Digging Out

Fingers and toes crossed over here: if all goes as planned, two little boys will return to school tomorrow. Twelve long days. Nearly 40 inches of snow has fallen during that time and as ice packed streets give way to pavement and weighted branches sigh with its release — I stand at the ready to reclaim my house. I probably shouldn't be so happy, but I am.

I know I'm not alone, my cry is just one in a chorus of tired moms and dads who are certain they are the worst parents ever for turning on the TV as soon as they wake up. I admit: I've given up on being creative.

We have been through every game, book and craft. We have colored and cut, read and baked. Sam, once unable to manipulate the Wii controls, has now mastered Mario Kart and is completely under its influence. I was always the mom who said Video games = bad, and My kid will never... and all it took to fell me was this white stuff.

Plus, All the other kids are playing it, mom? I fell for that one. Every play date we've hosted has had a little boy begging me to let them play the Wii, the Wii Sam's dad plays all the time. Except Sam had never played it because his mom is so mean. Flash forward 12 days: now Sam is starting to teach me. Social skills, right?

And John? John could care less about the games, the crafts, the baking, the TV. He is a hard little boy to entertain. Up until today, the only thing he has wanted to do is play with the itouch. He has asked for it every morning as soon as his feet hit the floor. And every morning I've made him wait, making him cuddle with me (which he does with little complaint), then trying blackmail, First breakfast, then itouch. It was so gratifying today to hear him reply, "Oatmeal?" since I know he's finally understanding the terms.

We have two itouch in rotation, mine and his dad's. Each is loaded with games and videos and songs. It is understatement to say it is his favorite toy in the world. An expensive toy at that, one his dad has missed during this long Snowpalooza. I tell him, You get to go to work! Leave us your itouch, it's the least you can do! John plays with one while the other charges. He jumps around laughing, his little fingers flying over the touch screen until the battery is suddenly, sadly dead — the moment punctuated with wails and a thud — the sound of him flinging it across the room. It's love-hate with him, although mostly love.

But in the last few days, he has started to ask, "School?" and "Sam's school?" and "Library?" I think he misses his routine as much as I do. Today he tired of the itouch before the battery even quit. He wandered down to the play room and after too much quiet, I went to investigate and found him amidst this scene:


What a boy, what boys! I still crave the silence that tomorrow morning will bring, but I will miss this. A little bit.

A Post About Snow and Sanity

On this, the eve of Colossal Snow Storm #2, we pause to ponder how the shortest month of the year already feels like the longest. Last week we had a snow day for a mere six inches — can you imagine? Wimps.

Well, no longer — the Blizzard of 2010 dumped 27 inches on us three days later. No school today, no school tomorrow, I dare say there will be no more school until March.

This area of the world shuts down at just the threat of flakes, so you can imagine what a mess we're all in.

I am stuck inside with two boys who thrive on routine and we are sorely lacking any — unless you count the consumption of sugary cereals in front of the TV all day. We can't even go out and sled the snowy slopes, all because Sam had surgery three days ago.

The things I forget to blog about! He is fine, he had a hernia repair which was scheduled months ago and required delicate and thoughtful social stories, not to mention blackmail. And presents.

The threat of getting stuck in a blizzard was nothing compared to the thought of postponing his surgery and starting to prep him all over again.

Lots of drama, lots of waiting, lots of anxiety. Even though John had much more serious surgery as a baby, I felt no less emotional watching them put him under. It was so much harder, I think, because he was aware and he was scared. In the end it didn't matter how well we tried to prepare him. He refused to change into his hospital gown, which is how I found myself dressed in scrubs carrying him kicking and screaming into a cold and stark OR. I will never forget his screams as they tried to hold him down for the anesthesia — they twisted my insides raw.


It's not easy to turn your boy over to a room full of strangers.

Well. It was fine, he was fine, even though it took a full hour for him to wake up. We made it home just as the first flakes started to stick to the ground and huddled together for the duration. And here we are: stuck inside, no routines except for the new Snow Time ones we are creating.

My Incredibly Bad Day

Some days are harder than most and some days have nothing to do with autism. If you're really paying attention, you might notice signs that you're headed into a black hole of a day, but who has time to actually pause like that. You just put one foot in front of the other and cling to your routines. Monday? Wake up. Get boys up. Feed cat, make mental note she walked away without eating again. Make lunches. Pack backpacks. Wipe one child's nose, feel forehead, no fever. Bus driver calls, they are running late. Pace. Put one child on the bus, drive the other to school. Ignore car groans.

Breathe.

Race to meet a client. This is important, she is handing over a job and a check and the mortgage is due today. You're grateful for the slow return of freelance and are racing the clock to meet her. You are already 20 minutes late and although you called her already, you are now five minutes later than you said you'd be.

Sigh.

At last you arrive and rush in spilling apologies. Job is handed over, so is the all-important payment. She needs to leave and you're FINE with that. You congratulate yourself on arranging to meet at a coffee shop. You get your cup of joe, settle in a comfy couch. Now you will work, or write. Maybe gather your thoughts.

The cat. Hmm. Maybe you should call the vet. You call and say, She stopped eating yesterday, maybe a hairball is bothering her? Bring her in at noon, they say. That's two hours from now — you can get so much done.

Phone rings and now it's John's school. What? A runny nose. But no fever. You want me to pick him up. Now? (Are you kidding me?)

As you pack up your stuff, you imagine the task ahead — keeping John from stomping around the house as you try to locate the cat. The cat who has disappeared out of fear of his stomping feet — the one with the uncanny ability to sense she is going to the vet. She will surely be somewhere in the far reaches of the basement.

Breathe.

Drive the 15 or so miles up to John's school. Park at the curb, leave your hazards on — you know you're not supposed to park here, but you'll be in and out. He's SO happy to see you and jumps into your arms, saying "Mommy's car?" You smile, gather his things and say goodbye to his teacher. "Mommy's car. Mommy's car." he repeats, bouncing down the corridor and out to the curb where your car sits, flashing hazards.

Strap him in, get behind the wheel. Breathe. Look at watch: 45 minutes until you have to get cat to vet. You think, I can do this. Turn key in ignition and stare dumbfounded when it doesn't turn over. Try again. Nope, nada. An ominous clicking sound too. Hmm. Who can you call to deal with this? Try husband at work. Not there. Call husband's cell. Not on! Go back and forth between the two until you realize you're not getting anywhere. Try Emergency Roadside Assistance number, cringe to hear 2-3 hour delay due to weather conditions in your area.

Look back at John in his seat and realize Major Meltdown is about to occur. Breathe. Call teacher. Hi, we're still in front of the school, car broke down. Um, can you come get John?

At the sight of his teacher, John starts to scream, cry, body drop as we walk him back into the school. You hold his hand, reassure him, I'm coming too. He won't quiet until you take off your coat. Still alternating between husband at work, husband's cell, tow truck. Add in vet now since you realize you are not going to make your appointment. Ask if they can see you later, yes after 6.

Stare at John's team of women: 1 teacher, 4 paras. One, you've always liked her, says It sounds like the battery. I have jumper cables, let's try that. Cool, you think, remembering a time long ago when you used to travel with your own cables. Of course, that was before you drove a minivan and felt all untouchable sitting there in your high leather seats.

Ignore John's cries as you put on coat again. Know that he will stop once you've left and they've given him computer time. Bright spot: the jump works and Mom's Minivan is running. A call is made, John's teacher brings him outside, runny nose and all.

Finally you are home. Breathe. Let him clop-clop around the house, your appointment with the vet is later. Finally get in touch with husband, make him promise to be home early so you can get to vet. Drag John down to pick up his brother at school, remember too late that Sam has a play date. At your house. You never got the chance to clean up the mess that was already there. Sigh.

Play starts off well, but Sam's friend is scared of the cat "Zoey is danger," Sam tells him, and the boy's eyes open wide. "She hisses and is mean." You tell them that she is just old and she is not feeling well, and furthermore, he should not scare his friend like that, he won't want to come back. "Is she sick and old and then she'll die?" he asks. She's old, but Mommy's taking her to the vet to feel better. He is still obsessing on his life cycles.

Play date over, you've fed your children and husband arrives home just in time. You go searching for the cat, find her on the rug upstairs. She doesn't normally lie there, she prefers your bed. Her kitty sense doesn't seem to be working because she eyes the carrier and doesn't move. So you are easily able to get her in it although the howling starts immediately.

Arrive at vet, they pull her out, listen to her heart, notice her panting, listen to your story about the eating, the lethargy. You ask Could it be a cold? Vet asks assistant to take her to another room, says she needs to talk to you. You hear Respiratory Failure and Congestive Heart Failure. You hear Possible tumors and Humane decision and suddenly you are sobbing.

The vet is kind and forceful and probably 15 years younger than you. You want to say My day! My life! and Autism and Twins and Oh. My. God. I keep it all together. Every. Single. Freakin' Day. You will not send me over the edge because my 14-year-old cat is dying tonight.

But of course I didn't say that, I told you instead. And I did lose it, and she did die and I decided it should be peaceful. I thought my grief would swallow me — and maybe it's a grief built on bigger things, I'm not sure. But today I decided, Slow down. Pay attention to the details.

And maybe breathe a little more.