...brushing by...

I have the most boring hair ever.

Stick straight and fine as can be.

I wear it down, and keep it long.

I alternate between a center part and a side part.

Rarely will you find me with it up, or back, or any kind of anything.

It doesn't hold curl...not without tons of product at any rate.

So you can probably imagine my surprise-delight-confusion combo when first my son's hair started to grow into the soft, loose curls of his toddlerhood.

When he was born I remember staring at him, as all mothers do, analyzing what parts of this new creature came from me and what from the other half of his gene pool.  His hair, it seemed, was determinedly mine: jet black and stick straight and fine as spiders' silk.  But as he grew, the black melted away into chocolate brown, and the straight lines curved and corkscrewed.  They would twist right round my finger when I brushed his hair and in the sunlight, spark glimmers of gold and red.  I wore my hair in braids then, my "mom-do"  and envied him his curls.  

Fast forward through the years and all the haircuts, and those curls gave way to waves.  The perfect hair...the compromise between straight and curly.  Such hair is wasted on a boy, I think to myself sometimes.  Rich chocolate brown full of natural highlights, thick and lustrous.

The battle line.

Oh yes, that hair is the battle line.  He likes it long.  That's okay.  The bangs though...the bangs that hang straight down across his eyes.  Those?  He hides behind them, I know.  I understand.  It's hard to be him at school.  I'd hide, too.

I brush them out of his face constantly.  I want to see those flashing blues of his.  He'll toss his head from time to time, shaking them loose from his eyelashes.   Then flop...right back where they started.

I trim them whenever I can.  Little snips here and there, more frequently then he'd like.  Always a rousing chorus of complaints before-during-after.

Brushing.  Another battle.  "Brush it back." I tell him.  "Brush it back from your face and let the waves settle naturally."  I know that when it's clean it curls up and out and when it's not, it curves in.  "Brush it back." I say, every morning after he's towel dried it.  Every morning he scrapes the brush across his scalp, pulling it all forward from crown to nose.   He emerges from the bathroom with this wide brown swath cutting off half his face.  "I don't know how" he says when our eyes meet.  That little drum behind my left eye starts pounding away as I think of the countless times I've shown him.  15 years of brushing his hair.  Brushing it back and flipping the ends.  I do it again, in front of the mirror so he'll see.  He doesn't watch.  I fix it, just so.  I grouse inside, that I have better things to do, but secretly love these moments when I'm still of use.   Before I've even put the brush away, his fingers sneak up and start fussing with it, pulling the hair back down to his face.

Sometimes, now, when I want to take his photo, I lean in close and blow the hairs away from his eyes.  A quick breath, then snap before he "fixes" it. 

Last night he had his volunteering session at the library.  Homework was done.  Dinner was rushed.  Time was up, and I bustled about with clean-up while urging him to brush his teeth and hair and get his shoes on.  Dishes in the sink...sneakers laced...purse grabbed... 

Then...wait...

I stood by the door waiting, while he finished up.  The clock ticked.  I stepped back in and walked through to the kitchen.  Saw the bathroom door open and his face in the mirror.  He didn't notice me.  I stood there, at the edge of the table and watched as he brushed his hair.  Down.  Down from top to nose.  I think I sighed.  He put the brush down and I started to move.  Stopped when his head went down, thinking "Oh no, not another bloody nose!" (They've been frequent again.)  His head went down and he shook it...up and down, side to side, all those neat little lines fluffing back up.  Head up, brush in hand again.  Repeat.  I watched, barely containing a giggle.  He brushed it down and shook it out, over and over.  Then finally something must have looked okay in the mirror, because he put the brush away.  Then I watched, those giggles erupting now, as he picked two clumps of hair at the sides of his head and pulled them up and out.  Repeating the maneuver again and again, making little sections of hair fly up.  Another shake of the head.  Then a swipe at the bangs, first to the right and then a twist up.  He jumped when he walked out and saw me standing there, startled.  I burst into a laugh and choked if off.

"I've never seen anything funnier in my life!" I gasped out.

He looked confused.

I said "What was that about..." and he replied "You told me to brush my hair." 

"Yes, brush.  I didn't know it would be so involved.  What was that?  The brush~muss~fluff?"

"I was trying to get it to look like the look I'm going for."

"What look is that?"

"The way it looks when it's clean.  But it doesn't like to do that at 7pm."

Out the door then.  Into the car.  Off to the library.

I giggled the whole way, replaying the scene in my head.

Brush.

Muss.

Fluff.

He got out when we arrived.  Walked in by himself.  I look in the rear view mirror, pulling out.  Saw my hair.  Pulled a section forward.  Pushed it back behind my ear.

I have the most boring hair ever.

His, though, is wild and wonderful...and apparently willful.

Just like him!

...cut and run...

There's a move in our future.

Not sure when. Not sure how.  Not sure where.
Hoping soon.  Hoping simple.  Hoping south.

It all depends on the budget.

Wallet worries aside, we (or rather, I) have been slowly working steadily towards it.

I've moved a good deal.   Oddly enough, I've never really found it stressful.  Maybe the excitement over-rides the fear?   Packing up is fun.  It's an opportunity to sift through memories and toss out the ones that don't mean as much anymore.  It's a chance to divest of the bits and pieces that aren't a part of you or your life/lifestyle.   It's the perfect time to really take stock of all that you have and unencumber yourself, shedding off those things you never really wanted or used, but couldn't quite see your way clear to throwing away.  

I'm no moving expert, but I like to think I have a pretty good system.  At the very least, it's one that works for me.  I like lists.  I like boxes.  I like knowing I have everything organized and ready to go, well in advance.  That's the key, right there...well in advance.  

During spring break, we set aside time to tackle our storage shed?shack?lean to? (It used to be the poolhouse at the back of the property for a now long-gone pool.  We've used it to store the bulk of our off season belongings, as our apartment is a veritable postage stamp.  Then Sandy came through and turned it into a demolition site.  A few handy boards have held up just enough of it to keep our totes mostly dry, but the most recent bout of winter-spring storms turned it into a safety hazard!) Totes upon totes upon...yeah, you get it.  We pulled them all out, and started the great dig through. 

3 piles to start: keep, donate, trash  

Some hours later those 3 piles had morphed into 5:keep, keep for now, donate, trash, ebay

Then one more: undecided

Quick tip: if you really want to be thorough, make it a solo run...don't involve anyone else in the "hmmm...keep or toss debate".  If too many cooks spoil the soup, then too many opinions absolutely spoil the slough.  Given the opportunity to weigh in, someone else will absolutely come up with a reason to keep your ready discards.

At any rate, the undecided pile grew...then shrank...then grew again...until I finally opted to put it all in one tote to be dealt with in the future.  What I had thought would take an hour or two at most had morphed into an all day circus.  Every new-found item requiring discourse and debate.  But in the end, my stubbornness prevailed and car load after car load was dropped off at dumpster or donation center.  (When we went back a few days later, we got a good giggle out of the prices Goodwill had marked our cast-offs with!)  All the keepers got relocated to a dryer, safer locale. There they'll wait until I feel another purge come on.  Be warned! Ha!

Storage tackled, closets came next.  What. A. Nightmare!

So here's the thing.  I try to be good about closet-purging.  I talk a good game.  The seasons change and the closets rearrange.  Twice a year I pull out every last scrap of fabric.  Everything gets tried on.  Bags get filled.  Donations happen.  No, really, they do.  But inevitably at least one of those bags, chock full of items I know I should get rid of, sneaks it's way back into my closet....hiding well back behind my off season items. 

This time around, I found two of those bags.  Full.  I wanted to keep them all!  I really did.  Pretty dresses, all bagged up and ready to go...but I wanted to keep them.  I wanted to go back in time...or tonnage...and wear them all again.  More than that though, I wanted to not be getting rid of anything more!  

There's a bit of trauma...or, maybe, more appropriately, drama...involved in the closet purge. At least for me.  There's these feelings of shame.  Shame for the body that has changed and grown and doesn't fit into what it once did.  Shame for the money spent and now seemingly wasted as something that was purchased is now rendered useless.  

So I try to be good.  And I talk the talk.  I even walk the walk.  Then I find myself walking things back in, right back in to the very back where they won't be seen but they won't be gone.

But this time, it's different.  There's the promise of a move on the horizon.  That alone is enough to inspire a harsher approach.  So those bags came out, as did everything else.  I shut the bedroom door.  Locked it for good measure.  No interruptions allowed.  I tried on everything.  The mis-fits hit the floor, the still-fits hit the bed.  Soon enough, the floor was covered.

Doesn't fit?  Floor

Faded?  Floor

Damaged?  Floor

Doesn't spark a smile?  Floor

I sifted through the piles on the floor, pulling out what could be resold.  Then tossed the rest into bags (ugh, so many bags!) and quickly carried them out to the car, no second glances allowed.   We drove directly to Goodwill, pulled into the donation drop-off and emptied out.

Once home again, I slowly went through the remains.  Piece by piece, hung in the closet.  Lonely...and bare looking.  Piece by piece had to pass by a second round of judgement, and again the floor was littered with cast offs.  Shoes came next.  Then handbags.  Accessories...socks...pajamas...nothing was spared.

Even now, as I write this, I wonder what more I am ready to part with?  What more has outstayed it's welcome?  Seen through the lens of a move-of a fresh start-what is there lurking in that closet that isn't really who I want to be?  

Laundry day has become part of the process.  Wash-dry-fold...and then...unfold.  Look at.  Really look at.  And toss into a bag.

I'm trying a new rule.  Nothing comes in without something going out. So far, so good.  It helps that warm weather keeps poking its head out from between the cold and rain to remind me that it's time for change.

By the time summer rolls around, I expect we'll have whittled down to easy packing.  At the rate I'm going, we won't need wardrobe boxes...just suitcases.  Perfect!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Still untouched?  My son's Transformers collection...and all his creations.

They'll require an extra U-Haul!

...resilience:revisited...

Last week I attended a speaker presentation hosted by a local special-education parent advocacy group, on the topic of "Building Resilience for Kids and Teens" and it reminded me of this mini series I wrote a while back:

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-sunday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-monday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-tuesday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-wednesday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-thursday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-friday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-saturday.html

At the start of the meeting, during the roundtable intros, I spoke briefly about myself and my son before sharing that my primary reason for attending was because the topic was one near and dear to me and one that I had consistently worked hard at fulfilling.  

I've spoken before (probably ad nauseum at this point!) about how our family motto ought to be

Roll With The Punches

and it's safe to say I'll likely still be thinking-out-loud, so to speak, about this for many years to come.

I think it's important, in a parent-child relationship, to identify not only areas that need to be improved upon but also those strengths you have as a family...as a team.  Speaking for us both (and yes, I've asked him point-blank), our resiliency is definitely high on the list of our family superpowers.  It's not only our individual resilience that I'm thinking about here.  We've both, individually and independently in vastly different ways, become highly resilient, and that's no small thing.  But as a family...as a team...we've built a foundation that allows for resilience together through all of the ups and downs.  We've learned how to take the impact, redirect around it, and find another path to common goals.  

I love that about us.

I love that we come together to protect what we've created and are creating, and fortify the boundaries that keep our path to happiness as clear as possible.  

That night I said to the other parent attendees that happiness only exists where there has been an absence of it.  Think about it.  How would you know what happiness feels like if you didn't have its opposite to compare it to?  How would you be able to truly appreciate the good, if you hadn't made it through the bad?  That's the product of resilience.  That's what happens when you properly cope with your circumstances and move through them...when you allow yourself to bend a little and then bounce back...when you roll with the punches.

There's a lot in this mother-hood to worry about...to doubt...to wish you could re-do.  But at least in my experience, when you 'big-picture' it and step back a bit, there's something about all those missteps and mistakes to be grateful for.  After all, they are the very building blocks of resilience in both you and your child(ren).   I've talked before on here about how seriously I take my role as a parent, and how important it is to give my child all the tools to build the life he wants.  A huge part of that is not only allowing, but encouraging, him to move through failures.  Coddling and preventing and fixing may make you feel like you are protecting your child, but in the end you'll have raised up someone who is completely unprepared for real life.  You'll have raised up someone who breaks down at the first bump.  How scary is that? 

One of the handouts from the presentation included 10 tips for building resilience in children and teens:

1) Make connections

2) Help your child by having him/her help others

3) Maintain a daily routine

4) Take a break

5) Teach your child self-care

6) Move toward your goals

7) Nurture a positive self-view

8) Keep things in perspective and maintain a hopeful outlook

9) Look for opportunities for self-discovery

10) Accept that change is part of living

(Each of these includes a more in-depth blurb, and the full brochure is available from the American Psychological Association here: http://www.apa.org/helpcenter/resilience.aspx)

...billows and bellows...

I'm the mom of a 15 year old now.  It happened overnight.  I swear!

Just a moment ago I was cradling a newborn in my arms.  Now here I am a blink later and helping him develop his business.  

I can't wrap my head around it.  Where did that time go?  How did it just fast forward like that?  More importantly, where's the damn remote so I can just rewind and go back and stay there a while longer?  Oh, I miss it so!

The days are speeding up, it seems.  Frantic mornings and then the blur of school and work before he comes home.  There's catch up to do, conversing over espresso (or tea..but more often than not, he wants the good stuff!) about our days, reviewing the lists:done and to-do.  Homework and housework to get through.  Then on to the dream-building whenever there's time: designing and printing, refining and reprinting over and again until it's just right, then writing and editing, reviewing and listing.  

All the while I wonder as I look at him.

I wonder how this happened.

I wonder when this happened.

Surely I was there the whole time, wasn't I?

He's over 6 feet tall.  His shoes dwarf mine, lined up side by side by the doorway.  He bends at the waist, curling his shoulders in and down every time he gives me a hug.  When a meltdown seizes him and he comfort-seeks, sometimes he curls right up into me in a ball on my lap and I bite my lip to hold back the "ouch" of him crushing me.

Motherhood still confuses me.  I second-guess my every move.  I just know I'm doing it all wrong.

Why can't we go back?

I was good at baby-at toddler-at little boy...

But this is unfamiliar.  Being needed and pushed away all at the same time.

Being kneaded.

There were simpler days in the past.  Simple joys.  Simple fun.

I knew every trick in the book to make him smile or giggle.

Delight was in my back pocket, easily accessible.

Now, the smiles curve less frequently.  He's solemn.  Stressed or strained.  School is dragging on, and the homework is neverending.  It steals our time, making no room for splashes in puddles or sunlit walks or card games on the livingroom floor.

I'm confused.  I don't know what to do with myself.  I was good at splashes and walks and card games.  I was good at special snacks and silly faces and all the voices in the books.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do now, as he sits at the kitchen table tap-tap-tapping away at his computer, a furrow between his brows. 

I'm quiet.  Shoes off.  Step lightly.  I put away the dishes slowly, so as not to disturb the silence.  I put his snack on a plate and slide it carefully next to him, making sure it's far back from the algebra book.   I put his drink on the console behind him.  No more spills.

Then I, too, sit down at the table and tap-tap-tap at my computer.

I miss the giggles that used to fill up our house to the brim.

Last night I came home later than anticipated, having stayed to chit chat with the other program attendees after the session ended.  He was waiting, the very picture of responsibility, for me.  Already in pj's...homework done...

I was tired and achy and disgruntled, my tooth infection throbbing more after too much talking.

I dropped my bag by the door and took in the view.  Boy, in too short pajamas, upside down cat draped in one arm and one of his prototypes in his hand.

I took a breath and said "I'll make you a deal, ok?"

"What?"

"It's not even a deal.  There's no flip side to it.  Let's just stay up late and eat ice cream.  It'll hurt in the morning, when we have to get up.  But let's just do it."

"Ok.  I'll find something to watch, Mami."

We ate the ice cream.  We watched 'Krypton'.  We curled up on the sofa and fast forwarded through the commercials, then rewound each time we went to far and missed a scene.  His ice cream melted while he fiddled with his prototype, all the flavours combining in a mush.  

Then it was bedtime for real.  An hour behind schedule.  Extra tooth brushing "you don't want to have teeth like Mami's!" and shutting house.  Another page of Macbeth (Yup, Macbeth.  Bedtime reading.  We're quirky like that.)  Then bed, where sheets and blankets need to be unfolded.  The weighted blanket fights back every time.

He had his flat sheet out, still partially folded, sitting on the bed.  Arms lifted, he'd shake it up and out, billowing over his head.  I sat on the side of the bed, watching.  Just as the sheet came down and he pulled his head out from underneath...

Wham!

I nailed him.  Right in the head.  With a stuffed animal!

Womp.

 Silence.

Then...

a giggle.

An eyebrow raised.

A hand reached out.

Grabbed the next missile.

The battle was on!

(During spring break we tackled the storage, filling up car load after car load with discards and donations.  His stuffed animals...all those childhood friends...went into a bin, destined for donation.  He said goodbye to each one, giving it a final hug and "thanks for being my friend" followed by "I hope you like your new person".  In the end, I couldn't bear it.   We brought them all back home.)

Stuffed puppy and sabertooth and fox flying through the air.  The cat squeaked in protest, then hid under the bed.  He threw them all at me, one by one, and I grabbed them up.  Filled my arms.  Threw one at him.  He lunged for it...my distraction worked.  I tossed the whole arm load right at him and he burst out laughing.  The night suddenly full of sound.  Laughter bellowing right up and out of us.

We were right back there.  Those belly-shaking laughs of toddlerhood.

I grabbed the sheet and let it billow up over him.   Tossed those animals under before he even had a chance.  I won! 

He's 15 now.  And I am older, too.   But last night we were younger, just for a little while.  Just for long enough that I could breathe comfortably again...no worries, no doubts.  Just for long enough that the sheets could billow...the animals could fly...and the laughter could bellow.  

...it could be worse...

I stopped talking.

I caught myself, and stopped the words.

In the silence, my mind whirred onward...that lightbulb flickering on...shining brightly and suddenly on my mistake.

I stopped talking.

In the middle of a conversation that started, innocently enough, when I checked my email.  Another well-meaning missive chock full of good-intentions and misinformation.  Another scientific study...another medical miracle...another "have you heard of/tried...?  You should.  I read/heard/saw something about it!"

So, typically, I read or listen or smile and nod my way through these.  But for some reason, this time, my brain imploded.  Maybe it's the tooth infection's fault.  Maybe it's the antibiotics that have me feeling some kind of a way.  Whatever the reason: implosion.  Followed, sad to say, by verbal explosion.  Yup, full-on full-volume rant.  

So there I was, huffing and puffing my way through "The Audacity!' and 'Constant Interference' and 'Respect the Boundaries'  and 'Logic, People.  Logic!'.   (Listen, when you are the parent of a child with a diagnosis, this just gets old.  I don't care that you saw this article at your nail salon all about how cannabis cured some kid's autism.  I don't care that the morning radio show host thinks all boys with autism need to be on ADHD meds.  And I sure don't care that your found some one-off study that suggests my son is going to turn into my daughter if I keep him on his meds.)  I was full steam ahead with the litany.  All the things you want to say but don't?  Yeah, they were coming out of my mouth.  Loudly.

And then, suddenly, in the middle of it all...

I stopped talking.

Because I heard myself.

I heard the mistake.

I heard myself say something that if I heard someone else say, would tick me off.

"I mean, come on!  Do they not get it?  He's doing so well.  We are so lucky!  Just think about it!  It could be so much worse!"

So. Much. Worse.

Oh man, I said it.  I totally said it.  And you know what?  I've said it before.  I've said it a lot.  I've said it to extended family.  I've said it in IEP meetings.  I've said it in speaking engagements.  I've said it to my son.

Oh.  No.

It could be worse.

I could still be the me I was before I stopped talking.  I could still think that I was right.

I could still be building us up by tearing someone else down.

I could still be clueless.

I could still be comparing.

I swear I heard an actual Ding in that moment as the thought coalesced and I was suddenly aware of my mistake.  Just like that, the brain fog cleared and I knew something I hadn't before.  I knew how wrong I was in saying "It could be worse".  

Here's why:

So, autism is on a spectrum...low-functioning to high-functioning with an absolute infinity of points in-between.

Financial stability is on a spectrum...again low to high...completely destitute to beyond imagination.

Intellect is on a spectrum.  You've got some complete and utter morons out there.  Geniuses, as well.  And in between, a myriad of people with all levels of intellect...and an ever expanding list of intelligences.

Then there's life.  Complete.  The whole package deal.  Totally on a spectrum.  Happiness and misery at every possible point, in every possible configuration.  

So knowing that all to be true, can you find my mistake?

It could be worse.

It could be...

me...

comparing myself/my day/my child/my bank account/my wardrobe/my...whatever...

to someone else...to someone I likely don't even know-won't ever meet...and thus deciding I am better off.

Oh, lucky me.

Lucky me indeed.

It could be worse.

I could *gasp* be like that person.

I could *gasp* be like that parent.

I could *gasp* be in that situation...have that experience...know that challenge...

But no, lucky me...

I'm somehow better.

It could be worse.

I said it about my son's autism.  About his symptoms and behaviors.  About his personality and intellect.   About his reaction to a specific situation.

It could be worse.

It wasn't intended in a negative way.  It was said innocently enough.  I was trying to make a point of how remarkably he has coped with a trying situation and the only way I could think of to do that was to say "It could be worse.".  But as I said the words aloud and thought of who I was comparing him to in that moment, I stopped talking.  I realized my mistake.  

There is no worse.  There is no comparison.  There just is.  Different paths for different people.

Autism is challenging.

Financial stability is challenging.

Intelligence is challenging.

Life is challenging.

For the past 'I don't even know how long' I've been living my life in this sort of reactive, comparative way.  This "Stop feeling sorry for yourself because it could be worse" propelling me through life's twists and turns.  Honestly, it helped.  It helped to feel like I wasn't at the bottom of the pile.  It helped to be able to look down from up high.  The 'it could be worse' was what spurred me on.  It made me check my emotions at the door every time there was an upset, and find a logical solution.  It kept me from sinking into a pit of despair when things went wrong.  

I'm kind of scared to let it go.

But the light is on now and I see my mistake.  I can't keep teaching my son to mitigate his own emotional responses to honest upsets by comparing himself to some imaginary "it could be worse".  Nor can I keep teaching him to pity someone just because his/her challenges look different than his.

I can't speak to a group of special-needs parents and say it about our experience.   My version of "it could be worse" might very well be their version of "better" or "normal".  

I can't say it an IEP meeting without it diminishing my son's rightful claim on services.  "It could be worse" just tells his team to look elsewhere for a student who needs support.  

I can't say it to friends or family. "It could be worse" isn't honest or open.  It's a deflection.  A smoke and mirrors.  A go look over there and don't see my weakness.  

There is no worse.  There's just different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There might not even be better.  *Gasp!

...silent treatment...

Please tell me I'm not the only one who sits down to write, head full of important thoughts and ideas, only to hit that wall where the words just won't come out.  

It's bad enough that the words literally won't come out right now.  I've been taking it easy the past few days, trying to ignore the pain of an infected, impacted wisdom tooth.  The antibiotics make me nauseous, exhausted and restless at the same time.  I've always been "chemically sensitive", so I tend to avoid medication unless it's really the last resort.  Even Tylenol makes me feel off.  But when the pain kicked in last week, I became best friends with my bottle of Aleve.  I made it through most of the week, firmly believing in the "this, too, shall pass" mantra.  Rinsing with salt water.  Feverishly brushing ever time I felt a twinge.  But come night time I was miserable, the pain enough to keep me wide awake and writhing.  

Yes, I finally went to the dentist.

(Dental Phobia.  It's a thing.  There's a reason.  Maybe I'll write about it.)

  Since then, I've been functionally silent.  Pushing a scramble of syllables out only when totally necessary.   What's that triangle called, in the back, between the upper and lower jaw?  I swear it screams every time it moves!  I think all that poking and prodding (which, yes, I get was necessary to ascertain the extent of the problem) further inflamed the affected area so I'm on verbal lockdown until the amoxicillin does it's job, sipping all my meals through a straw and feeling sorry for myself.   Yesterday, I put work aside...put my feet up...and hunkered down in front of the tv  in full human-burrito mode.

I managed a shower, and got myself down to the bus-stop in the afternoon.  But, once back in the house, reverted to couch-potato status.  My single contribution to the day?  Plugging in my laptop to print out his latest prototype.

He got to 'parent' himself for the evening.  Just imagine glazed eyes and frantic fingers tapping away at the screen, 'Speedboats.io' chewing up the hours, while he chewed up an entire box of fruit snacks.  Oh yeah, total mom-fail.

And I didn't care.

My mouth hurt.  My jaw ached.  My head throbbed.

Poor me. 

I skipped out on the BOE meeting.  It didn't take much effort to convince myself that I couldn't possibly go 'in my condition'.  

I left the dirty dishes in the sink.

Another restless night.  Another morning with the sudden Zing of pain when the nerves woke up.

And still, no words.

Soup for breakfast.  Coffee, through a straw.  Finally a use for that surplus-sized pack of straws from Ikea.  (In my defense, they're just the right size for smoothies and fit our 'cold-to-go' cups perfectly...oh, and cheap!)  I'm halfway through the pack already.  

Poor me.

I've resumed function today, sort of.  Made his breakfast, packed his lunch.  Reviewed that hastily done homework.  Got him on the bus.  Logged on, clocked in, hit submit.  But my jaw remains closed, still swollen and sore and reminding me that chewing is over-rated.  

I test it every few minutes, pushing my tongue into the corner to prod at the soreness.  Yup, still there.  Wince.

I thought I'd take my break.  Reheat my coffee.  Write for a while.  So many words.  So many things to say. 

But I opened the page and the cursor just blinked at me...on...off...on...off...

I started.  Then deleted.  Repeated. 

And finally just now, as I was typing, realized I can't write when I can't speak.  I can't write when I can't read aloud my own words and let my internal editor hear them.  

I have no words...