A lot is said about bringing “sexy” back, but maybe that’s not the problem…

I think I’ve seen just about every female celebrity twerking, or flashing her toned ass online.  I’ve seen, regrettably, Heidi Klum boasting about her love for nudity.  I have seen Emily Ratawhatever in every degree of nakedness known to mankind.  I’ve run into Kim Kardashian’s sizable rump, Khloe Kardashian’s nipples peering through a sheer blouse, and Kourtney Kardashian embracing her son with her nearly naked derriere pointing towards the camera.  Mothers cannot seem to embrace their toddlers without showing their cleavage (even breastfeeding has been elevated to “I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman…” in a way that, quite frankly, I don’t get.  I breastfed for FOUR YEARS, and no one ever really noticed when I did it in a public place…because no one likes being stared at while they eat.  That was my logic anyway.  I don’t think it deflated my powers as a breastfeeding woman to be discrete, but what do I -a currently middle-aged prude- know about that, right?) There is also the long list of young girls with pierced nipples, pouting lips, toned tummies.  It’s all empowering, supposedly.  It’s everywhere.  The little girl from Modern Family posed on the beach with her bikini bottom so low-slung that it looked like we’d be able to confirm how well she waxes her nether regions.  No one seems to own a bathing suit that covers anything more than the crack of their butt.  I suppose that fixes the issue with sand in your pants, but it really is getting tiresome seeing women of all ages trying to prove that their bodies are worth a view.

If that is sexy, we have more of it than we really need.  I say let’s call a moratorium on it, and let’s bring something else back…being actually nice to each other.

I am about to say some really trite things, and I hope you will bear with me…  I don’t want you to think that I’ve become some sort of spineless creature, but I am really sick and tired of the meanness that I see (yes, see…and hear) everywhere.

I don’t really know where it started.  We can go back to shock comedians who spoke their mind; we can take it to Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, Don Rickles…and we can say “that’s where it stared.”  The thing is this: those guys were smart, and they were direct, but they were not mean.  Maybe I’m wrong about this, but none of them (or their humor) inspired me to be crass and inconsiderate.  Blunt?  Maybe.  Mean?  No, not really.

Why am I saying this?  Yesterday was rough.  Many websites (supposed “news” websites) kept flashing pictures and videos of Kathy Griffin’s and Tyler Shields’ stunt with a supposed Donald Trump “severed head.”  It was unpleasant.  It was unnecessary.  It was shocking and, quite honestly, it made me feel bad.

Furthermore, I had to actually turn off the computer because if I tried to check the news, there it was, and I didn’t want J to see it.  I didn’t want to see it either, but between the stunt, the apology, and the backlash it was (until I said “no more”) hard to escape.

We see, more often than we should, videos of people beating each other up, attacking each other, bullying each other, throwing public tantrums.  Then we witness the comments: people insult each other with either “libtard” or “Trumpster”, and that’s just the kinder sliver of invective.  It gets worse.  The anonymity of the internet allows for all sorts of shameless abuse that feels liberating to those issuing it.

There was a time when our society was angry and proactive.  There was a purpose to the anger.  Now we’re just angry, and we take it out on each other.  We feel outraged by anyone who doesn’t agree with us, and the response is usually potent, concentrated, vicious.  The same reckless abandon that is displayed in exposing bodies left and right and calling it “empowerment” is applied to expressing opinions with no filter or consideration and calling “freedom of speech.”

I am all for both, but I am also for taking a step back and asking “is this the way to do it?”

Dada’s job search has taught us a lot about the way the world is now as opposed to the way it was six years ago.  Yes, a lot has changed.  We didn’t realize how much, but it has.  There are job boards all over the internet, and it is “easy” to apply for jobs there.  You basically upload your resume and then you re-enter all the information into the forms that each employer uses.  Your information then disappears into some sort of limbo where, if you don’t strictly represent very specific parameters, it will never be looked at by another human pair of eyes.

I don’t say this out of bitterness.  Dada has had a fairly good response from people (actual humans) who reviewed his qualifications.  But all the electronic layers of filters and sieves will overlook the human behind the verbiage.  And this is, sadly, everywhere…

Have you noticed that more stores have self-checkouts now?  You don’t have to interact with a cashier if you don’t want to.  Have you seen how many flavors of pre-packaged chips there are?  We counted six or seven when we were growing up, and now the chip aisle is as long as our kitchen, and multilayered. You can also have your own Keurig or Nespresso machine at home so you can have your latte, but never encounter a barista ever again.  Never mind that it doesn’t taste the same, or that actual coffee bean bags are being replaced by those little cups at the store…you can have that at home, and not interact with humans.

I am not a fan of people.  That is: I am introverted and have trouble behaving in a way that isn’t awkward when in social situations, but I still have manners, and I hope others will have manners, too.  My idea of social interaction is not the one that I see out there: you either agree or disagree, and react accordingly, or you “present” like a baboon in heat and expect people to hit “like.”

It seems we have forgotten that we are, essentially, dealing with other people, human beings like us, and that they have fears, concerns, frailties, senses of humor, feelings just like we do.  We seem to have forgotten that we used to live outside of shock value, outside of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter.  We used to all populate an actual plane of reality where our feet touched ground and we had to look each other in the eyes after saying or doing the mean thing.

Can we please bring that back?  Can we stop worrying about freeing the nipple, and start worrying about whether we just scared a kid who is not as sophisticated as we think all kids are?  (Barron Trump, it has been reported, was scared by the image of what appeared to be his father’s severed head.  People doubt this.  People assume being eleven is tantamount to being a world-weary fan of Tarantino who has seen it all and feels nothing.  This, I think, needs to stop…eleven year-olds should be allowed to be as naive as eleven year-olds are.  Otherwise, let’s just start handing condoms, Hustler, Jim Beam and unfiltered Camels to all nine year-olds so they are ready when “being eleven” rolls around.)

So that’s today’s rant.  I apologize if you disagree, but that’s the way I’m feeling today…after skulking back online trying to dodge video of the latest “graphic video” that has replaced the last “graphic photoshoot” that made me cringe.

No,  I know I don’t “HAVE” to look, but…does that mean that you have to hide if you want to live in a kinder world?

 

 

The way we live now…inside and outside of the shell

This is Dada’s last week at his job here in WV, and J is trying to adjust to the new face of our everyday routine.  We worked on that this past Monday (Memorial Day) when Dada was at home.  Instead of treating it like a holiday, we inserted some of J’s regular Monday routine into the mix as well as some fun activities he doesn’t expect to be doing on a weekday.

It sort of worked.  I’m sure that next week will be “interesting” because it’s one thing to pull off a “Dada’s here from work” one day, and it’s harder when it’s a few days in a row without a trip planned.

I have grown used to the horse pills I have to take every night.  I don’t enjoy them, but they have yet to upset my stomach so I’m grateful for that.  Taking that much iron in one fell swoop is something I’d never had to do before, and I’m slowly starting to feel better, but the prospect of attracting the refrigerator magnets is daunting.  It’s nice to not look like death warmed over, but it’s also a revelation to see that not all my physical limitations are the result of galloping anemia.  I am, and this cannot be denied or reversed, definitely getting older, and it shows.  I am, however, also looking forward to having more energy (something the doctor tells me I will work up to as my body restores its iron reserves to a decent level).

J is doing well.  The Risperdal, of course, wreaks havoc on his weight, but that doesn’t stop him from exercising and trying to control the urge to eat us out of house and home.  In recent weeks we have accepted that we need to exchange certain menu items…pasta and pizza on the same day are a no-no, and J now put his pizza on the schedule, put away his pasta (he gets fourteen noodles for a lunch, people, it’s not like he gets an immense amount anyway) and has his yogurt and banana chips for breakfast.  I make him a salad…he eats it with what can be described as resignation, but he eats it.  Today (Pizza Day) is also Fish Day…  Very little impact on his waistline so far, but at least he’s learned to accept that he can’t have it all on the same day.

Now that the weather has improved (although we get rain most days) he is also going for walks.  Once Dada is home until his next job happens we have planned an after-breakfast walk, our mid-morning workout, trips to the pool, and -when weather allows- walks on the track at school.  Lunch will be the biggest meal of the day.  We will do more outside, and we will all get ready for the next stage of our life as a family.

We still don’t know for sure where we’re hanging our hats.  It looked like Atlanta, GA for a while, but the employment market there is extremely tricky.  Lots of jobs, but not a lot of feedback from potential employers.  The state of North Carolina, on the other hand, has surprised us…immediate replies to applications, unexpected calls regarding jobs we didn’t know were out there.  We are actually quite enthused about this prospect; Raleigh is where I lived with the kids (in my sister’s home) after I separated from the children’s father, and that is where Dada came to visit and proposed to me…eighteen years ago.  We’d be coming full circle, and it’s an area that we both find appealing.

With just a few days left for Dada at work, and the prospect of an out-of-state move within the next few weeks we are all getting a little antsy.  I look at the house and see things to pack, throw away, donate.  Dada looks at the house and sees a messy process.  J probably thinks “all my stuff is coming with us, right?”  He has realized that there is a great deal of change in the near future, and it has made his anxiety ebb and flow erratically, but we are working with him to help him cope.

One thing that has thrown him off completely…unexpected, unannounced visitors over the past weekend.  On Friday, as I opened the garage door to air out the space before J got on his elliptical, a truck pulled up and former aides from his school showed up for an impromptu visit.  To be honest, it took me a moment to recognize them…they were so out of context that I had to take a second look.  As they cleaned the classroom (one year later) J’s ceramics assignments and some CDs he had left behind turned up.  Of course, I had to tell J they were here…I couldn’t not let them say hi…it would have probably seemed suspicious to them…  J was thrown by the visitors, and he wanted them (although not in an aggressive or insistent manner) to leave.  I think he worried briefly that he would have to resume his old schedule, and -while it has taken him time and effort to become a man of leisure) to leave.

After they went he was relieved, but he kept going to the door to make sure no one else was showing up.

On Sunday, just as we were getting the last details of dinner ready to go, the doorbell rang.  This time it was a visitor for Dada.  We had run into this person the day before at the bookstore, and he was recognizable to J, but he was also inexplicably here…close to dinnertime.  J was, I must confess, very good about the whole thing.  His main thing was to go back to his schedule board and reiterate that the events, tasks, activities and ideas he had for Monday remained unchanged.  He did this about sixty times…in fifteen minutes.

We eventually found our center.  We eventually sat down to dinner.  And Monday happened in a pleasant way…

We’re getting the hang of it…again.  Another hang of another it…

…and when you hit rock-bottom there’s more under that…

Ah, anemia.  No, sorry…Anemia.  It needs to be capitalized.  It is, sad to say, taking over everything.  I cannot even walk around the store without looking like I’ve barely survived Lawrence of Arabia’s desert march to Aqaba…

It seems that there’s a normal level for ladies of my age.  It seems I’m not only nowhere near that level, but I’ve drastically fallen short of any reasonable expectations.  I’ve even fallen short of unreasonable ones.  I am, in a nutshell, so anemic it hurts…

Here I go again with Lawrence of Arabia:  “The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.”  I mind.  I can tell that it’s causing grief to Dada and J, and I mind terribly.

I am in earnest about feeling better.  Going to the doctor twice in one month isn’t my idea of fun, but the second go-round helped greatly.  It didn’t help the anemia per se, but it helped with helping.  Does that make sense?

So unlike Nigel Tufnel, I don’t go eleven across the board…nowhere near, but I’m working on it.

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J has been concerned.  Seeing me walk up the steps (18 of them from basement to kitchen level) and realizing I am out of breath and ready to collapse isn’t something he could easily ignore.  I am also pale, and the bags under my eyes have taken on a really dark hue.

J is helping a lot, people.  He offers me his arm when we go for walks (which, granted, hasn’t been happening as often,) and he sits with me when I need to sit down.  When I show signs of being a little more energetic than I have been of late, J gets very affectionate, wants to cuddle, and requests fish kisses.  He is being very patient with his falling-apart mother.

Whenever someone tells me that a person in the Spectrum (as firmly planted on the severe end as J is) feels no empathy, I call bullshit.  This kid has been worried, and empathetic, and helpful.  This kid cares.  This kid, when he saw me improve thanks to the doctor’s intervention, looked RELIEVED.  So one bad thing opens the door to many realizations…J is very present in his own way.  And I am grateful that he is, and so is Dada.

In the meantime, I am trying to be patient with myself.  I don’t know how I got this bad, but there you have it.  I am working on it, though.  I won’t go so far as to eat liver (blech…double blech…super double blech…ultra blech), but I’m working on getting better.

And that’s all there is for now…

 

When life hands you lemons, skip the lemonade…

I need limoncello.  If you’ve never had limoncello, google it.  OK, that’s tantamount to saying I need alcohol…which I don’t.  I just need to do something with these darned lemons…

Sigh…

The trek to the Social Security office served one purpose, and here comes another letter: you’ve been overpaid.  You can appeal, or ask for a waiver.  Otherwise we’re going to take the money out of your next few checks.  That’s because you live with your parents, and they live too nicely.  If you’re going to be receiving benefits, have the good sense to live like you need them…or have your parents live like you need them.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, once more “we live too nice.”  Never you mind that we have only two windows, three sliding glass doors, and cannot go out because people let their dogs run rampant.  Never you mind that we have to take our trash to the dumpster, and the mail doesn’t come to our door unless it’s a delivery that requires signature.  Never you mind that “luxury” is a throwaway word…we pay too much for this place, and we know it.  Now, it seems, J doesn’t pay enough…

It doesn’t help that I don’t feel well.  Let’s chalk it up to menopause and let it go at that.  I go back to the doctor tomorrow, and we’ll see what she says.  Right now it’s a major impediment to my daily life; I am not fond of having to stop three times while climbing a flight of steps.  I am not fond of being told I’m profoundly anemic, being given pills that resemble shotgun shells, and STILL feeling like crap.

So back I go, and hope that this is a matter that can be resolved with a minimum of fuss because, surprise surprise, J is the priority here, and -like many other parents in the same situation- we don’t have J-care coming out of our ears.

That’s my rant today…

Limoncello would totally drain me.  Lemonade it will have to be…

Some mornings are just too much…

Anxiety is a bitch.  J’s anxiety is a relentless bitch.  J’s realization that he is stronger and bigger than I am makes his anxiety a hard-to-handle relentless bitch.

I say this because we went to the Social Security office today, and I had to take files.  J was not happy seeing the files.  They stress him out so he wanted to put them away, and I had to say NO, WE NEED THOSE.  So he tried to get to them, and I tried to redirect him…and he became, quite quickly and determinedly, a wall.

A stone wall.  A tall wall.  A firm wall.  A deeply-rooted wall.  A wall with no openings, or weaknesses.

This became an argument, and I ended up hating myself.  I always end up hating myself when J and I have a disagreement, or when I need to impose what needs to be done in spite of his anxieties.

We sat in front of the SSA employee looking, I’m sure, quite exhausted.  J had a bruise on his lip, and I made sure to tell the man “this causes him anxiety.  Having to go through this, bringing him here, it can be a problem for him because it is too abstract for him to process the thought that he needs to prove he is who he is, and who he is is a citizen of the United States.”  I didn’t do it to be mean, but I wanted to make sure that, after confirming (not providing) all the basic information about J’s birth, there really was no need for all this to be done…  He asked, very kindly, for a copy of his birth certificate and I, who want to make sure this doesn’t happen ever again, provided him with it, J’s original Social Security card, J’s Selective Service registration card, and his identification.  I made sure that the file is complete, and that J doesn’t have to worry about being dragged to an office because someone doesn’t believe he is who he is.

As I said: I merely confirmed the information that was popping up on the Social Security computer system.  Name (which they gave as First and Last, and I clarified was First-Middle-Last-Hyphen-Mother’s Maiden,) birth date and birth place.  Everything was already in there.

I was not angry.  I was very dignified.  I wore a dress, heels, my hair neatly pinned in a bun…we were both neat, clean, properly dressed, properly equipped with paperwork.

The man whose letter summoned us looked humbled.  It might have been because I stated “the purpose of this visit could have been stated with more clarity; there was no need to generate anxiety.”  The other employee who was helping us agreed, and I’m sure that whatever training takes place on Wednesday afternoons (they close at noon for that purpose) might involve a quick mention of conveying a clear message when communicating with beneficiaries and their representatives.

J was nervous; he used the iPad to entertain himself, and when it ran out of batteries (his apps are never the low-consumption ones) he took my phone and, with the Proloquo, kept asking to call a TAXI and go HOME so he could EXERCISE, eat PIZZA and do a LEGO.  This was done frequently enough that the person whose computer was moving as slowly as Flash in Zootopia looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow us.

But it’s done now.  I feel exhausted.  I am hoping that J and I can make up for this morning’s kerfuffle, and that we will forgive each other for re-enacting the whole stanza about the RAM and the DAM in the song High Hopes.  There was a time when we were more the ANT and the RUBBER TREE PLANT, but…  (By the way: A Hole In the Head, the movie in which High Hopes is performed by Frank Sinatra, is a really good non-It’s-a-Wonderful-Life Frank Capra movie…just in case you feel like watching it.  And, on the subject of Capra: look up Five Came Back on Netflix.  It’s totally worth your time.)

Off I go.  We’re getting to the part in The Sound of Music where the kids sing The Sound of Music to the Baroness and Captain Von Trapp joins in, and by the time they sing So Long, Farewell I’ll be getting ready to pop his frozen pizza in the oven.  By the time we get back from the mail it will be ready…

And we’ll find our center again.  Maybe we’ll find our balance.  Quite possibly, I hope, we will be peaceful and un-wall-like and un-ram-like…  High hopes…high apple-pie-in-the-sky hopes for that…

Remember, girls and boys, boys and girls, communication is not just about talking…it’s about conveying meaning…a little understanding and clarity go a long way…

Sigh…

Wild thing, you make my heart sting…

Our oldest son, always known here as TGG, got married on Friday.  Because of a disagreement we had over the weekend, we only got notice of his intention to do so via text.  Confirmation came over iMessage on Friday night…from someone who saw it on Facebook.

I gave Facebook up months ago, and actually went back on to see if there were pictures.  I’ve been blocked.  Oh, well…  I deactivated the account again.  I will not be sucked into the drama because, well, I’ve come to realize it’s really not worth it.

So we’ve spent the whole weekend wondering how we became the villains straight from central casting.  We’ve reached the conclusion that we suck so badly our entire experience raising children has been part of a delusional alternate universe we live in…

Something in the posting our son and his wife put on Facebook caught our attention.  Stay wild, stay true, stay you.  Not being up on all the youthful lingo of the hipster generation (which they claim not to belong to,) we assume that this is some sort of call to arms.  We are baffled: our son has never been wild (tattoos notwithstanding…he is possibly one of the more timid people we know,) and as for being true and “you,” well…this is the kid who used to be tremendously unique until he realized that the other kids made fun of him, and he relinquished his uniqueness so he could embrace the “generational uniqueness” that all his friends professed.

My dad used to say that what we all have in common is that we want to be unique.  More often than not it is the people who sustain the barrage of abuse from their peers who fly the flag for uniqueness.  If you sublimate, you are saying “thank you, I will blend in until such a time when I am comfortable with not sublimating.”  Our son became one more of the long line of kids who got tattoos, earrings, listened to rap or heavy metal, and acted like the world was an unjust place without ever really understanding that he was doing all this from the comfort of his middle-class existence.  He was “edgy!”  He was “rebellious!”  He was “wild.”

The results of this are two children by two different women in less than three years; a wasted semester in Nursing school; living from meager paycheck to meager paycheck, and complaining about how hard he has to work for said meager paychecks.  And, of course, the attitude that WE are the ones who have NEVER understood him.  How dare we???!!!  He just wants to be…wait for it…HAPPY!

In a nutshell, we are bad parents who don’t understand, and we bring him down.  We are lame, and that’s why we don’t understand.  I believe Busby Berkeley had a sequence in the movie set to this tune; I’m sure Cecil B. DeMille had a cast of thousands performing a scene where this was the gist of it.  Francis Ford Coppola, Lasse Halstrom, Steven Spielberg, Wim Wenders…they’ve made movies about this, I’m sure.  The entire musical history of the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, Nineties, and so on and so forth has documented this feeling…

Parents of young adults who think they are entitled to whatever it is we do for them: we had it coming.  We suck.  We had best sit here and accept that we failed.  As they raise their iPhones in the air, shake their fists on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook to protest our lack of understanding, let’s take a moment to look deep inside and see the swamp in which our lack of parenting skills is steeped.

We wanted him to get an education.  We never demanded straight As; when he wanted to be an actor, we encouraged him.  He liked to draw…I have lost count of how many sketchbooks, pencils, materials we’ve bought over the years.  He had a guitar, a keyboard.  He was interested in them for about twelve minutes in total.  He wanted to learn swimming, be a Cub Scout, play soccer…we acquiesced.

He wanted an earring.  He wanted tattoos.  He liked to dress like James Bond.  He wanted girlfriends.  He wanted to not be subdued by parental demands for academic excellence; he almost didn’t graduate high school because of his grade in Baking.

His first car, granted, was a Saturn, but then he had other cars.  Against our better judgment we allowed the Playstation, the Xbox, the GameBoy, and the countless hours that were necessary to become well-versed in all sorts of games.  When he wanted to get a job, we signed the paperwork so he could work.  When he graduated from high school (I think his Baking teacher simply didn’t want to deal with him over the summer,) he traveled to NYC with his friends, and went to see plays on Broadway.  When he was sixteen we bought him a suit, shirts, ties, shoes at Men’s Wearhouse.  They weren’t cheap.  He also had a video camera; he was going to be…wait for it…a filmmaker.

When he knocked up the first girl we were supportive.  Disappointed at his lack of precaution, but supportive.  We made an overture, and his child would come visit.  Then he hooked up with another girl, and away went every illusion that school was a priority.  And then came the second kid.  And now he’s married.

In the interim we’ve bought tires for the car, a bumper, paid handsomely for chores that I could have done myself for free, filled his freezer, and so on and so forth.  When I called him out for saying something callous about my mother, that was the end of it for him.  How dare I misinterpret something that he, and I SHOULD KNOW THIS, didn’t mean that way!!!!

Yeah, you know…I probably overreacted.  My mother is old and frail, and -at my relentlessly advancing age- I am struggling with the understanding that being parentless is not too far in the future.  That I will lose whatever link there is to my childhood, to understanding why my mother never quite “took to me” is not easy.

On top of that, my friends, my body’s aging is causing mild-to-moderate health issues.  And I have to, in the midst of this, prepare for the next stage in our lives, and deal with being J’s primary caregiver 24/7.  I could have been a little less angry, but non-apologies and arrogance are something I have very little patience for these days, especially when they come from someone who flatly refuses to meet us halfway.

In light of that, we have decided to embrace our status as bad parents, and we are baffled, but we are accepting.  We know there will be whispers, and gossip. The world thrives on that, and we could address them directly and call out our son in all the public forums he has made his own, but we don’t have the energy for that.  We have places to go, and things to do.  We won’t drag J into it…J doesn’t deserve that sort of shit.

“Stay wild.  Stay true.  Stay you” he posted.  We hope they are happy.  Life can be long, or short, but it will always -inevitably, mercilessly, relentlessly- be full of surprises, and wicked turns.  We have done all we can, and we will take this stinging sensation elsewhere, and there we will recover.  And we will find  a new way of being proper selves because WE have always been wild, true and very much us.  Unrecognizable to our son, who has led a life of privilege without even realizing it, but wild, true and very much us nonetheless.

When I married the absolutely inappropriate man the first time around, my parents were present.  They were not thrilled, but they were there.  They looked mildly horrified and resigned, but they were there.  So were our friends and family.  I made my declaration of independence, my grabbing-life-by-the-balls very public.  Every choice was bold and misguided, but I was proud of the fact that I was fucking up in my own terms.  When Dada chose to marry me, he did so boldly, proudly, even in the face of people thinking “what is he doing?  He’s marrying a woman with a child who has Autism???  What a moron!!!”  We had witnesses; we were thrilled at the community spirit of our declaration of boldly going into the great unknown together.

We managed, somehow, to raise someone who declares his independence through Facebook and text message.  Ah…this generation.  Selfies, but no self-assuredness.  Go figure!  “I take thee, and we become we…we must change our Facebook relationship status.  Take THAT, bourgeois parents!!!!  We are wild, free, true…”  Whatever…  Sigh….

Wild middle-aged parents of the world, UNITE!  We did our best.  It’s time to move on.  🙂

Ain’t nothin’ but a stim thing…

Thunder.  Lightning.  Not necessarily in that order, but all night long.  It isn’t any wonder that J woke up in a grumpy mood.  I admit to being grumpy too.  The flashes of lightning were close enough to be immediately followed by the rumble of thunder.  Even with the curtains closed we could see the sudden bursts of light…sleep wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy either.

The day is wet and dreary.  The only plus to this is that the world has turned green and lush in short order, and J knows it’s coming up on shorts and sandals season.  The snow boots and jackets have found their spot in the garage next to the Xmas decorations.  The cotton sheets are back in rotation, and we will soon talk J out of putting the red fleece blanket on his bed when he does his Sunday morning sheet swap-out.

We understand that J is trying to make sense of the world through his random acts of, for want of a better term, self-aggression.  He was moody and irascible because the world (in flashes of lightning and rumble of thunder) came in through his closed windows and drawn curtains.  He is touchy because he senses change in the air (maybe it’s all the AAA maps, the Zillow home searches, the piles of things we are discarding or giving away forming in the garage.)

We would love for him to take up painting to express his concerns, but that’s not his way.  J’s way is to flick his chin, hit his head, and apologize profusely.

It will all wind down…eventually.  Right now he is wondering where all this subtle upheaval (yes, there is such a thing…you try to discreetly proceed through the waves of change while whistling and twirling your umbrella in your hand) is leading.  If I am to be honest, we are wondering, too.

In the meantime, we try to make life interesting.  We take our cues from him.  We accept that there will be stones in the road, pebbles in our shoes, and moments of doubt about how to handle them.  J, I think, trusts us.  I like to think he does, and I like to think that he will be as excited (albeit cautiously) about it as we are.

I confess that there are moments when life, people, surprise me.  Or, rather, when the way people see my life surprises me.  A neighbor stopped by today; we share a house-sitter/J sitter.  This is the lady who recommended J’s companion to us.  She is a nice lady.  She is about our age, obviously a little higher up on the socioeconomic slippery slope, and educated.  I like her.  I wouldn’t want to be stranded with her on a deserted island, but I like her.

The purpose of her visit was to drop off her keys so our mutual sitter could pick them up.  She is going away for a couple of weeks to supervise the refurbishing of an oceanfront property that her family owns.  I asked her in (I was still in lounge pants and not at all looking like a lady of any degree of leisure) and she sat to chat for a while.  The chat was, for the most part, about how difficult my life is.

I tried to explain how, in the great scheme of things, this situation sort of sucks sometimes, but it’s not at all bad.  J is a congenial (if prone to asshole-ish-ness) individual who isn’t as much work as one would suspect if one has never had a child with a disability.  The words “sacrifice” and “burden” came up, and I let them slide because the alternative would have been to be holier-than-thou.  I said that, when you boil it down to its essence, J is just a demanding roommate.

Dada was in “I’m hiding in the sitting room” mode.  A) He was in his pajamas, B) he didn’t feel like socializing because he was playing some computer game (per his version he was looking at job boards,) and C) he would have been drawn into this conversation and he would have, as often happens, said something he’d later regret.  (See, please, my reference to the time we visited a couple of our acquaintance -foodies of the highest order- and they were talking about “that guy from Dallas” in reference to a chef, and Dada chimed in with “Oh!  Larry Hagman????”)

He heard the exchange over the baby monitor.  When we were once more alone and I returned to the living room, he looked up at me and said “wow…burden!!!  I could hear your teeth gnashing through the floorboards.  I could also hear your face cracking from the “I’m a civilized human being” smile you had painted on your face.”  I shrugged and said “if it makes her feel better, who am I to explain that this is annoying, irritating, overwhelming, and absurd, but not really as much of a burden as refurbishing a coastal property???”

He laughed.  He gets it.  He knows that I have gone past the point of responding to that sort of condescension.  Like J’s flicking his chin or hitting his head, I know it serves some sort of purpose for the person saying the stupid thing.  It annoys me, and I wish it would stop, but I give it time to fizzle out.  J knows this, and he looks at me and slows down the behavior that is “off” and then it’s gone.  He apologizes.  That is because J understands that we cannot communicate properly if he is doing something that is counterproductive to the process.  When he has no control over his actions (that is: during a meltdown,) I have to accept that he needs help; when he is throwing a tantrum or being an asshole, I have to let it go.

This lady, in a nutshell, was being the most well-intentioned kind of asshole there is; she wanted me to know that she felt my life was framed in very unfair terms, and that she felt for me.  To correct her would have been unfair of me; she doesn’t -aside from the superficial sharing of a sitter- really know me.  She is not a bad person; she is just not working with all the data that she needs to properly assess our situation.

People sometimes talk for the same reason that J randomly hits himself.  It stimulates them; it gives them the impression that they are empathizing, that they can interact in a way that we will value.

It’s just another stim thing…annoying, unnecessary to the casual observer, but present nonetheless.