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Archive for the ‘aggression’ Category

I’m glad I had the wisdom to visit Boo by myself the day after that last post.  Since my mom has been driving down with me every other week, I’ve had a host of other companions join me on her off-weeks.  My sister, two different cousins, and a good friend.  But I knew better this time, and I was right.

Andy and I had just picked Jonah up for his visit, and after a few minutes he asked for donut.  Andy told him yes, but about 10 seconds later he suddenly grabbed a hunk of hair on the right side of my head.  Andy immediately responded by pulling the car over, but before he could get out I felt Jonah’s other hand take a second hunk of my hair, and I was pinned against the seat, my head yanked back.

Andy ran around to get in Jonah’s side and there was a brief struggle before first one chunk of my hair, then the other, was released.  I scrambled out of the car like a hijacking victim trying to escape, my hair in every direction, tears streaming down my face.   Before I could wipe the hair and tears away I nearly stumbled into a car parked nose-to-nose with us.  A police car.  Evidently the cop was driving in the other lane and crossed lanes to pull over and check out the scene.  He opened his door and starting walking toward me.  I must have looked a wreck.

While Andy calmed Jonah down, I tried to get my shit together so I could explain what was happening.  By this time other cars were slowing down to rubberneck.  I started to ask the officer his name and simultaneously saw his name badge:  SCATTERGOOD.  “Your name is Officer Scattergood?” I asked, trying to seem like a normal person, hoping this was an auspicious sign.  “Ye-es,” he said haltingly, evidently hesitant to scatter the good until he assessed the situation.

First he attempted to talk through the open car window to Jonah himself, who by this time was calm and ready for more car ride.  “What happened here?” he asked Boo, who deigned to glance over for a few seconds before turning away.   Andy and I began to explain, each of us supplying bits of information.

Officer Scattergood asked me if I needed EMS and, when I declined, he took down our info.  I asked if he had been trained in responding to people with disabilities, and he said he actually just recently completed a 2-hour autism training course.  Still, we must have been his first autism rodeo; he seemed unsure quite what to do.  Finally he wished us well and we continued on our way.  I pulled my seat all the way forward and out of Boo’s reach.

It wasn’t until I got home and in the shower that I felt scratches all along my neck and right shoulder, and two small bald spots on my head.  I saw all the hair that had rinsed away in the tub and caught in my brush afterward.  (Good thing I have plenty.).   My scalp ached some, but it could have been worse.

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<– Boo was okay for the rest of our visit.  I tucked him in tight for our nap and then lay next to him (on top of the tucked-in sheets so as to give myself a quick escape route, should he attack again) but he only giggled, piled pillows on top of himself, and fell asleep.

I’ve been wondering how the whole scenario with the cop might have played out differently had we been a black family.  I like to think we would have been all right either way, but I also know the world is a volatile place right now where race and police are concerned.

I was very impressed by Childish Gambino’s This is America video and have felt compelled to watch it again and again.  One of my coworkers, S,  is young enough to be my son; he’s the one who showed it to me.  S grew up poor and his family all chipped in to get him through college – not just mom and dad but aunts and uncles and cousins, all lifting him up.  He’s also Hispanic and so we sometimes talk about race, racism, and everything that goes with and exists around it – perceived and real entitlement, privilege…socialism and sexism and capitalism.

I just totally pasted that into my blog post by accident.  Well, I meant to paste the link but there the whole thing is, right?  Ferris Bueller, talking about “isms?”  I could have done that with This is America, too, then.  I guess.  I figure things out as I go along, and technology is whizzing past me.  I end up learning things completely by accident.

The youngster at work is also good at helping me out in this regard.

So off to Boo I go again tomorrow, this time with my mom, our fingers crossed again. Lately he’s had both good days and squirrely ones.

His cool teacher sent me this picture of him, saying he showed up to school with the goofy hat on.  His shirt is courtesy of mama, who is growing tired of grandma’s ultra-conservative taste.  Jonah is not a golfer, nor a Rhodes scholar.  His clothes should reflect his silly, bright, whirlwind of a personality.

See you tomorrow, Boo!

 

 

 

 

 

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So I was editing the last post, and “similar posts” came up along the bottom.  Among them I found:

my 100th post mother’s day mystery

in which I bore you all with the same exact story about Sara Crewe and A Little Princess.  Oops.

I rarely read my old blog posts and I’ve never read the whole blog through start to finish.  I wonder how many times I’ve gone on about Laura Ingalls Wilder, Guster, Elfquest, A Little Princess, etc. in the same way, over & over? Am I getting forgetful in my middle age, repeating myself without realizing it?  Or am I autistic and fixated on telling the same stories and references ad infinitum?

At least now I know the first year the magician started coming, which makes this year 7. That’s new information for sure.

I COULD just go back and edit that last post, but that would be a lie of sorts.  This memory thing is part of who I am.  I do often forget that I’ve already told someone something, or I forget to whom I told what.  

Sometimes I forget because I need to forget.  In the process, other things get tossed out in the wash.

I suppose there are worse things that could happen to my mind.

Tomorrow I drive down alone to visit Boo with Andy.  Jonah has had a rough week; yesterday he even bit a caregiver on the stomach and fought with another.  And here I thought I just might start to maaayyybe hope that his aggressions were gone for good.  At least mostly.

But no.  No, again.  No.  Again.

I have to be careful tomorrow.  Follow all the old rules.  No glasses, be vigilant, tuck the sheets under him and not me when we take a nap.  If we take a nap.  I’m nervous about it, and sad, and it makes my PTSD kick in, my heart pounding pounding pounding, teeth clenched, muscles tight, jaw like stone.

Plus it’s been raining and dreary all day, and there was another school shooting yesterday. 10 people dead in Texas.  I read the comments on the articles about it, all the solutions, all the suggestions, the angry finger-pointing name-calling righteous people who blame and lash out, mock and ridicule, troll and flame, everyone saying it has to stop, it has to stop, it has to stop.  We have forgotten how to be kind to one another, even in the wake of a tragedy.  It’s more important that someone else is wrong and you are right.  It’s more important to be heard than to listen.  Ours is a broken country.

I’m exhausted from caring about too many broken things.  I’m exhausted from crying about it and about Boo earlier, and exhausted from rage cleaning – scrubbing and sweeping, vacuuming and doing wash, whirlwind style, vigorous and hard.  I always clean like this when I’m feeling angry and helpless.  It’s a giant metaphor.  I can’t scrub the world of its hate and I can’t wash the aggression from my son, but I can at least do the dishes and make the fucking sink shine.  I can clean my own little corner of the world.

Wish us luck tomorrow, Andy and me.  That last time he hurt me pretty bad.

If he does it again, though, at least I’ll probably forget it.

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For the past several years, someone has left flowers on my front porch steps on Mother’s Day.  Not bouquets in vases but flowers in pots, ready to be planted.  Different kinds each year, but always flowers.  I think it started the first Mother’s Day after Jonah went away.

This year on Mother’s Day I returned from visiting Jonah with my mom and saw the flowers there again, as always – a pot of bleeding hearts this time with a card from Boo, the handwriting unrecognizable (deliberately, I presume).

Always the flowers make my day.  A magician has come, I think to myself.  Someone who knows I drive to visit Jonah every Sunday.  Someone who wishes to remain anonymous…who knows my Mother’s Days are never all that happy since Jonah left, no matter what the day is like.

I used to think of all the possible magicians, trying to identify who in my life could possibly be that dedicated to this.  To me.  Since the flowers started coming, they have never stopped.  Year after year – for 6 or 7 years now without fail, I am visited by a magician who places flowers on my steps and slips away.  This simple, loving, ever-faithful gesture touches my heart more than I can say.

Of course I plant the flowers every year, usually a week or so after I get them.  I like to keep them inside for a while first, so I can look at them, smile, and think about whomever gave them to me – enjoying the mystery of the magician’s annual appearance.

This year, it finally occurred to me: the magician probably reads my blog.  How else would they be certain I’m not home when they arrive every Mother’s Day?  How else would they know I call Jonah Boo? After all, I rarely do so outside this blog.  The already small field of possible magicians narrows.  But I respect their desire to remain anonymous, and I do not intend to ferret them out.

Every year, though, I find myself wishing I could thank the magician.  And now that I am pretty sure they read this blog, I can.

In a “cosmic coincidence” kind of way, this is remarkably similar to a fictional scenario I love and have read many, many times:  the story of Sara Crewe, my all-time favorite heroine in my all-time favorite book, A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

At one point in our heroine’s story, she is poor, hungry and living in the dingy attic of a fancy girls’ boarding school.  One day she wakes up to find the attic suddenly and inexplicably transformed with little folding chairs, blankets and pillows, books, steaming tea and little sandwiches set up on a little table, a fire in the long-unused fireplace, and beautiful tapestries on the walls.  Sara is astounded.

Every day the magician, for that is what she calls him, brings more and more little pleasant things to make her happy.  She loves the magic of it and abandons herself happily to the mystery as well, enjoying all that is brought to make her sorrow-filled servant life happier.  But one thing nags at her, and she relates this to Becky, her fellow scullery maid:

“I can’t help thinking about my friend,” Sara explained. “If he wants to keep himself a secret, it would be rude to try and find out who he is. But I do so want him to know how thankful I am to him—and how happy he has made me. Anyone who is kind wants to know when people have been made happy. They care for that more than for being thanked. I wish—I do wish—”

She stopped short because her eyes at that instant fell upon something standing on a table in a corner. It was something she had found in the room when she came up to it only two days before. It was a little writing-case fitted with paper and envelopes and pens and ink.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “why did I not think of that before?”

She rose and went to the corner and brought the case back to the fire.

“I can write to him,” she said joyfully, “and leave it on the table. Then perhaps the person who takes the things away will take it, too. I won’t ask him anything. He won’t mind my thanking him, I feel sure.”

So she wrote a note. This is what she said:

I hope you will not think it is impolite that I should write this note to you when you wish to keep yourself a secret. Please believe I do not mean to be impolite or try to find out anything at all; only I want to thank you for being so kind to me—so heavenly kind—and making everything like a fairy story. I am so grateful to you, and I am so happy—I used to be so lonely and cold and hungry, and now—oh, just think what you have done for me! Please let me say just these words. It seems as if I OUGHT to say them. THANK you—THANK you—THANK you!

THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE ATTIC.

The next morning she left this on the little table, and in the evening it had been taken away with the other things; so she knew the Magician had received it, and she was happier for the thought.

And so, just like Sara, I get to say:

Thank you for being so kind to me—so heavenly kind—and making everything like a fairy story.  THANK you—THANK you—THANK you!

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