It is Tuesday, it is Wednesday, it is Tuesday my boy sings in his toddler voice.

I bury my nose in his chest and he laughs and exhales.

He squishes up his little nose and laughs again as I kiss his chubby neck.

Big brother is on the sofa with the cat sitting on his chest, the dog curled at his feet.

I am trying to write, but my smallest boy calls to me from the kitchen.

Walk backwards, Mama! Walk backwards. Let’s go!

Writing will wait.

We walk backwards around the kitchen table.

We make crazy loops in a half-gallop, half-wobble.

We stumble into each other, his arms wrap around my legs again and again.

His laugh is a chime, a story, the last sweet morsel in a silver bag.

The slip-slap of his bare feet on the floor fade away, are muffled by the thick living room carpet.

He has gone to rest his head on his brother’s stomach.

He is holding out his tiny blue car as an offering. An invitation.

It is Tuesday, it is Wednesday, it is Tuesday he sings.

I let this small moment wash over me and feel grateful.

Photo credit: Marc Liberts

Thank you to The Mommy Padawan for inspiring this post with your lovely writing about staying present.

Yeah, that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about denial recently. Is it a good thing? Is it a bad thing?

Yesterday my shrink (yep, my shrink is now going to be making guest appearances on this blog via a soft-spoken hand puppet wearing a flowing dress and beaded necklace) said that the reason I’ve been able to function so well after having cancer is due to healthy denial.

How do you get your kids on the bus and send them off into the world every day?

How do you find yourself singing along to “Jimmy Crack Corn And I Don’t Care” ten minutes after you’ve dropped the kids off and still consider yourself a sexy beast?

How do you consider yourself a sexy beast after having three children?

How do you keep from suffocating your partner in his sleep after you find yourself with a wet hiney for the quadrillion time because he has left the seat up again?

Healthy denial.

Yup. It’s that overriding belief that everything is okay despite the fact that the dog crapped in your slipper again. It’s what keeps us going.

Since the tattoo incident with Matthew Mattison at The Little Tattoo Shoppe I have found myself faced with other people’s denial about Matthew’s behavior.

Several of Matthew’s female friends have attempted to comment on this blog. They do not like that I have come forward with the details of his behavior.

Matthew’s girlfriends feel that I am trying to ruin his career.

Matthew’s girlfriends believe that he couldn’t possibly come on to other women because he has been married for a long time.

Matthew’s girlfriends think I fictionalized the incident.

Matthew’s girlfriends feel that because I am uncomfortable with a business owner trying to coerce me into having sex means I’m not bad ass enough to get tattooed.

Intellectually I find these comments fascinating.

It is very difficult to pull yourself out of denial when someone you love and care about does something truly stupid. No one wants to see a friend hurting.

Many years ago a close family member got accused, arrested and later imprisoned for illegal business dealings. For many years he had gotten away with this behavior. 

The family member’s actions caused great pain in our family, essentially derailed his life, and very likely made things very difficult for people who were directly and indirectly effected by his business actions.

I love this family member.

He is one of my closest friends.

He did something extremely stupid.

When he got caught I was angry. I was angry at him for what he had done. I was angry at him for hurting other people. And I was angry with myself for having trusted him.

But would I contact one of his accusers and tell her that she had fictionalized what he’d done? No.

Would I call the people he hurt and tell them that they should deny their experience because I didn’t believe he could be capable of such behavior? No.

Here’s why.

No matter how well you think you know someone, you don’t know everything.

You might tell yourself you do. That kind of healthy denial can be functional. But unless you are living in that person’s body and following his or her every move, you simply can’t know what he or she is capable of. People are ever evolving.

It sucks to be duped by someone.

It is hard to have your idea of who someone is challenged by a stranger. It is painful and I understand that kind of anger.

But anger with me for telling the truth about Matthew’s behavior that night will not take away the fact that it happened.

Threatening me and belittling me will not take away the fact of that night and what I experienced at The Little Tattoo Shoppe.

Because whether you like it or not, it happened.

Really.

I do.

The way he rests his golden muzzle on my knee as we sit and chat over a cup of coffee is so endearing.

The way his fur sheds in a perfect concentric circle around my ankles (I have always wanted a pair of Uggs) is considerate.

And the way he makes a bee-line for my crotch as soon as you leave the room? A sure sign of brilliance.

Um.

Oh, hi, there, boy.

Look! A ball! Over there. Gogetitboy! Gogetityougoodboyyougooddoggogetit!

Um.

Wow.

Hey, boy, that’s a little too intimate for our first get-together.

Whoa, you’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you? 

Okay fine, to the left, that’s good, that’s good. Now, to the right…You’ve done this before, haven’t you boy?

Really, I do love dogs.

But I should be restricted to other people’s dogs. I should be forced to wear a house arrest anklet that goes off near PetCo.

Having a dog in my own house brings out my complete and utter incompetence. I have no idea what to do with an animal living in my house. I feel like I’m living with a ticking shitting time bomb. I sit and stare at the animal as it licks its genitals.

Look at you. You are an animal. You are in my house. You are an animal in my house licking your genitals. This is so weird. Wait, stop being a freak! Everyone has a dog. Why are you such a weirdo? Only a weirdo can’t have a dog licking its genitals in her home. 

When we decided to get a dog for the kids I could hear the great unspoken collective voice of all my friends and family: “She can barely wipe her own ass, how is she going to have a dog?”

But my husband and I talked it over at length. Why should the whole family be deprived of a dog’s love because I am Dogis Incompetentis? I promised to be engaged, patient, involved, Not A Quitter of the Family Pet.

First we went to the local animal shelter to check out the dogs. After a short visit we were told that it was not wise to rescue a dog if you have young children in the house. I think they said something like, “We can’t guarantee that Fang won’t tear out your 2 year old’s jugular because 2 year olds look and smell like big juicy hotdogs!”

Then we tried to rescue a pug from a local Portland pug rescue organization. We filled out a 5-page application.

No, we haven’t left a box of kittens by the road.

No, we haven’t had any sparring chickens in the backyard.

No, we aren’t criminals, perverts, lacto-ovo-vegetarians, supporters of wheat grass movements, growers of peaches, pubic hair or viewers of Glee.

We went to a rescue event and showed off our pug interaction skills. We even went through the at-home interview with a prospective pug. But the interview was at 6 pm and every single one of our children melted down in succession because, well, it was 6 pm and they all wanted to pet the dog RIGHT NOW NO ME I WANT TO HOLD HIM! NOMEWHYDOESN’TTHEDOGLOVEMEWAHHHHHHHH. The childless pug interviewer was dismayed and deemed us unworthy of being able to handle a dog.

So we put out word in the pug community (oh, yes, there is a pug community) and found a breeder who was looking for a family with whom to place an older puppy. All it took were the words “potty trained,” “crate trained,” and “such a sweet, sweet boy!” Before I knew it we were on a family road trip in the Silver Bullet on the way up to the armpit of Washington to meet the pup.

As soon as we met the pug it was a done deal. He was so damn cute. The curly tail. The dear little snort. The kids were in love. My daughter said, “I’ve never felt so understood in my whole life, he just really gets me.”

The first few weeks were filled with puppy love. But then we realized that the dog, named Ozzie Jellyroll Crunch, was pretty much running the show. He was peeing all over the place, and finding interesting places to poop (indoors).

We started working with a trainer.

I recall her cocking her head and saying, “Wow, he really doesn’t seem to be motivated by any of my usual tricks!” (Subtext: This dog is an asshole) and, “He sure is stubborn!” (Subtext: And he’s stupid to boot!)

We’ve had Ozzie for about a year and I’ve come to the conclusion that he is:

1. A Sociopath: An Axis II personality disorder characterized by “…a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood.”

—–>evident by his constant desire to urinate on my bed, on clean laundry and the carpet.

—–>evident by his obsessive need to chew up the children’s toys despite the gajillion dog toys and chewy bones at his disposal

2. An Anarchist: a person (or in this case dog) who promotes disorder or excites revolt against any established rule, law, or custom.

—–>evident by his insistence on chasing the cat

—–>evident by how many library books he has chewed up

—–>evident by his nose being firmly planted up the ass of any creature at his disposal (including cats and children)

So, when I snuggled into bed late last night and was met by the damp and pungent odor of dog pee on the comforter I silently cried You muthaFUCKING Dog! But I have pledged to Stay The Course of Canine Insanity so despite his diagnosable issues, I will stay the course and hope my shrink will hook me up with a good pharmaceutical pacifier.

It started innocently enough.

A confluence of events, if you will.

I had recently planted a few What Is Happening To My Body? type of books around the house in the hopes that I wouldn’t actually have to have a face to face about pubic hair it might garner some conversation of the puberty type.

A few days ago, Ruby who is 8 and on Autism spectrum (which as I write this strikes me as something that should come with a backyard rainbow and unicorn), told our babysitter that she was worried about getting her period.

Apparently her best friend had filled her in on some of the finer details of getting The Period during their last sleepover. Our babysitter filled in some other facts when I was at work.

The next morning, as I was slinging breakfast, Ruby said, “Is it TRUE that you LET Dad put his penis in your PAGINA?!!”

Oh shit, here we go. I know we need to talk about this, but really, right now, over waffles?

Lucas looked up, intrigued.

Theo yelled, “Pagina!”

Then, before I could formulate an answer, Ruby said, “And when you get your period, do you REALLY put a piece of cotton up your butt?”

Lucas, ever the family scholar, said, “No, no, no. It goes in the vagina. It’s on page 14 of that book with pictures of penises and uteruses.”

(I see who has been doing his homework.)

Theo yelled, “Utusssuses!!”

And so we had a short conversation clarifying the arrangement of the various holes and their functions and how it is best to reserve use of those holes for, preferably, college or even graduate school. And how they must be protected from disease and the creation of new life.

By the time I was done explaining fallopian tubes and the vas deferens (also known as the ductus deferens, Latin for “carrying-away vessel”) the kids were mollified or at the very least clearly bored by my dry and scientific anatomical explanation.

Fast forward to this morning.

I was trying to take care of business in the bathroom, which as any parent (and pet owner) knows, is nearly impossible to do in peace. I had to leave the door open at least wide enough so that Theo could hear me, but narrow enough to keep the dog and cat out.

As usual Theo made his way into the bathroom. He saw my box of tampons and immediately had to investigate.

“Whazzz dis?” he asked while poking me in the leg with a Light Flow. “I want da candy!”

“Oh, no, honey,” I said. “That is a tampon. It doesn’t go in your mouth.”

“Where go?” he implored while chewing on the paper.

“It goes in the vagina, sweetie. Not in your mouth.” I said, trying not to giggle.

“I want da bagina! Open da bagina!” he yelled.

Good lord, this one is going to need a lot of work on Manners Around Vaginas before he hits puberty.

So I took the tampon out of the paper wrapper. The kid’s eyes seriously lit up. Suddenly I had a bad feeling. A feeling that The Marble might be looking at some, uh, stiff competition. How would I explain this one to the preschool teachers.

“Ohhhhhhh, THREE baginas!” (He had already pulled the two parts of the tampon apart and before I knew it had run off with them.)

I got dressed, came out of the bathroom and found Theo chasing the dog around with the tampon parts while yelling, ”Supahero! Supahero the bagina!”

And thus, a new Superhero was born.

And now I’m hiding the condoms. And other unmentionables.

Not just any pair of Guess jeans. They were acid wash, high-waisted, zipper at the ankles Guess jeans.

I had to have them.

I also desperately wanted scrunchies for my hair, Skin musk, and a Cabriolet. I was a nerdy Jewish girl with a hearty rig and I believed, truly, that Guess jeans and the aforementioned items would transform me to cheerleader worthy status.

It took a lot of babysitting gigs, but I eventually earned enough money and bought myself a pair of Guess jeans and by god I felt like a hot shiksa wearing them around school.

The dream of those sweet acid wash zippered babies fueled a serious love affair with jeans that continued well into my thirties, particularly when I was running six miles a day and had the cute ass to show for it.

But three kids, a jiggly ass and a serious Dairy Queen problem later and my lusty relationship with jeans turned to loathing. I even turned away from jeans completely and took on a constant yoga wearing pants persona (even though I’ve taken all of three yoga classes in my life).

Until, that is, the fateful visit from my big brother.

I noticed that the big brother was wearing sweats. Constantly. Even out to a trendy restaurant. Sweats.

I asked him about his Champion habit and he said something like Once you go elastic waist, you never go back.

This seriously frightened me. I was becoming an Elastic Waist Pants Person.

Om no you don’t.

(Twitch.)

So I started exercising, dropped some weight, and decided to venture into the Gap to face the Blue Butt Devil I’d been running from since having my third kid.

When I walked in the store one of the ever youthful and optimistic gals was arranging an overwhelming array of perfectly folded t-shirts. It was mesmerizing. I lost focus.

Oh, man. What would happen if I knocked over that stack of geometric t-shirt perfection? That would pretty funny.

Oh crap, she’s looking at me.

Focus. Jeans.

Oh, no. She’s looking at me like I’m a sad old lady. She’s going to ask me if I’m shopping for my daughter, I just know it.

I looked away quickly and made my way to the Wall Of Jeans.

I tried to avoid asking for help, but it was impossible. There were so many jeans and styles and lengths and washes I just couldn’t figure out. I felt like I was back at Starbucks. Panic set in.

“Where are the ones for the biggish three kid butt with the smallish waist but short stature muffin top?” I asked the salesperson.

She handed me two styles of jeans in two different styles and two different lengths and sent me to the dressing room. You know, one of those teeny tiny stark white stalls with the bright light that shines directly on your jiggly heiny?

I looked up into the light and immediately began confessing.

Yes. Fuck you. I’ve been eating donuts. And potato chips. And pizza. Why the recrimination? I’m not an animal!

There was knocking on the door. Over the loud pumping hipster hell music I heard the salesperson’s voice.

“How’s it going in there? Do you need other sizes, styles, a latte, a venti, a Trenta, a scarf, some socks?”

God yes! My ass is a Trenta, okay?! Back the hell away from my stall, hooker. I see you trying to look in the crack of the door. Yes, that big white thing is my ass. It’s my ass, okay?

“Oh no, no, I’m fine, really,” I squeaked, picking a pair of jeans from the pile.

I slid one foot in one pant leg, then slid the other foot into the other pant leg. And that was it. I couldn’t even get them past my cankles.

It’s baby weight, it’s baby weight, okay? Fucking cankles. Did I eat something salty yesterday? Am I premenstrual? It must be fluid retention. Yeah. Yeah.

I kicked that pair of jeans to the side and stepped into the next pair. Different style, different size.

Okay! Okay! These are going past my cankles, past my thighs, we’re good, we’re good…oh, shit, saddlebag time. Come on girls, cooperate with Mama.

Shimmy, shimmy, jump, jump. Random slamming against the walls of the stall.

Yes, got these suckers over the saddlebags! I am so golden.

I gave myself a high-five in the mirror. Tried to catch my breath.

Jiggle, jiggle.

Oh my god! They are on! I can button the top! I can zip them! Sweet baby Jesus. Hallelujah matzohballsoupandkreplach.

But I was gasping for air.

Okay, they are a little tight.

The salesperson knocked.

I robotically made my way out of the stall to show her my triumphant yet slightly lumpy and asphyxiating glorious return to jeans.

“How do they look?” I gasped. “Are they too tight?”

“Actually, they are going to stretch at least three sizes, so I recommend you go down two sizes. And they shrink in length only, so you should wear the Petite Extra Long Short Waisted Ex-boyfriend Trucker Butt-Crack. I’ll go get you some other pairs to try on.”

And that’s when I passed out.

Well, maybe I was pushed out of bed by the long arm of The Toddler Bed Whore.

I can’t tell you because it was during the .5 hours of the night that I’m actually truly asleep.

I’m a grown woman with no diagnosed sleeping disorders or balance problems yet I found myself with a face full of carpet at around 3am last night.

Let’s all sing together now: There were four in the bed and the little one kicked the mother in the head and the mother fell out, way out of that fucking bed…

I should not be surprised nor do I have anyone to blame but myself.

I am weak. Very, very weak.

I started strong. The first two kids were sleep trained and sleeping through the night in their own beds by 8 months. My husband and I were smug about it. We gave sleep deprived parents copies of How To Get Your Little Nugget To Sleep Through The Night And Then Polish Off A Bottle Of Wine.

But with each kid I have gotten older, more tired, less inclined to tolerate long bouts of crying. So when baby number three came along five years after the child number two, I had essentially lost the ability to be a hard ass.

Plus he was so damn cute. Little jerk.

Child number one had already done a number on my brain. And child number two had ruined my heart forever. And there was not enough sex going on because of our crazy schedules and the Too Many Children Situation, so my decision-making abilities were compromised, too.

So, baby number three ended up in our bed. It was just going to be for the first three months. And then it was going to be by the time he was six months old.

We had a crib and everything. And we would put him in it after he had fallen asleep, but it was like he had a cold sheet detector in his cheeks and would immediately wake up wailing.

So then we’d put a warmed up blanket in the crib and he would sleep for thirty seconds and then start sweating and wake up wailing.

We purchased and tried Your Child Will Sleep If You Play This music and Your Child WIll Sleep If You Hang This mobiles, and Your Child Will Sleep If You Leave Him With This mother scented dirty bra, t-shirt, stuffed animal, etc., etc.

Nothing worked. We should have just made him cry it out. But I could not. He is our last baby. There were extenuating circumstances. My husband was overly kind about my inept parenting decision-making.

So the baby sleeps in our bed. And the baby has grown into a thirty pound two-year old Toddler Bed Whore who likes to take up 65.5% of the bed and sleep 30% of any given night with at least 3-5 loud requests for SHOON! and SHOONAH! (boob one and boob two).

But that is not all, oh no, no it’s not. Not to be outdone by the little creep who unceremoniously booted him from the coveted baby role in the family, the middle child started having nightmares and proceeded to come into our room every night, making a ruckus and insisting on climbing into bed with us.

We fought the middle child and walked him back up to his room every night, but his disruptions woke the baby, and the husband, and the mothercowpoordecisionmaker and so we gave up and moved his mattress into our room right next to the bed.

Looking for someone to reprimand me and tell me that I am stunting my children’s growth I appealed to the kids’ doctor:

Don’t worry! said the pediatrician. The family bed is an excellent thing. In Asia it is common. It is very comforting for children and some say it is even good for brain development. Just get sleep, however you can make it happen!

Fucking Portland! Of course that’s what a Portland pediatrician is going to say.

And then, not to be forgotten or overshadowed by the two boys who booted her from the coveted baby role in the family, the eldest started coming into our bed at least once a week. Fortunately she sleeps like the dead, but every time she wakes she must locate her special blanket and if it is not right by her hand she starts poking me in the head area (eyeball, ear, nose).

So guess how much sleep I get a night? About half an hour. And I have no one to blame but myself. When I went to therapy last week for the first time in many years and I described this situation to the kindly shrink her eyes looked like they were going to bug out of her head.

Her eyes said: Oh, girl. Change gonna come. Change got to come or you’re gonna lose it.

It took last night’s mouthful of carpet to realize that yes, I am afraid of change, but in the words of the great Sam Cooke, “It has been a long, long time coming/But I know a change gonna come/Oh yes it will.”

Change gonna come, Sheriff!

When I had cancer it was the outpouring of support from coworkers, friends and family that carried me and my husband through the treatment. Each gesture, no matter how small, added up and made a huge impact.

We all know someone nearby who is dealing with adversity in one way or another. You get the phone call or email about a friend recently diagnosed with cancer, you see a parent at school wearing a hat over his or bald head, you hear through the social grapevine that someone is dealing with the loss of a job, a divorce, a death in the family.

How do we take care of those in our community who need help? If you feel like me, you might worry about being intrusive or knowing just the right thing to say.

Here are some suggestions for how you can redirect time, energy and resources back to your community.

1. Think small. Really. It makes a big difference to most people just to know that you are thinking about them. Send a handwritten note or a card. It doesn’t have to be a work of great literature. Just a simple: “You are in my thoughts. Sending you my best wishes” will suffice.

2. Think food. Make a simple meal. (Find out if there are food allergies or dietary restrictions.) Freeze it and label with a date and heating instructions. Send the meal in a container that does not need to be returned. If you don’t cook (like me), ask if you can deliver a pizza. Give a gift card to a local restaurant that delivers. Slice & bake cookies.

3. Think music. When I was going through chemo a dear friend made me a Kick Cancer’s Booty song mix. I listened to those tunes during chemo infusions and it really gave me a lift and was a great distraction. Give a friend a few CDs from your collection to listen to. Make a mix of comforting songs for a grieving friend.

4. Think companionship. Sometimes people just want to be alone. But often people need a buddy. Offer to drive to appointments, sit in the waiting room, share a meal, etc. You really don’t need to talk very much. Just listen and let the person guide the conversation.

5. Think daily needs. Offer to babysit, fold laundry, do groceries, pick up dry cleaning, drive carpool, empty the dishwasher, mow the lawn. Give a gift card for cleaning services, babysitting, a handyman, a dog walker, a pet sitter or a local grocery store.

6. Think family. Children are deeply impacted by an ill family memory, or death of a grandparent, divorce, financial strain, etc. Send a note or small gift to the child, take them to the movies, library or out for ice cream. Be a safe person for a child to lean on when things are difficult. Also, support the spouse. It’s just as stressful to be the spouse of someone going through an illness as it is to be the patient.

Think local. I promise it’ll make a huge difference in a real way.

What are your favorite ways to support a friend or neighbor who is facing adversity?

I have found, lately, that there is something else that causes me to be overly twitchy and preoccupied with matters of fecal contamination and transmission of stranger’s urine.

You see, there’s this:

The public restroom is hard to avoid, a necessary evil and the place of very questionable public behavior by many people.

First, there is this to contend with:

Stepping into one of these requires touching the following:

 And this:

and don’t even get me started on the complexity of adding this to the experience:

This topic is handled brilliantly by Amber Dusick in this hilarious post called Public Toilets vs. Newly Potty Trained Kids. Her illustrations are priceless.

However, The Department of Public Toilet Germ Busters have tried to mitigate this twitch inducing situation by introducing this:

(which I think of as the Sploogeomatic)

but then there’s the issue of this:

which is sometimes also addressed (in some bathrooms) by The Department of Public Toilet Germ Busters by the placement of this:

which may or may not knock your toddler across the room into the dirty stall or remove the top layer of your epidermis.

And finally, there is the problem of this:

The tricky exit.

One touch of that handle could undo all of this:

So why not equip public restrooms with someone kind like this:

Or how about some of these:

To combat the transmission of your friend and mine:

How many two year olds get attached to a marble?

Before you judge me, just know that I got home from work one evening and found the kid with the marble clutched to his chest as if it was the fluffiest, sweetest teddy bear you’ve ever seen. I point no fingers at my husband. Really.

Sweet Cuddly Marble

When the kid fell asleep that night I pried the marble out of his chubby little fingers and hid it. But the next morning he remembered the marble and had. to. have. it. immediately. Or there would be a shitstorm in the middle of getting the older kids dressed, fed, lunches made, homework signed, dog walked, cat barf washed off floor, etc. There was no time for a shitstorm. So I handed the marble to the child.

(The voice of my beloved late Uncle Sam was in the back of my head: Better for the child to cry now then the adult to cry later. But the dog was about to take a dump on the living room rug. And someone was freaking out because he couldn’t get a sock on correctly. Fuck it, Uncle Sammy. I’ll deal with the marble later!)

The marble is not the first impossible small comfort item that my kid has had. Before the marble there was the little red Lightning McQueen race car. He had to have two Lightning McQueens at all times. You know, for symmetry.

I have had nightmares in which all I can hear is my two-year old wailing “AQUEEN! AQUEEN! WHERE YOU, LIGHTAQUEEN!?”

It wasn’t until I’d generously paid for a month of private school for one of the Disney Cast Member’s children via Lightning McQueen purchases (via Target) that the dear boy moved on to the marble.

It can’t be any marble, either, it must be The Blue Marble. You know, the one that disappears for hours at a time and is inevitably located under the refrigerator or in the dark dirty abyss that exists underneath our oven. I shudder.

Why does my two year old refuse to attach to a normal “lovie?”

Why not a blanket? A stuffed animal? Even one of my old bras?

Is it because said two year old is obsessed with nursing the “Shoon” and “Shoonahhh” with the ardency of a fast food addict sitting in front of a Beefy Crunch Burrito? Is it because he is so attached to these fleshy, barely still milk producing mammary glands that he rejects any other soft thing and instead insists on carrying around the beloved blue marble?

I venture to say: Yes.

I am weak in The Weaning Department.

I Will Fuck Up Your Morning

I am afraid to explain to the teachers of the synagogue’s Busy Bee nursery school class that despite its age-inappropriate, choking hazard nature, this little blue marble is actual a comfort item for this kid. It’s either that, or I figure out how to leave my breasts at school for the 2.5 hours he’s there.

So for now, I will continue to keep track of that blue marble. And I will watch that kid and his mouth and his trachea like a freaking hawk until he moves on to the next comfort item. Please, oh please, just let it be soon. And let it be big and soft and not attached to my body. How about my husband’s testicles?

*photo of Theo by David Friedman

Courtesy of SellwoodBridge.org

We are driving in the pouring rain down a windy road lined on both sides by Dogwoods decorated with orange and red colored drupes. Ruby is leaning her head against the side of the car, her almond-shaped eyes watching the foliage pass in a blur of wet and green.

Why aren’t there side rails on the road? Can’t we fall off the side?

We have driven down this road every Saturday for the last two years, and every single time we head down the hill Ruby asks this same exact question. Always, her head is cocked, brown hair skimming a shoulder, eyes lit as if a small fire is catching the edges of her imagination. Ruby crafts worry like a fine artist.

When we reach the entry to the bridge that will carry us across the water, she tells me about the tiny islands she can see in the middle of the river, points out the small white fishing boats that bob up and down on the inky water like quarter notes in a nocturne. Sometimes from the bridge we can see the snowy peak of Mt. Hood seemingly painted behind the architecture of the city.

What will you do if the bridge falls down while we are driving over it, Mom? Will you save me first?

This child, who is so predictable in her routines, has completely blown apart my idea of what Autism is. When as a tiny overall and hat wearing toddler she was diagnosed, my biggest fear was that Ruby would never have friends. My assumption was that she would never be able to express love or empathy, that she would never be able to communicate with another child.

And it is true that at that young age Ruby existed only in her own world. Other children were just objects to push past to get to that shiny red toy on the table. The accidental touch of another child could spark a blaze of hot tears. The feeling of a smooth doorknob or the texture of a painting could hold her attention for much longer than the face of any person.

But after many months of speech therapy and occupational therapy, Ruby was ready for something more. She was regulated enough that she was starting to show less anxiety around her peers. She made fledgling attempts at connecting. One day at the park I saw her approach a group of children and, while looking down at her shoes, say in the softest voice I am Ruby. The children didn’t see or hear her so she walked away, staring up at the leaves rustling against the woven net of bark.

That summer we enrolled Ruby in a social skills therapy group run by an amazing therapist who really understands the challenges kids on the Autism spectrum face in social situations. Finding this group was one of the greatest gifts because not only did Ruby start to grow in leaps and bounds, but she met Eliza, her first true friend, her steady bridge to companionship.

Photo by David Friedman

I’m not sure how to adequately describe Eliza other than to say that I’m in love with her. Her mother writes beautifully about raising this girl who has more than her share of struggles in schools and with peers. Eliza is brilliant, kind, and befuddling. I have never known a child who is more unabashedly and purely herself. Picture a beautiful girl with long, wavy hair exploring the uneven terrain of a shallow riverbed. Mud, tadpoles, dirt, water and the lilt of a girl’s voice singing. I love Eliza’s observations about the world. But what I love best about Eliza is the fact that she understands Ruby better than anyone else.

I can’t tell you how these two girls fell in love with each other, or if it happened slowly or quickly, because it seems that there was never a time that they weren’t friends. Here are two children with Autism who can spend hours playing together, who can have normal conversations, who sneak off to have a smooch or a hug.

When my mother died last year, the person who gave Ruby the greatest solace was Eliza. One day Ruby ran upstairs with my phone after we had called Eliza. I was downstairs working on my computer when I got a message from Eliza’s mom telling me that Ruby was crying to Eliza about how much she missed her Mimi. Whenever Ruby is having a rough day the first person she wants to talk to is “Sissy.” She considers Eliza her sister.

My feelings about Eliza’s parents will have to be saved for another day, but I will say briefly that they are Catchers. I feel like I can talk to David and Sarah about anything. (And nothing grosses Sarah out. Ever.) I feel like they are part of the reason why Ruby is doing so well. They are the village that I have always wanted. Most of my family lives on the other side of the country. David and Sarah are like family. Having family and a village is so important when you have a child with Autism.

But the most important thing to a child (and his or her parents) is a friend. I thank my lucky stars for Eliza because she is a true friend.

Photos of Ruby & Eliza courtesy of David Friedman