“I close my eyes and there’s someone beside me.
Hand in hand, we can only speak in tongues.
He’s pulling me along.
Follow’n down, a trail of crumbs behind me,
My head’s in his hands,
But everything, it still feels wrong.
This isn’t what I thought,
So can I just go home?
~ On the Ocean, Guster
Am I a mother? To what degree? In what regard?
I think it’s time to leave the parent-autism-blogging to the bloggers who are raising the children with autism. I don’t even have the experience of parenting in common with parents anymore. And I don’t have the appropriate filter with which to clean my dirty laundry and make it smell fresh before donning it & strutting around for all the cyber-world to see.
What have I done here? Told and re-told a story, ad infinitum, and I no longer have it in me. I’m sorry.
…and have delicious days…
– – –
“It was too late; the shore was far behind her, and her strength was gone. She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again. She heard her father’s voice. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore tree. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.”
The end of The Awakening by Kate Chopin, (slightly edited)
The Never Normal 