UnStill Life

My four-year-old NT girl is in the bath as I type this. I'm only 10 feet away, on my bed, and can see her playing. "Mommy?" she asks. "Do you love me no matter what, or only if I have good behavior?"

The love, I assure you, is unstoppable. The fun, though, as I explain to Peaches, is much bigger when all our behavior is good.

And where does she get these questions, questions that pile on me lately about where babies come from, why people go to jail, what happens after death... I have typed only one sentence, that first one at the top of this post, so far, and realize I've never been able to blog when my kids are awake, but my night's are filled with schoolwork (theirs AND mine), and yet I hate to neglect this place where I come for my sanity and catharsis.

The phone rings. My husband, at Children's Hospital with our six-year old son who has autism, tells me I handed him the wrong prescription this morning on his way out the door and he's hoping I can send a scan or photo of the one he needs for our boy's blood draw, ASAP. I set aside my computer, scramble for the camera, the script, the card reader... How did people survive without ubiquitous computing? In 5 minutes, thanks to numerous gadgets and some of my husband's charm, my husband has things underway at the hospital to check up on my son's blood...

Peaches climbs from the tub, drips her way through the house, asks to be held like a newborn, helps me make a cheer up sign for her brother, refuses to sit more than six inches from me as she devours the opportunity for undivided attention.

The boys return, and before the key unlocks the front door my boy makes it clear that he NEEDS to bake a pie. URGENTLY. He has had pie on the brain for days, so I prepared last night, stealing away during ABA to stock up on GFCF ingredients from two separate markets. Sadly, real GFCF "pie" is beyond my patience and skills as well as the inventory of both markets, but I know he will settle for "crumble." With both kids as "helpers," we manage to whip up apple crumble in about an hour, leaving the kitchen sorely worse for the wear. While it bakes, we eat carrots, sandwiches, chili, lemonade. Finally, the timer dings. A boy demands a melted marshmallow on his "pie," and a Peach opts for ice cream. In the end, it's really only these toppings they like. The "pie," or crumble, tastes too healthy for their liking. I end up eating more than my share. They tear through the house grabbing toys, wearing my very favorite blanket in the entire world over their heads as they play ghost, building structures on the coffee table, laughing, arguing, goofing around.

It's barely afternoon. The house is a wreck. I realize no one brushed their teeth this morning. The TO DO list stretches long and foreboding... I pick up my netbook, with a blind eye to all else and a firm refusal to worry about blood panel results, and resume writing this, the formless blog post in front of you right now.

And with tremendous trepidation I confess to you, brazenly, that I feel happy.

This is how one family with autism rolls.