Autism Brain

I have read a story this Mother's Day about a middle school child with a brain injury who has made a remarkable recovery. Yet the tone of the story was that the parents continue to grieve the child they used to have instead of accepting their new reality.

They have suffered tremendously, and I feel for the shock and scare they have endured. I want to feel sympathy for them. Pity. Sadness. Compassion.

But they had something like eight, nine years with this child to get to know him before the accident.

Now you know I believe that God has created my child perfectly for his purpose in this world, but . . .

I would love to have five minutes with my child in a situation where his brain functioned as it should.

I would ask him why he needs to shake things.
If he sees pictures or colors in his head when he hears music.
If his stomach hurt without him answering, "Does it?"
If he really likes math.
If there's something I can do to make things easier.

If he really understands how much I love him.

Mail

The mail was over an hour early today and it has thrown off my whole morning. How sad is my little life? I keep wandering to the front of the house to see if it's arrived. What, exactly, am I waiting for anyway? In today's freakishly early mail delivery was:

1. Pizza Ranch "Large for a medium charge" coupon
2. People Magazine -- which made me so mad I fired off an angry email. I don't even want to talk about it or draw attention to what made me so mad.
3. Credit card bill
4. Disney World vacation planning DVD -- because you can never have too many and they're free
5. Dolly Parton's Imagination Library book for Toddler D (Do you get these books? They are free regardless of income. Very fun.)

Now, that was an exciting mail day, wasn't it? Often it's just a bill or two, a cruise brochure for a line we can't afford, a donation request from the paralyzed veterans with diabetes and cancer raising funds against drunk driving child abuse . . . and maybe a Wal-Mart flyer.

What is it about mail that causes me to focus my entire morning around its arrival?

I think it's hope. Perhaps today, instead of a free Disney vacation planning DVD, there might have been a free Disney vacation. Maybe, instead of a bill, there would be an unexpected check. Maybe instead of a Hollywood beauty obsessed People magazine, there would be a bookins.com book. (See my link at right.) And, now, when does this ever happen -- what if there was an actual letter?

I'm just an optimist at heart, but when was the last time I sent an actual letter?

Planting

It is too early to plant anything in Minnesota. May 21 is the last frost date, but here's the thing: If I wait too long, seeds or bulbs I plant in the ground will not have time to grow. Well, I didn't start anything inside this year, so I am taking my chances. I finally declared the "hedge" on the side of the house dead and dug it up. I planted some bulbs there. We'll see. There may be a reason the hedge wasn't very healthy over there.

I like planting. I'm not so fond of weeding, thinning, watering and such. Well, I guess watering isn't that hard, but you have to remember to do it.

My grandmother, Gigi, has a real honest to goodness green thumb and somehow she has taken pity and taken over Cyberspace Sarah's front yard. It could be because she drives past Cyberspace's house. Sarah just wakes up in the morning and things are planted there. Grandma's very stealth.

The world will know

One of the harder things about growing up in the family's weekly newspaper business is that Dad's weekly editorial column must be filled. When all else fails, turn to your family for inspiration. My small community knew the cute things I said about church being boring, my inability to fall asleep at night, my tears during student teaching, my SAT scores . . . This was made only worse in that sometimes Mom took a turn.

For a while after college when I was working for him, there was this horrible thing called "My Turn" in which every newspaper employee had to take a turn writing a weekly column. When my week came up, the space had to be filled, and so I shared with my small community all my horrible age 22 exploits myself.

Oh, I shudder even now to think it's all on file somewhere. Oh, I'm getting a headache!

Then Dad sold the papers and -- hooray! -- our lives would be kept to ourselves. Only he didn't really leave did he? And last fall, he started writing a column again.

And there we are again.

There isn't much that can embarrass me anymore. The town knows everything they would care to know about me and some things they didn't care to know. Still, I open the paper to the editorial page with only one eye open and the other squinting.
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This week's column starts, "Note to Lisa . . ." Bad sign.

A Poem for Tuesday

Today's poem is another from last week's PBS Miss Marple marathon. There has been some confusion about this. PBS normally runs these Miss Marple episodes over two weeks on Masterpiece Mystery. Last Sunday afternoon they were running back to back with a little poetry in between. I looked for this written out, but I can't find it, so you'll have to watch again this week. It's by Kevin Young. He's pretty cool.

Aunties

Nothing smart to write

I was just thinking . . . you know I have decided to call my stepdaughter Shelby my s'daughter and Jeremy my s'on.

Roxane at Peace Garden Mama refered to them as my s'kids.

Does that make me their s'mother?

Isn't life great?

I was in high school when I first heard Luci Swindoll tell the story of her 40th birthday party. (It was on a cassette tape, for the love of pete.) Luci's friends rented a hearse which they named Patty -- Patty Hearse -- and they went on a great adventure. She laughed and laughed as she told this story. I don't remember where they went, but the rented hearse was towed or something, and they ended up at the police station in the middle of the night.

I remember thinking, "Man! How great is turning 40 going to be!"

And it was a pretty great.

My old Sunday School superintendent sent me an email from beyond the grave via Cyberspace Sarah. Remember Dayna Carvey's church lady? He surely studied her. She used to sing "Blessed Birthday to You." S'aughter Shelby and her roommate called and sang me my first Happy Birthday of the day. My mom called. There was free Caribou. Brent took the day off and we went to the outlet mall where I promptly spent the birthday money given to me by my in-laws. We had Italian lunch with bread sticks and tomato salad and chicken saltimbocco AND creme brulee.

And when I got home . . .

There was a message from s'on Jeremy who is student teaching and I was serenaded by the Fargo North High School marching band! How terrific is that?!?! You have to be 40 to get that kind of awesome treatment!

That's just a terrific birthday right there.