My beloved Aspie skipped his breakfast this morning. Unusual, because breakfast was toaster waffles, and he loves toaster waffles.
Did alarm bells go off? Nope.
He called from school with a headache. He sometimes does that to get out of a stressful class, and the nurse said he was chipper and chatty. Still, no alarm bells.
He skipped his dinner too. This time it was chicken quesadillas, which have been his favorite food since he was, oh, two. See, they make them at Friendly's, which is also home to ice cream. Quesadillas and ice cream: that's his dream team of dinners. It ranks right up there with hot dogs and mac & cheese.
He was a little green around the gills, too. Alarm bells? Not a one. He'd been playing soccer, and sometimes his meds make him a bit heat strokey. So I gave him a big ol' cup of water and sent him off to read the comics.
Took everyone upstairs for a bath before bed. My Aspie was pale as a ghost. His head hurt. His tummy hurt. Hmmm, I thought. Poor kid is exhausted. So I sent him to bed. In the top bunk.
And that's when he started throwing up. Hey, look, alarm bells! A little late though.
So there I was in the middle of a big huge gross mess made infinitely worse by the fact that it all started on the top bunk. I've got a shaky kid. I've got two freaked out siblings. And then the phone rings. It's my not-yet-ex, calling with some changes to our separation agreement. Not a good time, I say, and hey, betcha wanna come help. Ha ha.
He dropped everything and did just that.
Fifteen minutes later, he was there. He read and sang with our younger two while I mopped vomit off the walls and disinfected the carpet. He tucked them in and saw them off to sleep. He cuddled with our Aspie until he stopped shaking and was ready at last for bed.
And then he went home.
It's easy to complain about the soon-to-be-ex. If you didn't have ammunition - both of you - you wouldn't be headed for divorce, right?
It's the being there that's hard.
And the being there? Well, I think my Aspie put it best. When his dad walked in the door he said, "Mom, this means he likes me!"
Yes, it does.
September 8, 2009
Lawnmower Men
Yesterday, my friends mowed my lawn.
Now, granted, these are my friends in Limbo, the folks with whom I and my kids now frequently share wine and pie and cupcakes. On Labor Day Sunday, those of us who could came together for a meal and a little beach time on the river. The gathering was at my house, and I'd had grand plans about getting up early (yeah, right) and depooping and mowing the lawn.
Lots of kids in attendance means a need for a clean and navigable yard. Right?
But I woke up late. And I woke up to a disaster. Two of 'em, actually.
My redhead, who has an unquenchable thirst for what he calls "cow milk" (note the cow on the label), had helped himself to a carton from out of the pantry. He left the pantry door open. This is never smart with a Black Lab in the house. This dog, who is now so old she cannot manage stairs unassisted, somehow made her way to the pantry, pulled out six cans of cat food, chewed her way into each and every one of them, and left bits of crushed can and puddles of chicken and liver dinner all over the house.
It took me an hour to clean it all up. Longer for the stench of cat food to dissipate.
Then, my dryer broke. So I spent lots of time carting wet clothes upstairs and laying them all out in the sun in the vain hope that they'd dry before company came.
Upshot? Lots of poop, very long grass, and an explosion of laundry on my deck.
My friends, who get that Limbo is a challenge of time as much as anything else, took one look at my shambles of a backyard and just stepped in. They grabbed plastic bags. They pulled the mower out of the shed. And in no time - well, it would have been no time except that crabgrass is a bitch to cut - they had my yard in playable shape.
And in doing so, they taught me another one of those Lessons Learned in Limbo.
Lesson 2: Ask for help.
Most of us, we just keep on swimming, despite the tsunami doing its best to drown us. But if you ask for help, shockingly, you might just get a life preserver, a helicopter, and someone trained to use both.
Pretty incredible, that.
Of course, asking for help is easiest when you don't actually have to ask. My friends made it very easy.
Once the lawn was mowed, we had a fun dinner - potluck as usual - of faked barbecue chicken, nearly browned potatoes, curried wheatberries and a signature salad of savoy cabbage and home-roasted crunchies. Oh, and brownies so fabulous that the children managed to devour every one of them before the grown-ups even noticed they were gone.
The food vanished. The lesson, though - that will stick.
Now, granted, these are my friends in Limbo, the folks with whom I and my kids now frequently share wine and pie and cupcakes. On Labor Day Sunday, those of us who could came together for a meal and a little beach time on the river. The gathering was at my house, and I'd had grand plans about getting up early (yeah, right) and depooping and mowing the lawn.
Lots of kids in attendance means a need for a clean and navigable yard. Right?
But I woke up late. And I woke up to a disaster. Two of 'em, actually.
My redhead, who has an unquenchable thirst for what he calls "cow milk" (note the cow on the label), had helped himself to a carton from out of the pantry. He left the pantry door open. This is never smart with a Black Lab in the house. This dog, who is now so old she cannot manage stairs unassisted, somehow made her way to the pantry, pulled out six cans of cat food, chewed her way into each and every one of them, and left bits of crushed can and puddles of chicken and liver dinner all over the house.
It took me an hour to clean it all up. Longer for the stench of cat food to dissipate.
Then, my dryer broke. So I spent lots of time carting wet clothes upstairs and laying them all out in the sun in the vain hope that they'd dry before company came.
Upshot? Lots of poop, very long grass, and an explosion of laundry on my deck.
My friends, who get that Limbo is a challenge of time as much as anything else, took one look at my shambles of a backyard and just stepped in. They grabbed plastic bags. They pulled the mower out of the shed. And in no time - well, it would have been no time except that crabgrass is a bitch to cut - they had my yard in playable shape.
And in doing so, they taught me another one of those Lessons Learned in Limbo.
Lesson 2: Ask for help.
Most of us, we just keep on swimming, despite the tsunami doing its best to drown us. But if you ask for help, shockingly, you might just get a life preserver, a helicopter, and someone trained to use both.
Pretty incredible, that.
Of course, asking for help is easiest when you don't actually have to ask. My friends made it very easy.
Once the lawn was mowed, we had a fun dinner - potluck as usual - of faked barbecue chicken, nearly browned potatoes, curried wheatberries and a signature salad of savoy cabbage and home-roasted crunchies. Oh, and brownies so fabulous that the children managed to devour every one of them before the grown-ups even noticed they were gone.
The food vanished. The lesson, though - that will stick.
September 2, 2009
Conspiracy Theory
Last night, I had three Oreos and a cup of low-fat blueberry yogurt for dinner.
That's because they found me. The back-to-school germs, that is. They found me, and now I'm sick as a dog.
Two of my three kids started back to school last week. That's the only reason we have Oreos in the house in the first place: for lunchboxes. Usually I buy the icky green mint ones. The kids love 'em, I don't, so they stay safely in the pantry where they belong.
But for the first week of school I wanted special. I wanted the golden double-stuff Oreos.
I like those.
I don't think the Oreos brought the germs, though. I think the kids did that, even though not a single one of them has this bug. Oh, my redhead ran a fever for a whole 36 hours last week. But that was it. And it's not what I've got.
They're carriers, these kids. Human petri dishes. I think it's all part of an insidious conspiracy. The germs attack me, the kids stay healthy, and then when I'm at my weakest the kids strike. Seems a lot of work for a few extra hours in front of the TV, but I suppose to them it's worth it.
So here I am. It's barely the second week of school, and I'm coughing so hard I can't sleep, unable to take a deep breath, and so hoarse no one can hear me.
I'm also too weak to stand up and make myself food. Hence the yogurt and Oreos.
Gotta love it when the kids head back to school ...
That's because they found me. The back-to-school germs, that is. They found me, and now I'm sick as a dog.
Two of my three kids started back to school last week. That's the only reason we have Oreos in the house in the first place: for lunchboxes. Usually I buy the icky green mint ones. The kids love 'em, I don't, so they stay safely in the pantry where they belong.
But for the first week of school I wanted special. I wanted the golden double-stuff Oreos.
I like those.
I don't think the Oreos brought the germs, though. I think the kids did that, even though not a single one of them has this bug. Oh, my redhead ran a fever for a whole 36 hours last week. But that was it. And it's not what I've got.
They're carriers, these kids. Human petri dishes. I think it's all part of an insidious conspiracy. The germs attack me, the kids stay healthy, and then when I'm at my weakest the kids strike. Seems a lot of work for a few extra hours in front of the TV, but I suppose to them it's worth it.
So here I am. It's barely the second week of school, and I'm coughing so hard I can't sleep, unable to take a deep breath, and so hoarse no one can hear me.
I'm also too weak to stand up and make myself food. Hence the yogurt and Oreos.
Gotta love it when the kids head back to school ...
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