that a few minutes ago, but even then I was sure to also tell him that I’m still working on that, at age 47.

Being 47 has been a weird ride. Mostly I’m understanding the beginnings of growing old, and feeling kind of good about it, like, cool, I’m wiser than those 20-year-olds. Or like the 11-year-olds in Ben’s class. But not today. I went to my dermatologist today; that makes twice in two months, for nothing. She’s mostly about “improving” everyone who crosses her doorway, rather than someone you feel scared to see. It made me feel so grossed out about myself to see all those skin flaws so close. From her point of view. I could see the skin not popping right back into place. I could see the spots on my cheeks. I know, I know! A sun worshipper my whole life. She doesn’t have to point them out and tell me she’s got something for this, and I can choose from Door A which is not so expensive as Door B, but is far less effective. “Of course if you’re satisfied with the L’Oreal, then just stay with that.” Jeez. What if I actually never noticed that stuff before and was quite happy with my sagging chin lines?

I know, I know, I have to Eleanor Roosevelt myself, and not let anyone make me feel bad without my permission. Anyway, it is so easy to hate yourself if you’re a woman, and if you’re a mother. And if you’re an aging female mother — well, watch out. And we don’t make it any easier on each other.

So my New Year’s Res is to not be part of the problem and never again give a stranger a makeover in my head or to try to suggest a new way for my sister to dress or laugh at Mom’s sensible shoes or scoff at people who think they have all the autism answers. What do I know? I just ate ten oreos.