It's hard not to get excited by this three-letter word, exclaimed as its yellow majesty lumbered up to collect John this morning:
"BUS!" he said.
As if he'd been saying it for quite some time (so why is your mouth open, mommy?).
If that itself is not enough to celebrate, I'm afraid there is an embarrassment of words. He came home happier than usual, pulled down a book and, yanking my finger to use as his pointer, said "BOAT," "DOG," "MOON," "SUN," "CLOUDS," "STAR." And smiled.
Wild happy wailing ensued. Can you hear it?
October 26, 2007
October 16, 2007
After School
My child comes home smelling of other women. The smells surround him like a cloud — flowery, powdery, some days citrusy. When he gets off the bus, I hug his small frame to me in an attempt to replace it with my mommy smell, to make him familiar again. My nose itches with all that he did today that I did not get to see.
His communication notebook means the world to me since, unlike his brother, he cannot tell me about his day. It's the first thing I go for, as soon as we're inside. Here are a few excerpts:
I love him so.
His communication notebook means the world to me since, unlike his brother, he cannot tell me about his day. It's the first thing I go for, as soon as we're inside. Here are a few excerpts:
"We were impressed with his attention span and also (hooray!) his fine motor efforts."He is only three — already so independent and in a completely different way than I could have imagined.
"John said 'Hi' and 'Ball'"
"He really likes to color! We were impressed at his little circles inside bigger shapes."
"He was in a great mood today, very responsive and happy. He was following visually in all directions, where we had not seen him look upwards much before this."
"He keeps surprising us... we did not expect him to love painting. But he really did."
"We just love John!"
"John has been singing with us...he sang: 'John, John, get on the bus, John, John."
I love him so.
October 10, 2007
October 8, 2007
At the Playground
The setting: a neighborhood playground and a group of women that I haven't seen in over a year — two with twins like me. None with autism like us. I slowly approach and notice that they're talking to each other, their kids milling about free, laughing. I study their faces (as much as I can from this distance) and I don't detect any alarmed faces. Aren't they worried that the kids will wander off?
What is it like to know that your children will naturally stay close by? What is it like to see them check in with you and listen when you say "Come here"? What is it like to not feel tethered to your children, to not feel that your child is just waiting to dart into traffic, for real, if you lose contact with his little hand?
My friends wave. Smiles. But Sam begs to be let loose to the glory of slides! while John wants to go! now! in the opposite direction. I follow John of course, my perpetual wanderer — glancing back as Sam runs up and down and around the equipment. I feel hopeful that he will stay right there. Until he doesn't. Until he raises his head and spies the bigger slides at the other end of the playground and takes off.
Before I agreed to come, I made sure that the playground was enclosed. I never imagined that the size of it would rival a football field or that to see from one end of it to the other would be impossible. I never imagined that the panic would rise so immediately, like a one-two punch, within minutes of arriving. I never imagined that I'm still so freakin' fragile, that the tears would come unbidden and stream like a betrayal down my face as I chased first one and then the other. I never imagined that I could still feel so out of control.
In the end, my friends were great, keeping an eye on one while I followed the other. I actually got to do a little talking to (after I strapped them both in the stroller for a snack). But I'm not liking this out-of-control feeling. Not at all.
What is it like to know that your children will naturally stay close by? What is it like to see them check in with you and listen when you say "Come here"? What is it like to not feel tethered to your children, to not feel that your child is just waiting to dart into traffic, for real, if you lose contact with his little hand?
My friends wave. Smiles. But Sam begs to be let loose to the glory of slides! while John wants to go! now! in the opposite direction. I follow John of course, my perpetual wanderer — glancing back as Sam runs up and down and around the equipment. I feel hopeful that he will stay right there. Until he doesn't. Until he raises his head and spies the bigger slides at the other end of the playground and takes off.
Before I agreed to come, I made sure that the playground was enclosed. I never imagined that the size of it would rival a football field or that to see from one end of it to the other would be impossible. I never imagined that the panic would rise so immediately, like a one-two punch, within minutes of arriving. I never imagined that I'm still so freakin' fragile, that the tears would come unbidden and stream like a betrayal down my face as I chased first one and then the other. I never imagined that I could still feel so out of control.
In the end, my friends were great, keeping an eye on one while I followed the other. I actually got to do a little talking to (after I strapped them both in the stroller for a snack). But I'm not liking this out-of-control feeling. Not at all.
October 3, 2007
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