Thanksgiving | Normal is a Dryer Setting

Posts Tagged ‘Thanksgiving’

97X. Bam!

Posted in behavior, echolalia, grandma, language, Uncategorized, tagged autism, bear hugs, Thanksgiving on November 23, 2012 | 2 Comments »

Raymond: 97X. Bam! The future of rock ‘n’ roll.
97X. Bam! The future of rock ‘n’ roll.
97X, Bam! The future of rock ‘n’ roll.

~ Raymond Babbitt in Rainman

Oh, my sweet, precious little boy. What a wonder you are!

This is the third Thanksgiving I’ve described in this blog. Hard to believe.. The first was awful – so awful, in fact, that just days later I would check myself into a mental health facility, the second was fun (and was paired with two Guster shows, so how could one go wrong?), and yesterday, Thanksgiving 2012, which was easy-wonderful.

Andy was nice enough to drive Jonah up to Grandma’s house, and I met them there. My boo came crashing through the front door, shrieking with happiness. We ate turkey sandwiches; Jonah ate one and a hot dog as well, and chips, and bacon, and “white ice cream.” He asked for train and we drove him there even though we knew Thanksgiving trains are few and far between. All the way there my mom sat in the backseat with Jonah, but he kept asking mama in the backseat? And my mother told him, “yes, sweetheart, as soon as we stop for the train.” It made me feel good; usually he wants grandma in the backseat.

He also wanted music, and daddy turned up this station that he and Jonah enjoy: 92.3 FLY. After one of the songs they announced the call station with snazzy-jingle-music and the deep voice and all. Jonah immediately parroted it, really well, too, if I don’t say so myself. 92.3 – WFLY! 92.3 – WFLY! 92.3 – WFLY! None of us could help laughing, which only encouraged him. Giggling, he kept at it for a while, just like Rainman.

So there was no train, but I got to sit in the backseat with my Boo – and instead of telling me move (which means get as far away from me as possible and do not even look at me), he asked for hugs. Over and over again he wanted hugs. Bear hugs, he even said. And so I reveled in this, moved close to him, wrapped my arms around him, and hugged tight, raining kisses on his Beatle-length hair. More bear hug? he pleaded, looking up at me sweetly. Yes, Boo, I replied, hugging him closer, tighter, until it felt like we were one. Oh thank you, I said silently. Thank you.

And this week I get to see him again – tomorrow, which I hope will be as beautiful as today – and Jonah as lovey.

daddy-hugs

Before Andy and Jonah left, they came inside to get their share of a Thanksgiving dinner my mom had made just for the few of us. So she had a bag with all their food in it, and Jonah and Andy were saying goodbye, when Jonah opened the freezer, snagged the rest of the bacon, put it into the bag of food, then looked up at us all as if to say “k, let’s go.” Of course grandma let him take the bacon.

Mom and I had coffee afterwards and laughed at Boo’s adorable little ways. We both had tears behind our laughter, but they were mostly good, happy, thankful tears.

We’ve plenty to give thanks for, that’s for sure.

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the other aliens

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Andrea Barrett, Ned Fleischer, Patrick Meanor, Thanksgiving, the APC adoption conference on November 23, 2011 | 1 Comment »

“I’ve never known a writer who didn’t feel ill at ease in the world. We all feel unhoused in some sense. That’s part of why we write. We feel we don’t fit in, that this world is not our world, that though we may move in it, we’re not of it.”

~Andrea Barrett

When I saw that quote I felt the warmth of knowing I’m not the only one, the comfort of knowing I’m not alone. There are other aliens, people not entirely comfortable here. I feel particularly alien lately.

Some of it comes from having spent 8 hours talking with prospective adoptive parents on Sunday in Brooklyn. I knew to bring tissues; sure enough, they were gone by the end of the day. I know the hope these people have. I know the fear that hope may remain just that – hope. I know how hope can become something to be afraid of, to even acknowledge. In a backwards, strange way, I know. They are special to me, the longing-to-adopt.

There is a surreal aspect too. They long for a baby, and I long for my boy. It is parallel and perpendicular at once. Someone will ask if I have children, and I answer that I have a boy who is nine. A few people get confused, thinking Jonah is the adopted child. “No,” I explain. “I’m adopted. My son is biological.” One lady asked me if I had a hard time conceiving. I admitted that I did not. She looked steadily at me, her eyes entering mine with heavy envy. “You’re so lucky,” she sighed. “You’re so incredibly lucky.”

I realized she was envying me the same way I have envied mothers who kiss their kids each day, waving to them as they board school busses…the parents whose children play games. Who do homework, or argue that they don’t want to. Kids who tell Santa what they want for Christmas. The truth is, I know nothing about all these people beyond that which I see in a fleeting glance, just like the lady telling me I was lucky knew nothing at all about where my so-easily-conceived boy is now, and why. There really is no greener grass.

Another man at the conference had just married his long-time boyfriend, and they wanted to adopt a child.

He read The Story of Amy…

…a book my mother made for me out of one of those circa 1970 gold-ring-bound, red cloth, cling-paged photo albums, hand-written on white paper and illustrated with all the cards my parents received to congratulate them on their new baby girl.

I always bring the book with me to adoption conferences because I think it was a great way for my parents to tell me I was adopted. My mom read it to me every night from the time I was a baby, so I always knew I was adopted, and as a result, being adopted never felt strange to me.

Usually people flip through The Story of Amy quickly, giving it an appreciative glance. This guy, though, picked it up, stood aside, and read the whole thing, slowly, page by page. When he handed it back to me, tears were streaming from both his eyes. He couldn’t even talk to me. He picked up my business card and walked away. I almost cried with him.

And speaking of crying, I can’t seem to stop thinking about Mr. Fleischer. I should have sent him a care package, I’ll think, or I wish I had told him he is the answer to one of my password prompts on almost every website log-in: Who was your favorite teacher?

If I don’t use Ned Fleischer, I use Patrick Meanor from SUNY Oneonta, my favorite college professor. I don’t intend to make the same mistake with him if I can help it. I’m going to look him up and see if we can visit in Oneonta. I want to tell him he is my password prompt too, and another one of the few greatest influences in my life.

Tomorrow, though, I’ll have Thanksgiving with my mother, my boy, and Andy. And then, later, with Mark and Jack and Almanzo. I’ll stop thinking “I feel like an alien” and I’ll concentrate on gratitude. For so many things…

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my thanks giving

Posted in autism, Uncategorized, tagged Thanksgiving on November 24, 2010 | 4 Comments »

Because I have become afraid to be alone with Jonah (rational or not), I’ve called my dad to ask him to please help me pick him up from afterschool, give him a ride to the train (depending on how we was at school today), and help with his dinner, a bath, and getting him to bed. Andy is working and M can’t help me tonight. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, so the short supply ‘o’ sitters aren’t around. Luckily my dad is more than willing to help, and we got out of work a little early today (thanks MKR), so I have a minute to type.

God only knows what four straight days with Jonah will be like. I don’t have high hopes, and I know I’ll be back soon to complain about how Jonah threw the gravy boat all over grandma at the Thanksgiving dinner table, so I thought I’d write a giving of thanks to balance out all the bitching.

In no particular order, and of course leaving out a multitude of blessings, I am giving thanks:

…for the fact that I don’t have to wait in line at 4am on Black Friday for the toy my child absolutely must have, or worry about whether or not I can afford (or should spoil my child with) whatever latest game system, i-pad, blackberry, etc. a typical 8 year old yearns to own. I needn’t fret over whether or not to tell my child there is (or isn’t) a Santa Claus. I won’t be standing in a long queue of fidgety kids and weary parents to get my son’s picture taken with a store Santa. I don’t have to hear Jonah cry because he got picked to be an ox in the Christmas Pageant instead of Saint Joseph or one of the Wise Men.

Instead, I can wake up on Christmas morning and give Jonah an assortment of things like bubbles, straws, and balloons, and he’ll be happy as a clam.

Of course, my mom will compensate for my blasphemous lack of gifts by turning her living room into a toy store and presenting Jonah with a new winter wardrobe, several electronic toys, expensive musical instruments, a portable dvd player, and whatever Elmo is singing about this year.

I am thankful for pretty much everyone reading this (with the possible exception of Marcia). There’s so much else and so many more people. It could go on forever. I know! I’ll use pictures. I wish I had a photo on my computer of my dad, and a few others I’d like to include in the thank-you album. But here’s a little pictorial of gratitude at any rate.

I am giving thanks for: