The last big Bad Thing I could have written about happened back on October 29th, 2017.
I’ve said I li
ke to put distance between the bad stuff and the writing about it, and 3 months of distance before writing is a little much, maybe.
But also good. Good because there hasn’t been any more bad stuff to write about. Not really. Not where Jonah’s concerned, anyway.
I could have written a thousand little details about our visits and his schoolwork and the music he loves now, but I’ve been lazy and, at times, hibernating in a wintry depressive state.
It doesn’t help that for a year and a half, my co-worker Erin became my best friend and then, last month, quit to take a higher paying position in a different place.
We connected on a wavelength of shared loves & zany antics – two off-balanced, slightly-evil clowns. We were Laverne and Shirley, throwing ourselves down the street, clutching one another in the wind. Hauling ourselves up the stairs all the way to the 7th floor for exercise when it got cold, 
every time checking to see if the door to the roof was unlocked. Always laughing, always singing. We worked out harmonies to the National Anthem in the hallways and sang of butter on the side with our deli orders. We said the same thing at the same time so often it got eerie. Without her I am just plain Shirley, which hurts something awful and isn’t a whole lot of fun to watch. Now my days are long and empty. I’m grateful for my job and I reckon I’ll get used to this new normal eventually, but I miss my friend. Soon we’re going away to Boston to see a comedian and stay overnight, so that’s something. She’s not entirely gone from me…and I’m glad she’ll still be in my life.
Maybe 2018 will be different and I’ll write all the time instead of rarely. I don’t really do resolutions, but if I did I’d resolve to write a novel about Jonah – perhaps about a specific time in his life. I’d focus on that terrible, tale-able time which started, conveniently for the telling, right when I began writing this blog. Not sure where it would end, but sometime before this writing for sure. Leave everyone hungry for a sequel. I’ll win a Pulitzer prize, and they’ll make a movie about us. All of that.
I suppose I should at least tell about October 29th. I’m not sure why I remember the date…maybe because it was the day after this Halloween party I went to
as a butterfly 
on a boat
with a buffet 
and a band.
Which was unusual for me what with my social avoidance/anxiety lately. Hell, I don’t know the last time I walked into a store that wasn’t CVS, and that for prescription refills.
Anyway, the next day was October 29th. I was tired and more than happy to join Jonah in the big blue bed for a nap, which is what he’s been requesting every week (and still does of this writing). First he wants food, and then The Jungle Book and a nap. So we go in to lie down. Tickle? he said, which means he wants me to scratch and rub his back. He often falls asleep this way, both pillows and covers over his head. But this day I turned so I was facing away from him, and I fell asleep. I woke to him pulling my hair, hard, hunks in both fists. Andy came in to help, and I’m kind of following Jonah’s thrashing movements so as to keep the hair in my head, when BAM he back-kicks me, horse strong, right in the ribs. It knocked the breath out of me and I crouch-walked into the living room to collapse on the couch, crying like I do when he attacks me, thinking at least he didn’t have his shoes on.
He calmed down quickly after that, if I’m remembering right. My pain waxed and then waned within a day or two. But then, after about 9 or 10 days, it got much worse. I’ve had pneumonia before and that’s what it felt like, heavy in my lungs and hard to breathe, but worse. I had to roll myself out of bed in the mornings because I couldn’t sit up. Finally I caved and went to urgent care to get x-rays, which in retrospect seems dumb because there isn’t anything they can do for broken ribs anyway. And mine weren’t broken, just bruised. Mother of shit it hurt, though, and for a good month.
I remember the thought coming into my head that one of these days he’s going to put me in the hospital, and then the acceptance of that thought, and finally the dismissal of it. It’s not something that does anyone any good to think about, even if it’s true.
Now when I nap with Jonah, I get him under the sheet and blankets and then I climb in under the blankets only, so I’m lying on (and essentially trapping him in) the sheet. I put my hands in front of my face in mock fighter-protecting-her-mug pose and I always face him. But he’s not been aggressive to me since that day.
If you had told me 8 years ago that someday Jonah would go months at a time without hurting me, I wouldn’t have believed you. Or at least I would have been afraid to believe you, the same way I have sometimes been afraid to hope. The fall from hope to despair is long and painful, every time, no matter how many times the wheel turns. Again and again I return to hope, however – for it speaks of possibility, always looks bright, and feels a whole lot better than the alternative.
Thanksgiving was good – we saw a train on car ride. Jonah got to see grandma and take home delicious turkey dinner she’d made. Pa was there to give him a hug and kiss. Christmas was fine too, but different. Jonah never even requested train – an unheard of situation. When grandma asked if he wanted to go upstairs and lie down with mama, he actually said yes – so I got to have a lovely Christmas nap with my son.
Funny how one of the things I used to lament once he went to Anderson was missing the everyday normalcy of watching him sleep. Now I get that, every week – as if in answer to a prayer piece. No, the blindness in his left eye isn’t suddenly cured and no, his aggression didn’t disappear altogether, but this I can have. I can nap with my Boo.
All I can say is I’m grateful for it.
The Never Normal 