punchdrunkmom

In which it's not funny

When I walked in the door, I could see a pan on the stove, flames from the gas burner licking the bottom of the skillet.

There was no one in the kitchen.

I wondered how long the pan had been on the stove. There was no oil in it, no food. Just a hot, hot pan, unattended.

I turned off the flame.

I set down my purse, my guitar. I took off my coat. I’d been to guitar class, my once-weekly group lesson for which Scott comes home by 7:30 to take over my household duties until I return at 10.

There was no good circumstance under which the upstairs of our house was deserted with a pan on the stove, and, girding myself for what I might find, I went downstairs.

I could hear water running, and voices bouncing off of the tile in the bathroom, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Both children had had baths before I left, so it was clear that there had been some kind of disaster.

When  I rounded the corner, I saw Scott, his back to me, hunched over the bathtub, scrubbing the boy vigorously.

“Hi, Mommy!” Kai chirped.

Kai was covered in black. His entire face, his chest and belly. Down his arms, his legs. The color made his blue eyes pop and when they caught mine, they were positively dancing with glee.

“Kai found your mascara,” Scott said, in the same accusatory tone you might use to tell your spouse your son had found your stash of hardcore pornography. Or your methamphetamine.  As though I should keep my mascara not in my make-up drawer, but in a wall-safe—the kind that you cover with an oil portrait of a dead ancestor.

Kai’s eyes were still locked on mine when I started laughing. The dried mascara on his face cracked as he broke into a wide grin.

“It’s not funny,” Scott said.

I pursed my lips to stop the laughter, but I couldn't hide the smile.

“No,” I said. “No. Of course not.”

 

In which we have the chance to do nothing

Scott and I flew to Phoenix for a friend’s wedding last weekend. It was a short trip, less than 48 hours.

My friend Ali was getting married. I hadn’t seen her since she pulled up stakes and moved to Phoenix and fell in love, so it was a good excuse to see her, and to foist the children off onto someone else for a little while.

:::

We stayed at a lovely resort. We slept in, we found someone to make us some omelettes, we moseyed down to the pool. 

Camelback Mountain loomed above us, and we could see the occasional person at the top, ambitious souls who braved scorpions and rattlesnakes and two hours of sweaty effort in order to enjoy the view. It crossed my mind briefly that it might be fun to hike up there, but it would have required me to give up my lounge chair, which I had positioned just so.

It was so much easier just to close my eyes and rest for a while. Besides, I would have also had to put down my drink.

:::

At the wedding on Saturday night, everyone asked us what we'd done in Phoenix while we were there. We looked at each other and shrugged.

“Um, hung out at the pool?” we said.

Everyone wore the same expression when they heard this, a tilt of the head, a slight furrow of the brow. “Oh,” they'd say, drawing the sound out in three syllables: oh-oh-oh, the way you might when you hear a friend has Strep.

Even on the plane, the guy next to me asked if we’d done anything while we were there, like a Jeep tour or golf or something.

I told him that we had not.

He wore that same expression.

“Oh-oh-oh,” he said. “Maybe next time.” As though the weekend had been a huge disappointment.

But there is nothing disappointing about sitting on a lounge chair by a pool, under a clear blue sky at the foot of a scrubby mountain and having someone who’s paid to be nice to you supply you with drinks. None—count ‘em—none of the children there were ours. No one asked me for a cookie or toast or water or popcorn or paperclips (NO! NOT THE SMALL ONES! THE BIG PAPERCLIPS!). No one pooped in their pants. No one had therapy or swim lessons or school or a birthday party. We didn’t hear the Map song from Dora one single time.

:::

As we drove to the airport, I realized that we didn’t take a single picture during our weekend. Not at the pool, not of the two of us dressed up and free of the incidental gunk and goo that comes with taking care of two children. Not of Ali and me, not of the ceremony, nothing.

Well, not exactly nothing. I did take these:

 

Hey, what's up. You gonna eat that?

Quoth the raven, "The omelette station is awesome."

:::

In the cab from the airport, I calculated what we owed our sitter on my iPhone.

I stared at the total for a moment, and then showed it to Scott.

“Wow,” he said.

We were silent for a few moments, watching the Chicago skyline get larger through the windshield of the cab.

“Worth every penny,” I said.

Scott gave a thoughtful nod.

“Every single one,” he said.

 

In which I get an iced skinny vanilla latte without getting out of my car! Oh and Kai maybe has ADHD.

Kai had his first check-up with his new doctor yesterday. You may or may not remember that we were looking, and finally found a lovely lady out in the suburbs. She has a son with Down’s Syndrome. One of the receptionists has a kid with CP. Their office is conveniently located near a drive-through Starbucks, which is, in truth, a good enough reason to switch all by itself.

:::

Kai has been all kinds of awesome lately, talking a blue streak, answering questions.

“What’s this on the floor?” I asked him the other day.

“Sorry,” he said. “Egg is watery.”

He’d apparently cracked an egg on the floor. Which he told me about! Then apologized! Swoon!

“Where’s the rest of it?” I asked him.

“It’s inna garbage.”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is nothing short of a miracle.

And it keeps happening! Go ahead! Ask him anything you want.

Me: What are you going to play with Jovan today?

Kai: Tag

Me: Where’s our baby?

Kai: It’s in the kitchen.

Me: Kai, can you help Ryan?

Kai: You can do it, Baby!

So imagine how proud I was at the doctor’s office—our new doctor—when he answered all of her questions.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked him.

“Purple!”

“I see. What’s your favorite animal in the zoo?”

“An elephant!” he said.

He was quiet for a moment.

“No,” he said. “Not an elephant. I like the crocodile.”

I was so impressed with his mad conversation skillz that I was barely paying attention to the fact that he was crawling all over the office, up the walls and onto the window sill, opening drawers and cabinets, turning on the water. He climbed up onto a shelf and lay down for a second, then got up and tried to escape the exam room.

This was all par for the course with us, as you probably know, and the real test of the new doctor. She handled it with considerable aplomb, though the fact that she had an iPad that Kai couldn’t use was questionable. She was able to examine him without me having to hold him down, however, and made sure to compliment him on that fact.

They continued their running conversation about what Kai was allowed to touch, and she and I had our own conversation, about diets and school and sleep.

Toward the end of the visit, she put her iPad down.

“I have to tell you that I’m really struck,” she began, and I knew what she was going to say. She was struck by his eye contact during the eye exam, by his (new) ability to answer questions, by his attentiveness.

“I’m struck by his level of activity.”

“You are?” I asked.  His “level of activity” was no different than it ever is. He touches everything. He jumps on everything. He climbs on everything. He wants to manipulate and explore everything. This is my normal.

“Has anyone ever mentioned ADHD to you?” she asked.

OMG. Does the fun ever end?

In truth, someone has mentioned ADHD: the neuropsychologist who diagnosed Kai’s PDD. We were talking about long-range expectations for Kai.

“Some kids like Kai end up with a set of criteria consistent with Asperger’s,” he said. “And some of them outgrow some of their delays and end up with some quirky behavior and something like ADD.”

I told her this.

“I see a lot of kids,” she said. “And I see a lot of different kinds of kids. Kai is outside of the ordinary.”

She does see a lot of kids. Her whole practice centers around special needs. It’s why I went to see her. Well, that and the Starbucks. I think I mentioned the drive-through.

We agreed that we would fill out the assessment forms. Me, Kai’s teachers, Kai’s therapists. We’d just see what came of it.

“I’m glad you’re so open to the idea,” the doctor said.

I battle autism every day, an illness for which there is no cure, an illness that most people in the medical community don’t understand. They can’t figure out how you get it or how to prevent it or why it’s on the rise. They can’t treat it and will tell you to your face that the only hope is that you catch it early enough. They fire you as clients for not doing what they say, yet they can’t help you at three in the morning when your kid is wide awake from whatever gets switched on in his brain and won’t turn off for days and weeks. The few doctors who do offer ideas and solutions and theories are branded as quacks, their ideas dismissed as lies and junk science.

I smiled, because, dude. ADHD, really?

“There’s a pill for that,” I replied.

 

In which we discover that one girl's opinion does't matter at all

A few weeks ago I went to Kai’s school to make pizza with his class. We were running late, as usual, and I had a particularly hard time motivating Kai to get in the car, and then to get out of the car, and then to walk faster, and then to walk less quickly, and then to cross the street.

We passed another family getting out of their car, a little girl and her mother.

“That’s Kai. He’s a bad kid,” the little girl said.

I turned to get a better look at the girl. She wasn’t in Kai’s class, so I kept walking.

“Shhh,” her mother said. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true,” the girl insisted. “He doesn’t follow the rules.”

“Well, that’s just your opinion,” the mother said in a carrying voice that was probably meant for me to hear.

We crunched along the icy sidewalk, and Kai broke away from me to make footprints in the snow along the playground fence.

“See?” the girl said, vindication in her voice. “He always does stuff like that.”

I paused to let Kai catch up to me, and the girl and her mother passed us.

“But it’s still just your opinion, and you keep your opinions to yourself,” the mother said.

She and her daughter continued to argue about whether it was okay to call Kai a bad kid, never once acknowledging the little boy in question, who was clearly within earshot.

I gave Kai a one-armed hug when he caught up with me. “You’re an awesome kid,” I said.

:::

I invited his entire class to his birthday party. I didn’t expect very many kids to attend, largely because the party was in the suburbs, a place where die-hard city folk fear to tread.

But the final guest count was 49, 30 of whom were children. Most of Kai’s classmates showed up, some with brothers and sisters in tow.

The party was the talk of school on the Friday before. All of the kids were very excited, except, of course, Kai. This was not because it was a surprise or because he wasn’t looking forward to it, but because Kai doesn’t have much of a relationship with time outside of the here and now, and therefore didn't really realize he was having a party.

During circle time, most of the kids shared something about seeing Kai over the weekend. They knew about the robot cake. They were excited to try a new venue. One little girl in particular was moved to share.

“I’m going to Kai’s party on Saturday,” she said softly.

This was Friday, March 2. It was the very first time she’d ever spoken during circle time since starting school in August.

:::

I never really said anything to his class about his autism. Some of the parents read the blog. I've specifically told a couple of people. The rest know he's different, but they seem to be content to leave it at that.

In the third quarter, parents are invited to observe their child in the classroom for an hour. They're supposed to be wathching their child in full Montessori action, but I get the impression that a lot of them watch Kai.

"He's come a long way since last year," one said.

Another was impressed with Kai's knowledge of shapes, noting his affinity for hexagons. 

In the beginning, I had no idea what to expect from the other parents, the ones whose children talk about their school day and sit cross-legged in circle time. I know their children tell them that Kai stands on tables instead of listening to the story, that be blurts non-sequitors during group time, and God knows what else. 

Kai used to wear a weighted vest to school. I remember a parent at one pre-school we went to. We were both hustling our children up the stairs to the classroom, and her daughter, a girl I'd been told spent a lot of time with Kai, greeted us. 

"Hi, Kai! Mommy! That's Kai!" 

The girl's mom looked at Kai, her eyes raking the vest. "That's Kai?" she asked, and I could see the reservation, the fear that whatever caused Kai to wear that crazy vest might be catching.

I worried for a long time about whether he would be a clown or an outcast at school, that those roles would be established early on.

But funny thing, without me doing anything at all, some things have just worked out exactly as they should. Kai has friends, and lots of them. Kids with gracious and supportive parents, kids who are perfectly happy to connect with Kai in his own terms.

Thirty children showed up to his party, each bearing a present that they'd picked out themselves, hoping he'd like it. I heard that over and over. He picked it out himself, he was so excited to give it to Kai. She was so excited to come, she always says that Kai is her favorite kid to play with.

:::

When Kai’s friend Mary Jane showed up at his party, Kai ran to greet her. They wrapped their arms around one another and then, hand in hand, ran off to play.

Apparently, that other little girl, the one who likes to follow the rules, has no idea what she's missing.

In which I purchase a future tragedy

“Need fish,” Kai said. We were at Petco, looking at (what else?) the fish. The excursion had been Kai’s idea.

“Oh, honey, we’re not going to buy a fish today,” I said. And I meant it. We were on our way to occupational therapy, followed by speech. Plus, when it comes to things like this, I always picture Scott in my head, knowing exactly what he would say: What, we’re going to have a bunch of fish now? It’s the same reaction he gave in my head when I came close to buying a home sushi kit: What, we’re going to make our own sushi now? Or when I tried to cut meat out of our diet for a while: What, we’re going to be vegans now?

I wasn’t opposed to fish, per se, but I wasn’t prepared to buy a fish like right now.

“Let’s see if the guy has a book about fish,” I said. “We’ll do some research first.”

Kai looked up at me.

“Let’s ask the guy.”

So Kai made a beeline for the fish guy. “Oh, guy!” he called out.

We found him cleaning a rodent tank. He looked exactly like Buffalo Bill.

You don't know what pain is! Also, the bettas are on sale.

“Excuse me, guy,” Kai said. “I need a fish.”

Buffalo Bill stood up.

“It’s this way,” Kai said.

I sighed as Bill and Kai began to discuss which of the bettas on display in plastic deli containers he liked the best.

“This one?” Bill asked, pulling out an electric blue fish.

“No, too blue.”

Bill chose a different one, a red one with elaborate fins. “This one?” he asked.

“Too big.”

“Well which one do you like?” Bill asked.

Kai examined all the fish carefully.

“This one!” Kai exclaimed. The fish was hideous, a pale, translucent thing with bluish markings that look like they might be the fish’s internal organs.

“Aw, he’s so cute!” Kai said happily, holding up the fish so he could get a better look.

Why wasn’t I stopping this? Our little fish-gazing expedition was coming off the rails fast.

“Need fish food,” Kai said to Bill, and they went down the aisle together. They picked out some betta food, a Spongebob figurine for the bowl and some rocks for the bottom that looked like precious gems if you’re five years old.

Any ideas I’d had about putting the kibosh on the whole fish idea were gone. I picked up a glass bowl from the display and handed it to Bill.

“What are you going to name your fish?” I asked.

“Hammie,” Kai replied.

“What?” I asked. “Hammie?”

“Bamy.”

“Bamy?”

He mumbled something unintelligible.

“How about Henry?” I suggested.

“Henry Fish!” Kai exclaimed.

And so it came to pass that, 37 dollars later, Henry Fish came home to live with the Judys. It was not long after I got home that I discovered several lies that Bill told me, including the lifespan of the fish and the number of times I would have to clean his bowl. Once a week indeed.

Once we had Henry situated in his new bowl, amid his new friend Spongebob and glittery fish treasure, Kai fed him some Kix.

“Here you go, Henry!” Kai said.

:::

Scott was home for about a half hour before he commented on Henry. “Where did we get this fish?”

“At the store,” I said, perhaps a little defensively.

“So what, we have a fish now?” he asked.

I sighed. How could I explain how cute it was to watch Kai shop for this fish? Or how amazing that he can do something like that without me to translate or intervene? And anyway, who else was going to love this ugly-ass fish in the world’s tackiest bowl?

Later, Kai tried to feed Henry, dumping out a heap of fish food, but somehow missing the bowl. I’m pretty sure Henry isn’t long for this world anyway.

And so yes. We have a fish now.

Regarding a birthday, for which I had a hard time finding words, and eventually found 958 of them

This was the first year that Kai understood what was coming when I told him it was almost his birthday. I don’t know that he understands what a birthday is, however.

“How old are you going to be?” He was asked this by everyone.

“One hundred!” he would happily chirp.

“No,” everyone would say, “how old will you be really?”

“Eighteen!”

What he definitely understands, though, is that birthdays mean cake, candles, decorations and presents.

To that end, he pretended to call Santa on the phone.

“Santa,” he would say, “I need a green robot.”

And if he’s confused by the mechanics of the whole thing, well who can blame him? That Santa guy brings presents, after all. And anyway, who cares because OMG Kai’s pretending to talk to Santa!

I asked him what kind of cake he wanted, and he answered me.

“A robot cake,” he said.

“I see,” I replied. “What flavor?”

“Chocolate,” he answered.

I called a local bakery that I know will do gluten-free/dairy-free. There was an additional charge to guarantee the cake to be peanut free, as well (Sanitized, they call it. Sounds delicious!). A GF/CF/PF chocolate robot cake can be yours for the low, low price of $190. And I don’t care, you guys. I’d pay twice that and eat nothing for Ramen for the whole of March, because OMG I asked him a question and he answered it.

He answered it.

:::

And so the big day dawned, presents were opened, green robots and a kite were received, and I had to cart the children off to school. Kai wanted to fly his kite like right now, and was somewhat concerned when we pulled up, not at a grassy park on a sunny spring day, but to his red brick school building in the middle of winter.

The kite was also the first thing he asked for when he came home.

“Need fly kite,” he said.

I tried to explain to him that a.) it was too cold for that and anyway b.) kite-flying falls squarely in the Scott category, because I have 99 talents and kite-flying ain’t one.

Kai gamely decided that we could play with his new green robots instead.

I cut them out of their packages, put them on the floor, pressed the buttons on the remote and—nothing. Both robots were stone dead. And since these robots required the fancy button batteries (why on Earth can’t they just take double As?), we had to wait for Scott to come home with batteries.

Kai then thought to console himself with a cupcake, which I told him was not going to happen until after dinner.

And that’s when he started to cry.

I texted the following picture to Scott:

WTF, Mom? What kind of birthday is this? No kite, no robots, no cake.
And where is Santa in all of this?

I asked Scott to please hurry.

:::

I’ve been thinking for weeks about how I’ll mark Kai’s fifth birthday for punchdrunk posterity, and as of this writing, I still haven’t figured out what I want to say. I stare at a blinking cursor and all my superlatives seem cliché.

Five years old seems like a big deal, like the last vestiges of baby fat should be melted from his cheeks, like any traces of the baby Kai should have all but disappeared.

And in fact, they have.

Sometimes, I look at this child, this boy, and he seems a stranger to me. When did this happen?

And I can even begin to see the young man he’s going to become, when I wake him up for school. He’s always dead asleep when I turn on the lights. He rolls over and shrugs the duvet over his shoulder.

“I’m trying to sleep,” he says.

I’ll sit on the bed next to him and shake him gently awake, bury my face in his neck. He’s sort of stinky in the morning, in the way he’ll probably be until he has a reason not to be and I can’t go in there at all because it smells like an Axe factory.

I bought him some robots for his birthday. Green ones, as requested. They’re fiddly, with spindly limbs and remote controls. The age on the package indicates that they’re for kids eight and older, but he can work them just fine. He sent the Hexbug, a spider-looking thing, creeping after his sister. He cornered her, laughing, sounding every bit like a school-aged boy.

I am both pleased and heartbroken. My big boy. My baby. He wipes off my kisses. He resists my hugs. He’s supposed to do that.

And yet.

Scott and I went to school with him on Monday for the birthday celebration, bearing gluten-free, dairy-free cupcakes with sugar-free icing that I’d made myself. Kai passed them out to his classmates and they sang happy birthday to him. He blew out his candle.

Before we left, I knelt to say good-bye. He threw his arms around me and hugged me. For one second, two, for ten, and he held on. I buried my face in his shoulder, this boy, this amazing and complicated creature who has taught me everything I know about life and about love in its purist form. He hugged me until the other kids buffeted us with their heavy winter coats as they lined up for recess, until they were ready to go outside.

And because it was time, and I had to, I let go.

:::

Scott eventually came home with the batteries for the robot. After dinner, candles were lit and the song was sung yet again.

Kai has officially been alive for five years. It’s been forever, it’s been the blink of an eye.

I never want to blink again.