Miss Tricky Takes Over

I am not sure why this has been so difficult for me to write. I keep thinking that this year’s newsletter will be rather anti-climatic after last year-maybe that’s why I have been putting it off. The constant and often painful change of 2008 made it very easy to point to exactly what happened that year; an ordered checklist was easy to compile. 2009 was much sneakier and quiet. But now that I am looking back on it, 2009 seems like proof that 2008 happened.

 This past year was about committing to the changes I had made. This past year was all about settling into the person I had become. 2008 forever changed me- old habits and ideas fell away and I got a chance to re-define how I wanted to live. 2009 proved to me that I have changed. When all the drama and conflict subsided I found myself calmer and more centered than I have ever been before. Here’s to growth and maturity continuing in 2010!

 The Spawn, on the other hand, spent 2009 changing and healing and growing at an incredible rate. If you came to my house today and met the chatty, imaginative little boy who lives here you would find it impossible to imagine that he was the same little boy who’s tantrums and struggles I have detailed in this blog. He has more than blossomed- he has exploded! The changes in his diet and his new therapy have made it very difficult to spot the remaining traces of his disorder. We fully expect him to enter “normal” kindergarten next year, and though that brings with it a new host of challenges we are confident in his ability to continue to thrive.

 And then there’s Mr. President… That crazy man moved The Spawn and I into his home, was patient during the job search, helped to find daycare and a nanny and even attends school meetings on a regular basis. He is more than my squeeze; he is my partner. I am starting to think of The Spawn as ours rather than mine. When you find yourself being a single mom (autism or not) it seems ridiculous to think that you will ever have a relationship again. It seems ludicrous to imagine that anyone will love your child as much as you do or that you would let them if they wanted to. Obviously Mr. President’s love for him is different than mine, but I am amazed to discover that it is perfectly complimentary. We have built a family- and it was easier than I thought it would be.

Where did we leave off? Oh right, The Spawn had totally replaced me.

What’s funny is that after Mr. President left for work that day I was over come with feelings of emptiness. Something was really off and I couldn’t figure out what. Then it occurred to me- too much help in one day. Without my daily duties of breakfasts, daycare drop offs, bed times and cleaning I felt completely useless. It has since been decided that we will take this in baby steps so I don’t totally melt down. That’s right folks, I told my boyfriend to ease up on the being supportive and helpful until I could get used to it. Total brat face.

Thursday morning came with a nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. Ah yes, The Spawn’s trip to Sesame Place! His daycare was going to be hitting the road on Friday and since they get up and leave really early, Miss Tracy has the kids sleep over the night before. Um, a whole night with the Spawn being cared for by someone else?!? Immediately the discussions about me not working a double went from unfocused to decided (I was tired, sue me!) and sometime in the 10 minutes it took me to drop off the kid and get back home before catching my bus Mr. President had an idea…

“Let’s go to New York tonight.”

What? That’s just crazy! People don’t just up and decide to go to New York!!!

“I found a cheap room and you don’t have to be at work until 3:30pm on Friday…come on, let’s just go get dinner and stay over.”

What followed was a lightening round of packing while I hollered at the squeeze for not bringing this up until after I hadn’t done anything cute with my hair and had neglected to shave while showering that morning. I swear, sometimes boys just don’t think! NYC should not be done with stubble and sloppy pigtails! Period. He’s lucky that I am such a fucking trooper and managed to pack a suitable bag in, like, 4 minutes and still be at the bus stop in time to catch one to work.

(In other news, I am totally in love with this whole bus thing. Public transportation rules.)

And so, we went. We went and we drank and ate our body weight in foie gras and cheese and then we drank some more. We sang Carly Simon in a cab, I fell down at least twice and then we had too many shots of delicious Irish whisky while listening to acoustic song stylings. (That guy was great, by the by. His medley of Don’t Stop Believin’, Poker Face, and whatever else he was on about was hot!) I took a solo stroll while the President snoozed and collapsed into bed sometime later. Morning came with coffee and egg sandwiches and we bid the city a fond farewell.

Is wasn’t until we were home and the Prez was taking me to work that he received and email from a friend of his in L.A. asking if he could be in California by 2pm Saturday to attend a party at the Playboy Mansion.

I know.

So as we speak, the love of my life is aboard a plane headed for LAX. I am sitting at my nook trying hard not to be overcome with jealousy. He even took my luggage, claiming that it was “cooler” than his (true story). This whole topic caused some controversy at work last night. Apparently I am in the minority of girlfriends because I am letting him go. Yeah. “Letting” – that’s what they said. First of all, I am not the boss of where he goes. Secondly, this is life list type shit we’re talking about. When you get an invite to the Playboy Mansion you just fucking go. You go. End. Of. Story. And thirdly, Playmates and painted girls got shit on me. (Preach) So while parts of me are wrenched with envy I am taking comfort in the fact that my squeeze and my luggage are off on an exciting adventure. After a crazy week spent working I now get the whole weekend to catch up with my baby boy and watch all that So You Think You Can Dance I dvr’d without interruption. And he left me his truck so that if I start to feel really lame I can just go drive around and pretend that I am cool enough to own it.

Guys? I’m not sure what just happened. It is 9 am and I am not taking my son to day care.

You see, last night I got home from a long and rewarding first day at two jobs and I showered and crawled into bed with my squeeze. We talked about my day, we talked about their day and my legs hurt but my soul felt good. I did well yesterday. The first job is fine, the second I really like and it was amazing to feel productive and valuable again. This morning picked up where last night left off and Mr. President had snuck downstairs to get The Spawn set up with breakfast while I was still sleeping. Back in bed, we snuggled and chatted some more. Finally I got up and started the coffee, hugged on my baby boy, and went out to have a smoke (shut up!) before I got the boy in the car.

Here’s where things went wonky.

I came back in and my fully dressed boy and squeeze were in the living room.

You ready to go, Spawn? Let’s go to the baby house!

Mr. President says. “I’m going to take him”

What?  Why? I have a couple errands to run? You’re going to pick him up later…. I can do it!

“No mawmy, you have to stay here. You can’t go to work; you have to stay in the house. I’m going to go with [Mr. President], you stay here.”

Umm…. uhhhh…well…. okay. Can I have a hug?

“Okay. Bye mawmy…you have to stay here.”

Well I never! Typical 3 year old! You go back to work for one day and you are totally replaced. Humph! The sensible part of me is upstairs writing while I wait for the squeeze to get back and realizes that it’s a nice thing and doesn’t mean either one of them is going to hate or resent me later in life. The slightly less sensible part of me is still standing in the kitchen crying a little. This is tough.

I spend a lot of time teasing Mr. President about the things he sometimes says to me that you should never, ever say to your girlfriend. The rest of my time I spend teasing him about the things he should be saying to me all the time but invariably misses the set up. Allow me to present an example:

After the Red Ball we went to a favorite local spot for cocktails and ran into our friend Tom. Someone had graciously offered me a seat at the bar so I could get my eat on while Mr. President stood behind me. I said something about feeling bad that he had to stand and he replied that he was fine, he had the best seat in the house even! Tom (ever the smooth operator) interjected with:

“Well, the second best seat in the house anyway” while subtly gesturing towards my ass.

(Get it? Like you also call your butt a ’seat’ and mine was obviously the best one there? Get it? Get it? Yeah, guess who didn’t…)

We both turn to look at the Prez waiting for him catch on…

“Yeah, it’s the second best seat in the house,” I say- this time totally lifting my rump off the barstool and arching my back like a spastic cat.

Nothing. Mr. President is all “what? I don’t get it”

Even when Tom started teasing him about missing the pitch, not even a pitch! More like a t-ball set up, my poor Mr. President didn’t catch on.

To be completely fair, I find this to be an adorable trait. He may just be thickheaded but I like to think that he possesses a truly genuine nature and is burdened with an incurable honest streak. It syncs up well with my propensity to tease some like we’re on an elementary school playground when I like them.

Anyhoosits, since the move we’ve had many miniature state of the union discussions to address how each of us is handling the adjustment. I keep asking if he’s regretting it and secretly hating us and he keeps saying that he really thought he would but isn’t as of yet.

Some girls would probably get all cry-face and stupid if their boyfriend told them he had planned on secretly being miserable for at least awhile when she moved in, but I find his honesty rather refreshing. It takes commitment for him to be this steadfastly un-smooth and I applaud his consistency. Even when I don’t want to…

(This scene takes place in bed, all snuggled up watching The Daily Show and exchanging sweet nothings before sleep.)

 ”Are you happy we came? Is it good or are you hiding ‘oh crap what have we done’ thoughts deep down in your brain?”

 ”I’m very happy, I thought I would be having those thoughts but I’m really, really not.”

 (The monkey-cat awkwardly jumps up on his belly and he continues…)

“You and your broken kitty and your broken little kid. You guys are like that chipped piece of china, ya know? Like, it still works and you love it so you’ll eat spaghetti out of it by yourself but you wouldn’t put it out at a dinner party, you know?”

 (Laughing hysterically)

“What?!? Are you saying we’re like that chipped, old coffee mug that you had to glue the handle back onto but it’s your favorite so you still have your coffee out of it every morning?!?”

(Excited that I get it…)

“Yeah! It’s your favorite and your certainly not going to throw it away but you’re not going to use it when you have company either.”

 (Admittedly still cracking the hell up…)

“O. My. God. I cannot believe you just called me and my kids a junky, old, coffee mug.”

 The conversation actually continued on here, he pointed out that I had said coffee mug while he had called us a plate (as though what piece of busted china we were being called made the difference) and at some point I even became a not quite washed, garage sale soup tureen because I figured having a ladle made it classy. The monkey-cat was labeled a factory- reject gravy boat and Mr. President maintained that the Spawn was the cracked plate you eat spaghetti off of.

 ”So there it is, huh? We’re just a busted, broken down china set on your big fancy dining room table? I am soooooo putting this on my blog tomorrow.”

 And as if engaging in an argument with me over which metaphorical dishes my broken babies and I were best represented by wasn’t enough to prove how right we are together, he rolled over and said,

“Fine. Just make sure you tell them you were laughing so everybody doesn’t hate me.”