...I forgot...

Over the weekend, the only bathroom in our teeny-tiny home was undergoing some renovations.  The previous upgrading we'd done had encouraged a few new projects, one of which had alerted us to an alarming fact...the floor panels underneath the tile we were replacing had completely rotted away beneath/behind the toilet and shower!  New flooring and new supports were needed, asap.  A big project in a tiny space, and one that rendered the bathroom unusable for the whole day.

The scary thing is, no one would've known how unsafe it was until the tub fell into the basement (no doubt with me all lathered up in it!)  had I not argued and insisted on removing the tile instead of just covering it over with a new layer.

Go me!  Damn, I should get this intuition of mine insured!

Anyway, getting back on track here...

The prospect of spending all day cooped up with the sounds of destruction/construction and no working toilet was, as you can guess, less than appealing.  So Mister Man and I escaped the commotion and headed off for an extended Mami-son playdate of sorts.  We breakfasted and brunched.  We did more than a little window-shopping.  We whiled away the hours in fitting rooms. 

Ok. He whiled away the hours. In one fitting room.  In Macy's.  With five pairs of shorts and three pairs of pants.  1 hour 47 minutes.  I timed it. 

I paced back and forth and forth and back.

5 minutes. "How's that first pair fitting?" I asked from outside the door.  "Ok." he replied.

10 minutes. "Do you like any of them?" I asked. "I haven't finished untying my shoes yet." he responded.  

Yeah. 

15 minutes. 

Not even out of his own shoes yet...

Totally normal.

Errr...

Totally normal in my life. #autismproblems

Now I don't know about you, but I spend as little time as possible in the actual fitting room when I'm shopping. Sure, I'll hunt and gather in the store and head to the fitting room with arms overflowing with merchandise.  But once I'm in that small enclosed space with that dirty old mirror that doesn't seem to like me very much, that pile shrinks down super fast to the few things I'm actually willing to undress for.   And speaking of undressing?  Yeah, not really a fan of seeing myself in my skivvies in lighting that makes my olive complexion look like an actual olive...the cocktail sort with a pimento jammed in for good measure.  I'm not really sure how they work the lighting in the fitting rooms.

I suspect there's a little gremlin sitting behind a one-way with a laser pointer whose only job is to direct that fluorescence at ever stretch-mark, dimple or wrinkle.

Seriously.  Fitting room lighting. Somehow it manages to highlight every little flaw and magnify it.

Talk about making a mountain out of a mole...err...molehill...

So anyhow, after making short work of reducing my purchase possibilities, I spend as little time as possible at the actual task of disrobing and redressing.  

Over the years, I've learned a really great trick. Turn away from the mirror while you're putting on whatever it is that you are trying on.  Once it's on and everything is where it should be turn back around and face your reflection.  If you're not smiling, it's a no.

In other words, while I may spend an hour or more floating from rack to rack in the store looking at all the options, I'm in and out of the fitting room in under five minutes every single time.

Not so, my son.

Oh no. 

If anything, he's the exact opposite.

He's not interested in looking through the racks at all the options.  He's a scan and pick sort of a shopper.  We walk in hand-in-hand and, with some encouragement from Mami to focus on the task at hand and stop talking about Minecraft already because we're here to find short,  he'll spend a moment looking around him before grabbing the few things he finds appealing.

Short list: Transformers. Exact duplicates of items he already owns. 

Then, oh then, he's off to the fitting room.  And I'm off to let my rear end grow roots on the bench while I wait (patiently) for his triumphant return...more often than not empty-handed proclaiming nothing fit.

Here's the thing: I have absolutely no idea what takes him so long.

No idea.

Is he standing in front of the mirror admiring his hair?

Is he flexing those 12-year-old arms of his?

Is he chatting with the gremlin with the laser pointer? 

No idea. 

All I know for certain is that, no matter how long I wait to do it...five minutes-ten minutes-half an hour...when I finally give in and ask him how it's going, he'll reply that he hasn't gotten his clothes off yet. 

Mind-boggling!

A solid 50% of the time, that pronouncement will spur me into action.  Prune the roots back...off the bench...banging on the door. "Open. Now", I'll growl and once inside this inner sanctum of time-waste-hood...unzip, drop, unbutton, lift...flip, flop, repeat.  Five minutes...in and out.  Off to the cashier.  

Sweating...frazzled...frustrated...

All for a single t-shirt or pair of shorts. 

What's that handy definition of craziness again?  Repeating the same actions but expecting different results?  Good grief! I must be certifiable!  

So where was I? Living on the edge. Showering dangerously.  Bathroom renovation. Mall rats. Fitting rooms. 1 hour and 47 minutes. Ah, yes. Losing my mind.

Standing there in the corner in Macy's watching strangers flit by as the minutes ticked away...  Apologetically shrugging as other customers would stand and wait, then harrumph off in shopping-rage...  Murmuring encouragements to hurry and finish up...  Repeatedly asking if my assistance was needed...  Staring at my water bottle wondering if I dare rehydrate...because who knows how much longer he'll be and when I'll be able to pee...  

Losing. My. Mind.

I forgot.  

I handed him those shorts and pants, whipped out my smartphone and texted and facebooked my little brain away...and I forgot.

I forgot that he's autistic. 

I forgot that he drifts off and spaces out...heading off to the world inside his head.  

I forgot that he has sensory issues.

I forgot that the laces and buttons and zippers can become torture devices to his fingers.

I forgot that those garments have textures and scents unfamiliar.  

I forgot that his eyes can get lost within a pattern. 

I forgot that he needs a routine or a guidebook for everything. 

I forgot to give him an order to follow.

I forgot that he stalls out when there aren't set directions.

When he was first diagnosed, I never forgot.  It was at the forefront of my mind all day, every day.  Everything then was so grim and ghastly and gruesome and always in my thoughts.  I woke up knowing and went to sleep still aware.  He was and I knew it, and I never forgot.

But years have gone by now, and walls have been broken down.  All the No's have become Yes's.  He's triumphed over the odds.  He's no longer labeled as the worst case scenario.  He's grown up and out of his previous limitations. His diagnosis has changed. He's high-functioning. 

And every once in a while now, I forget.