A place in the life journey? Sooner than expected.

February 2018

I thought I would have about ten more years before experiencing what I did yesterday.

Because of family history, I am on the every-6-months plan for mammograms and clinical breast exams. For the last few years, I've taken those days off of work, done my checkups, and had good afternoons. Taking two days a year to contemplate my own mortality and receive validation of health has been a good practice.

Yesterday was, I thought, another one of those days. I'd expected to get through the tests and consult in the morning, go downtown for a sunny day of window shopping and lunch, and come home in the afternoon. Maybe I'd do some housekeeping, maybe I'd have energy and creativity enough to cook a fun dinner. Hero and I would go to bed early, chat and snuggle, and get a long Friday night's sleep. But that wasn't the day I got. 

I've had troublesome breasts since I was fourteen years old -- over thirty years ago now. My first fluid-filled cyst aspiration was quite the thing: x-ray-guided needle and dark bluish-greenish-brownish fluid filing a giant syringe, and my dad waiting in the corner of the procedure room, wishing my mom had been available to take that afternoon's parenting responsibility.

Self breast-exams during my teens were problematic. I had dense, fibrous breasts. It wasn't easy to know what I was feeling, nor whether it was normal. I'd usually settle for normal-ish, unless something seemed new or painful. As my breasts increased in size (I was a D-cup at 14), those exams were harder to do. Too much tissue, too few options for spreading it thin enough to really get a good feel of it all.

Fast forward a few years: my mom had her own mammogram that showed calcifications. She was 49. Her sister had died from breast cancer 18 months before. I was a senior in college. Mom had just a small cluster of cancer cells, but she took no chances with lumpectomy. That bad breast was removed, and she had a new one constructed from her belly fat. She's survived with no recurrence for 25 years so far.

For me, I went on with years of birth control and babies and nursing. Nursed each son for 2 years or more. (I figured, if breast cancer runs in the family, I'd better use 'em before I had to get rid of them.) My breasts got bigger and bigger over time, especially after the nursing years. Age 40 is when I started the six-month plan for rounds of mammos and breast exams.

It's rough when you start a day with one expectation and have it turn into something very different. After my first mammogram today, I went on to my breast exam. Usually, my nurse-practitioner will get the mammo results, do my exam, and talk about scheduling our next visit.

This time, she walked into the exam room and simply said, "Well, I'm about to ruin your day." I've been seeing this NP for years now. She helped me through my reduction surgery, and has helped calculate the likelihood of my getting breast cancer in my lifetime. She's shrugged her shoulders with me when my mom's genetic testing came back with no known genes for cancer. (Then why do we get it, dang it?!)

Today, she was her straightforward, no-nonsense self. "The radiologist sees some calcifications in both breasts, and they're suspicious enough that we'll need to take some more pictures today." All right, then. She proceeded with the rest of the clinical exam. No signs of lumps or bumps or puckers or bulges. Just tiny couscous-sized bright spots on the x-rays.

I had to wait until the post-lunch shift for the second mammogram. In the meantime, I went out of the clinic and into the main part of the hospital. There's an atrium-like area where I went to sit. I sent a text to Hero, telling him my day had changed, and why. He expressed concern. Offered to call. I knew that if I heard his voice, I'd just start crying, so I wrote back with a no. Instead, I sat there, breathing slowly. Praying. All those Bible verses I'd memorized in Sunday School swirled in my head. The valley of the shadow of death, you know?

No good could come of not eating in the interim, and I went to the cafeteria. I happen to love cafeterias: so many food choices, all ready and waiting to go. I chose to make my own salad, and got a side of sweet potato fries. Hospital cafeterias are good people-watching places, too. You can look all around and wonder at the stories of all those different people. There were medical students and janitorial staff, older people who appeared to be patients, and families. There was one young family of people who where likely Mennonite or Amish. They had a toddler-sized child with them, swaddled in blankets and not walking. The father carried the child wherever they went. I wondered about their lives' stories.

First week of 2017

We've just put away most of Christmas today, cleaned, swept, mopped, and gathered up the scattered cat toys, dancing to Lyle Lovett and Greg Brown the whole time. Now the corner where the tree and all have been standing just holds the vacuum cleaner. The return to non-holiday season is plainer. But I like the space.

It's been mighty cold by us this last week. Cold enough to force us to warm up the cars for at least ten minutes before driving to work in the mornings. Cold enough for Spark's cheeks to still be ruddy hours after he gets home from school. Cold enough to prompt me to leave two taps running, one in the bathroom, one in the basement, so that the pipes don't freeze.

Primo turned sixteen last weekend. Having a birthday that always falls over the schools' winter break is a mixed bag. Primo chose his activity and whether we had a meal out at a restaurant. We went to see the latest Star Wars movie at the super-deluxe theater that offers real foods brought to your own motorized red leather reclining seat. After the show was over, we were all too full eat a special meal. Perhaps we'll make it up later, and have some cake, too.

Sixteen's the age around here that kids usually get their drivers licenses. Due to a number of factors in our summer and autumn schedules, Primo has deferred his driver's ed coursework until this coming spring. In our city, kids have to take the courses privately. Primo will be paying for half of the cost of lessons.

Sparky will be turning twelve at the end of January. He's firmly hanging on to childhood so far.

Breast reduction: it's good for me!

Today is eleven days post-op, and my first day at home alone. It's really quiet in the house. The cats are napping. The weather is cool enough to keep the windows closedI slept until 10am, dipping back into the sea of dreams until she wouldn't have me any more. 

Hero is back to work, and the boys are in school. I made myself toast and coffee, nothing more, and went straight to the couch.  I've been ordered to strict relaxation, no exercise, for the next ten days.

The surgery went well! More than three pounds of tissue removed from EACH side. I requested that the team remove absolutely as much as possible, while leaving blood supply for the nipples to remain viable. Looks like the size will turn out to be around a full C cup after the swelling goes down.

The surgery was set for 2pm, and we had to arrive at the hospital at 12pm. I started fasting after dinner the night before. I was surprised to have a good sleep and wake up just feeling excited the morning of the operation. Hero got the boys off to school while I slept in. I took a final shower with surgical soap, and packed a small bag. Then we tried to stay calm and waited for the right hour to arrive.

At the hospital's surgery center, everyone was kind and efficient. I was giddy. I think I surprised the staff by how happy I was to see them. We picked out the best veins for the IV, got through all the questions and vitals quickly, and then I rested for about an hour. They put me in a gown that had an inflatable liner; a hose was connected to it that blew warm air into the gown and kept me warm.

About 20 minutes before surgery, the anesthetist came to meet with me. Then cam the anesthesia staff, surgery interns, and surgical nurses. I introduced Hero as my delightful husband. It was very pleasant to say hello to everyone who would be working on my transformation! 

The last person to come in was my surgeon. He looked energized, which was a good sign to me. I gave him my requests: living nipples, no square corners, and breasts as small as possible. He told me that the corners might be unavoidable, because that's the nature of the surgery. But he'd try. He could definitely go small, especially compared to where we were starting from.

As someone who has had breasts larger than a D cup for nearly 30 years, my memory of being relatively breast-free is based in pre-pubescent childhood. Really. I think I was wearing D cup bras when I was about 14. Significantly sized breasts run on both sides of my family. You look at family reunion photos, and there are just rows of giant bosoms all lined up. If a woman hasn't got a large bosom, she's either not had children yet, or she's had a reduction surgery.

I woke up in my hospital room, with nice nurses checking my vitals and providing me pain medication. The procedure had taken just two hours, and I had done well!

Rescheduled Spring, rescheduled surgery, readjusting

It's April tenth. We've had snow on the ground every morning for the last week or so. And it's two and a half weeks until my breasts are no longer a J-cup size. Wahoo! 

I am counting the days. I am reviewing photos of successful reductions. I am planning on shopping for bras. I am looking for a used recliner for post-op sleeping. I feel like I am preparing for childbirth. But I'm planning for a new post bust-o-riffic life.

This surgery had been scheduled for the end of February. I had sort of planned my 2016 around that date. (I've actually been getting prepared and medically assessed for this surgery for over a year.) My employer adjusted for my work schedule and brought on a temp employee to be trained to cover during my absence. I would have been healed and back to work by now. Instead, my health insurance company required more information, and that delayed the operation by two months.

The wait is almost over.

You probably have at least one friend who has very large breasts. You may have a few friends who can relate their experiences as a big-bosomed woman in the U.S. today. There are social aspects of living in a female body with big breasts. There are physical issues that can develop. There are psychological ramifications that can occur over time. I could write and write about the funny parts of bra shopping, the wonder at the idea of being able to see my feet without bending over, the hopes for movement and exercise opportunities. You can look that stuff up.

I'm in my early 40's now, and done with having babies and the years of nursing; I want to be free of these floppy weights. I've even considered having a mastectomy and not just a reduction: if it had turned out that I carry the BRCA genetic mutations, I would have enthusiastically said goodbye to my breasts altogether. Breast, ovarian, and pancreatic cancers regularly occur in one part of my family. But we don't carry any known genetic markers for those cancers. So this surgery, by dramatically reducing my breast tissue mass, is going to reduce my breast cancer risk. My geneticist is happy about that.

My surgeon estimates I'll lose between six and ten pounds in just a matter of hours. There will be microsurgery to re-connect the blood supplies for the remaining tissues. I'll end up being more than fifty percent smaller and lighter. I may even have breasts that look like they're 20 years old again. Wouldn't that be something?!

February and the very coldest days again. But a change is coming.

That's right, in the -10'sF here. In our drafty old house, that means blankets swaddling cold ankles when one's in the living room. Indoors, we wear layers of regular clothes, hooded sweatshirts, outdoor vests. Hats help keep us warm in bed. But the sparkling sunshine is beautiful and distracts us from the chill.

I have a new radical hope that's getting me excited. It's going to be a permanent physical change and identity shift. My insurance company has finally agreed with me that, after 20 years of outrageously sized breasts and ALL that that can mean, I can qualify for breast reduction surgery.

And I am so ready. 

JUNE 2015

Part of this healing process is stories.  Reading stories.  Last summer, I was reading about three books a week, just eating up the words like a ravenous animal.  I submersed myself in deep pools of other lives, other places, other eras, other wisdom.  What was being washed away?  What would be revealed?  I took notes and covered legal-sized pages with notes on Louise Erdrich's novels.  I randomly chose and read books from the fiction section of our local library.  I pre-read the series openers of Primo's next free-reading books.

In the autumn of 2014, I started working on a travel photo book editing project.  I went through thousands of photos of beautiful places and celebratory people,  What was I learning?  It was great to be earning money just sitting at home, working on a computer on the couch. I was present and available for my sons after school.  I went to weekly therapy until the month of November, when the project got busy enough for me to stop losing two hours a week to the appointment.

Now we've gotten through the school year. We're preparing for our FIRST family vacation that isn't just a weekend away. Got the car spiffed up with new spark plugs, timing belt, brakes, the whole shebang. Feels like it's almost new, which is pretty good for it having 124,000 miles on it. It's actually the first car I've owned from the current millennium, and it's a 2004. Such luxury is unexpectedly welcome.

Spark graduated from his dyslexia program a couple of weeks ago.  I had the privilege of giving a speech at the ceremony, and in my anxiety, I procrastinated writing the speech the night before. I printed it in 18-point type and practiced a couple of times that day. Whew. It went fine, and Sparky smiled for his photograph. We ate cake in the basement of the Mason's building and then skedaddled. It's been fantastic not having three hours' worth of tutoring/waiting/driving every week.

Back to this summer's stories so far: for entertainment during the Spring's first round of photobooks, I've been watching M*A*S*H on Netflix. (Primo has figured out how to use Chromecast, and I'm able to send a show from my laptop to the TV without using a remote. It's crazy. I guess I'm at the age and tech level where a teenager is required for television viewing.) The boys have both noticed and commented on the stories in M*A*S*H, and asked questions about why TV shows today aren't like they were 30 years ago.  That would have turned into a longer conversation than they wanted to hear. Personally, I am in awe of Alan Alda's skillset. He's still going strong! And Gary Berghof's ability on the drums is admirable.

I've been reflecting on the way M*A*S*H influenced me when I was growing up. Liberalism, humanitarianism, pacifism and distrust of the military are some of the values that still ring true to me. Enjoyment of sarcasm and crazy humor, too! The sexual innuendo is mighty thick for watching with the kids, though. Primo seems old enough to ask questions and know the difference between an old TV show and what's actually okay.

Slipping off into a summer depression

I can feel it coming on. What do you do when you feel the darkness rising?

Noticed the sadness while I was in a meeting today, and I remember this brand of heartache.  I haven't been sleeping well, and can't seem to get enough hours in the bed. I don't feel like taking care of the household chores, nor making any food that's good for us to eat. Working at the office feels like a struggle each and every hour.

I took some Rescue Remedy lozenges, drank extra water, and am going to be taking a walk. I don't want to go down into the depths of the depression. Not me. Not this time.

First black eye. No broken nose.

Today, Primo and Spark were playing outside.  It's Spring break, and they'd been inside on screens all day.  I sent them out at 5pm, telling them to play until Daddy got home. He usually arrives at 6.

When one son is twice as large as the other and they like to play with sticks, the little one often ends up with a scrape or whacked knuckles. Today was different. There was chasing, shouting, a strongly pushed swing, and then blood and tears.

Primo needs physical exercise and release every day. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any peers to goof and roughhouse with.

Spark's nose has a neat 90-degree cut, and his right eye and cheek will tell their own tale soon. Thank goodness for my Girl Scout first aid courses.

Just an almost-summer list

The graduates and their families overran our city this last weekend.  We avoided them.

I had a visit with one of the best friends of my best friend.

I got a therapist.

I cooked a few dinners, and they were eaten with gusto.

I washed almost all of the dirty laundry in the house.

I did not clean.

I slept enough.

I am reading printed books again.

We went to church.  It did not suck nor did either boy have a meltdown.  I nearly did, due to noise at the potluck afterward.

Our skittish cat is becoming a world-class snuggler. On her own terms.

My hair is long again, for the first time in 22 years.

Spark will get glasses this month.  That makes all four of us.

The neighbor couple had a baby girl.

Another neighbor is donating their old shed to us.  Hooray for outdoor storage!

We've had rain for four days in a row now.  The thunder has been splendid.

Life changes when one's work changes.

Six weeks in to the new schedule, and new job. I think that, as a family, we may be slowly growing and sending out strengthened roots, enduring this winter, getting ready to bloom. 

Working just 19 hours a week (automatic benefits kick in at 20 hours, and I'm a provisional employee at this point), there is time for me in the mornings and afternoons just to be by myself. I can think. I can breathe. I can eat breakfast and have coffee at home. I sit in front of the HappyLight for at least 15 minutes every morning.

The place I work for now is a non-profit that serves children and young adults with mental health issues, and their families. 

At the agency, I have my own office. It's quiet. It's got a translucent 6 x 7-foot window that would otherwise look into the ground-level parking lot and train tracks. I will soon be moving a slightly different office, and I have my choice of paint colors and a new desk. The people are so deeply kind there. I don't really know how to open up to that yet. Years of work-related sarcasm and management-by-neglect feel like a too-tight shell around me.

It's hard for me, being the new kid in a role for which I'm mostly perfectly prepared. I'm used to being able to do anything and everything required by almost anyone in my business. I don't fully understand all of the processes and reasons behind them, and I don't always get all the details of a task on the first time around. Oh, and I'm a perfectionist!

One of my goals during this time of transition is to support my family more. In one way, I'm doing that by cooking dinner for the family every night. I was shooting for a goal of ten nights in a row without resorting to take-out or frozen pizza. We've gotten to six nights for a few weeks so far; I'm pretty happy with that.

So far, some of the dinners have been raving successes, and some have been real learning experiences. Three out of four of us usually like meal as it is served; there's usually one person who doesn't care for it. Last night was an exception. Primo has strong preferences regarding food textures, and I thought I was going to get to a good place with our main dish --lentil and sausage soup -- by making the texture consistent. I blended the soup into a thick, pasty mix and served it with hot cornbread. While the texture was a bit grainy, the I thought flavor was wonderful, especially with fresh sweet cornbread.

The boys did not agree. And I've been a bit testy lately about some of their responses to my cooking. We've always been an eat-it-or-make-your-own kind of family when it comes to dinnertimes . . . so the kids usually make an effort to try the meal before they choose to go hungry or make a sandwich.

Well, this time, I saw the boys were really trying to eat the soup, taking a hunk of cornbread and quickly spooning a small bit of soup in with it. No dice. We started laughing. There was a brief mention of Utah Phillips' Moose turd pie. (Listen to it!!)

True to that story's form, no one complained! So I let the kids fill up on cornbread, got out some veggies and hummus, cheese and crackers, and we called it a night.

More than two months have passed. Ready to exhale.

Friday, January 3, 2014: the second day of the rest of my life.  

The job change has come.  I almost didn't make it to the end, but it in order to claim unemployment, I had to work as long as the job was available.

The boys and I have been in our jammies all day, keeping warm and doing indoor activities.  There's tortilla soup on the stove, cats freaking out with catnip toys in the dining room, and kids playing Minecraft, too. Our Christmas tree stands in a corner of our living room, unlit.  I think we'll put it away tomorrow.

Hero has just arrived home.  I kissed him hello.  He promptly changed out of his work clothes and into flannel pajama pants, slippers, hoodie, hat, and thick insulated vest.  That's how we roll.  A cold snap is heading our way. We may not venture out all weekend.  Due to a forecast with dangerous wind chills, school has already been cancelled for Monday.

I've tried to make a habit of not expecting much out of life, especially not expecting happiness.  When I received the layoff notice, I went into a period of very low self-esteem and high-energy job searching.  It wasn't a very nice time to live through.  Then, as I settled in to the reality of being forced to make a much-needed career change, my spirit rallied a bit.  I'd hate to say that I started 'leaning in,' because I'm not fond of that term.  But I did start daring to hope.

Since having children and getting Primo's autism diagnosis, I've tended to be a keep-your-head down, keep-working-to-support-your-family kind of person when it comes to work.  I know what I'm good at, and though I've built up new skills over time, I tend to do the same kind of work wherever I go.  Even when a job gets boring, tiresome, and lacks challenges or interesting people, I tend to stick to it loyally.  But then things start to change, and the boredom starts to show my productivity.  I lose focus.  If the management style of the next-higher-up isn't proactive, I find it difficult to not go into something of a stasis, if not a tailspin.  And then it's time to change.

It seems that the life cycle for my jobs is between two and five years.

October 25 evening

Spark is laying out the four pairs of mittens and gloves.  He's preparing for the winter cold.  The end of October here means an opportunity to trick-or-treat in freezing rain and/or snow; I can think of many childhood Halloweens where I had to design a costume that would fit over my winter coat.

I'm on the couch with the laptop, looking for new jobs.

The kittens, Hazel and Mabel, are hiding in the folds of five layers of blankets on Primo's bed.  Our house is uninsulated, yet we find ways of keeping warm.

When I'm stressed out, I tend to write less and less.  I eat less. I sleep more. In the last three months, we've had one cat go missing, one cat need to be put down, my parents moved across the country, and I received official notice that my employment will end by December 31.  It's been a bit of a hard go for my emotions.

Primo's voice is changing.  Spark is getting taller and skinnier and sweeter by the moment.  We filled the kitty void with two seven-month-old female kittens.  Hero is playing more music with friends. Maybe we're finding some balance of the difficult with the joyous. 

A family with new twin babies. What would you tell the parents?

I had a delicious and delightful, yet long overdue tea time with a dear friend and my sons yesterday.  We went to a tea house that I'd never visited before.  Each one of us feasted on banana-coconut-chocolate cake, the colors of the walls and pillows in our tea room, and the presence of those we love.

This morning, my friend sent me a message about some friends she has, who have just become first-time parents to a boy-and-girl pair of twins.  The mother asks, "How can I do this?"  We are gathering love and strengthening words for them.  Feel free to add yours to mine:

Keep them alive, minute to minute.  Yourself, too.

Drink lots and lots of water.  Eat everything your body tells you to.

Ask for help for the things you don't feel you can get to.  Ask often and with force, if necessary (just like the babies do).

Sleep when they sleep.  

Do not wake sleeping babies on purpose, if you can possibly help it.

Invite people to come and hold the babies while you take a shower, feed yourself, etc.

Let you mind be blown by the amazingness of new life.  Boom. Pow. And go back to bed.

It's all right to be afraid.  Just push through it.  

There's going to be the next nursing, the next diaper change, the next bath, the next and next and next . . . you'll find your rhythm.

Overthinking in the first few months of their lives is a first-world problem.

There is evening, there is morning, and each day is good.

Looking up into blue eyes

In the quiet of the upstairs hallway this week, the family going through our morning routines, Primo came upstairs to say Hi. I was freshly dressed, putting on makeup in the bathroom, getting my hair in some proximity of rightness. He stood in the hallway, wearing his size 13 shoes for the first time. It was the last hot day of a long hot spell; we were looking forward to wearing pants and sweaters after a rainy day.

I asked him how the shoes felt.  He said they were a little tight.  I looked down at those big feet of his, and assured him that he'd find the shoes comfortable pretty soon.  He sighed and shifted his weight.

I then realized that, as he was facing me, his nose was above mine.

For the first time, in his shoes, this boy is taller than me. I told him this, and we and laughed a little. I hugged him tight and kissed his cheek, telling him I love him. 

There is only one moment like this in our lives.

An adult child, letting go

I knew when I started this blog that I would eventually need to write about my parents.  I'm just now starting to be well and truly honest about my feelings regarding my relationship with them.  I need a safe place to work through the emotions and ask for advice from peers.

The main reason this blog is anonymous-ish is that I want to keep it from being easily found by my parents.  They would, of course, recognize my family and me from the content right away.  I firmly believe in owning one's truth.  The conundrum is being willing to write it out, knowing that if my dad finds this, I'll have to deal with the consequences.  So be it.

Six days ago, we had a fantastic Sunday. It was one of the best days our family has had all summer!  We'd been to a local town fair and parade, had a cookout with Hero's family, relaxed with cousins, remarked on the beautiful blue sky, and left before there were any meltdowns from the kids.  I went to work, had a successful and productive shift, and came home to Hero just getting a meal on the table and kids running to hug me at the door.

Then my dad called in the middle of dinner.  He's got great timing.

A little background: This year, my dad turned 70.  He and my mom know that they may not have many more good and healthy years left.  To celebrate the summer and his seventieth year, they decided to take an around-the-country tour of his brothers and sisters, and some of their friends.  The trip ended up with them visiting my own brother in Pennsylvania.  They'd been thinking about the fact that my brother is their designated medical power of attorney person, and that it could be good to be nearer to that person, should health concerns become an issue.

My Dad said that he and my mother will be moving halfway across the U.S. to live near my brother and his family.  He told me that they had found a condo just minutes away from my brother's house, made an offer the same day they saw the condo, and that their offer was accepted. 

Two times twice exceptional (aka, We Hit the Jackpot!)

As I wrote to a dear friend today,

Now I've been drinking some gin + lime + soda, trying to recover from an empowering but emotionally draining day at the therapist's office with the youngest son, who is getting through the process of being diagnosed as twice-exceptional: gifted to the point of genius in certain ways, and also having dyslexia and dysgraphia.  

Another Saturday gone, hours upon hours spent with therapists.  Finding out that Spark ranks in the exceptional/genius range for some innate skills, and he's at kindergarten level for what his teachers have been trying to help him learn for the last three years.  What a mixed blessing.

Spark is gifted in some of the same areas that Primo is, which will be a great help as we try to build on their shared interests.  But where Primo taught himself to read at age 6, and read Rowling's complete Harry Potter series TWICE over the summer when he was 9, Spark is still trying to keep his lower and uppercase letters straight.

We're also looking at moderate to severe depression in Spark.  My mother heart aches for him, knowing that this kind, creative, spunky, imaginative kiddo thinks of himself as one of the 'dumb' kids.  Can't keep his days straight.  Never knows how long a minute or an hour feels.  Can hear everything that's going on in a room, but can't focus on what one person is saying.  We're all going to learn how to support him in this.

So, this family is blessed with two healthy, amazing sons.  One may be going to the university at age 15, and one may turn out to be an engineer who can't spell.  

Like many special-needs parents, I'm in it for the long haul.  I might have to pull over and cry every now and then, but I know these guys are worth every bit of effort we exert on their behalf.

Time, and time in the garden helps a lot

Two days ago, (see previous post) Primo and I had an interaction in the car that ended up with him pinching a huge bruise into my upper arm, and me speaking in a hurtful way.  

I was truly shaken.  I sank into an ugly and dark funk.  I wrote that post.  I felt deeply saddened by this violence, discouraged that we could have such a setback, ashamed that even though my son had hurt me, I wasn't able in that moment to keep my temper in check and stay calm enough to keep from scaring him.

Then we cried separately and together for forty-five minutes, talked, apologized, hugged, and moved on.  Here's the rest of the story:

At age 12, Primo is almost as tall as I am now, and though he's very much better at controlling his temper, he does still have trouble with safety issues when he's angry.  He said that by the time he thought to calm himself and be safe, he'd already torn apart some things in the car and pinched me.  That's his fight-or-flight response and the autism delay.

Tomorrow Spark is going in for his second all-day dyslexia evaluation appointment.  I'm so excited to get the data and strategies that we need, but I'm not so happy to give up my only day off to be there.  We do know he's right in the middle of the 'spectrum' of dyslexia (forgive the autism metaphor), not severe and not mild.  We're starting to be able to tell him about the ways he is smart, and we'll learn how to help him know it for sure.

And well, that Hero, and the music, it's something that's integral to his being, something that cannot change, even if he tried.  I think I'm feeling, first, the pre-summer crisis of confidence in our abilities to manage childcare without school; second, a lack of shared purpose in my life with Hero.  We need a spoken agreement on our priorities.  We've been just surviving and tag-team parenting for so many years now.  

Our marriage is a true partnership based on deep love (and wacky humor), but the part where we enjoy each other and have fun together is missing.  The majority of the time we spend together occurs when we're asleep.  We don't know who's the leader when we're both home at the same time.  We don't know how to make conversation at the dinner table when all of us are together.  

I'm hoping that a change in schedule at my office may be coming, so that we'll be able to be a complete family more evenings each week.  I'm not sure whether that means I will have a new job at a different business, whether my position may be terminated, or whether I'll be allowed to simply work a shorter schedule.  My next career step is a big question mark right now.

That brings me to today.  Today has been pretty grand.  I've breathed deeply.  Our geographic area has had a week of stormy weather, drenching downpours, rapidly shifting temperatures, and then sunshine.  Today is a mostly sunshine day.

When the boys and I got home after school, Spark went outside to explore the yard and observe bugs.  I let the cats out so that they could bask in the sunshine and eat grass tips.  They were calmly joyful, as cats can be.  I looked through all the little parts of our yard where I like to plant things, and got more ideas for what I'll work on this weekend.  

I was a very lazy gardener last year, planting very little, not weeding, not mulching.  A perennial that looks very like creeping bellflower (campanula) went to seed and has started taking over our and our neighbors' yards.  Time in the garden, just keeping my mind on the plants and getting my hands in the soil, is healing to me.  So that's the plan for the weekend.

Dyslexia, gardening, and laundry and family.  Sounds all right to me.

Sad today

Oh, Lord, I am not the one best suited to raise this child.  Please help me.  God, please, please help me.  I'm married to a man who seems to love music more than he loves me or his family.  He is so often distracted and un-present. I have one son who is sweet as pie and so very smart, and dyslexic.  This other son, the one who hurt me today, has autism and mental illness.  We are just starting to dig our way out of debt after years of being in it up to our eyeballs.  I feel like everyone expects me to keep us functioning on an even keel.  When I've asked for help, I first get a question about payment for services.  I feel so alone.  The weight of this life is so much.

Two small confessions.

I have two confessions to make today.  First, when I sit on my couch with my laptop on my lap, catching up on all the news of the day, I'm really mostly doing it to keep my lap warm.

Second, I've started to hate being at work.  I think it's the complete lack of windows.  Three years is enough of this.  Also, I no longer feel like I'm making a difference there.  I'm not helping enough, and no one really needs me.

And a bonus confession: Winter is not ended here in the Upper Midwest.  The tulips are growing and snowdrops have already faded, but it's snowing little f-bomb white pellets and blowing and gray all over.  Sigh.

Big rig gig

Instead of writing this post, I've been making stew, emptying old condiments from the fridge, watching cartoons with the boys. A new blizzard has arrived, so perhaps the pressure change drove me to the household things.  Or perhaps it's just good ol' procrastination.

I feel like this life I'm in is a journey on a long gravel road in a country with no maps.

Some parts are smoother than others.  Some are muddy, sloggy, and rutted.  There's often no good vista or clearing to tell me where we are or what's coming next.  Not a lot of faces of people I know.  There's only the onward, the forward, the road.

When I was a girl, one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up was a long-range truck driver.  The open road, the big rigs, the time to myself . . . called to me.

Primo has just graduated from his mental health/social skills program, which he started in October of last year.  The first few months were very hard; he pushes people to their limits of tolerance, so see whether and how much he can trust them.  He pushed almost too hard, sometimes physically, in those first months.  He was nearly kicked out of the program on a number of occasions.  But the therapy staff there saw something in him, the same something Hero and I see.  There is potential for greatness in this boy who sometimes would sooner throw a punch than acquiesce to a simple imperative that's not of his own choosing.

We struggled through it together.  Sometimes I'd have to take him home early, because he wasn't able to get into the groove of the day.  The police were called a couple of times, when he'd hurt others.  It could be scary, knowing Primo had hard work to do on his inner Self, and that he might not up to the day's challenges.  He was pushed to learn about his own emotions and triggers, to understand the way the rest of the world would expect him to respond, and how to respond appropriately even when he didn't feel like he could.

But it was a safe place for him to be, this program was.  The staff of therapists was strong and usually unflappable, except when praising the kids for good work.  They covered the details of almost every day with me.  They cared and persevered, when many adults would choose to give up on Primo, or recommend some other program or even an institution of one kind or another.

He ended up with a couple of friends (!!) in the group who actually looked up to him, a graduation celebration, and gave a gift to the program's other kids.  It was an ending that suited his journey.

So now we're in the rig again, away from the support of that group, and I'm wondering what comes next.  I'm trying to remain calm.  I'm nervous, though.  There isn't a lot of solitude on this road.