Thank you, sir. May I have another?

While I tried to make dinner, the boys created a fanciful new game I call “Throw All the Parenting Books Across the Room.” It’s so named because they were throwing all the parenting books across the room.

No, seriously. They left alone the Modernist lit, the graphic novels, and the literary criticism. They threw all the books on practicing patience and being playful and cultivating respect rather than fear.

I gently informed them that, when books get thrown, books get broken. When books get thrown, people get hurt. And when anything gets thrown, I can’t make dinner, so dinner will take longer. The last reason, I was surprised to find, got them both to make eye contact and stop their…how do I put this gently…bullshit. They knocked it off and I finished dinner.

Hmmm. Could this technique work more often?

I was drawing a bath for two-year old Butter and he tried to climb my back and vault into the tub. I told him gently that when he climbed me it made me scared he might fall down. He calmly climbed down.

And got the cat’s water bowl and poured it down my back.

Hmmm. Could this technique perhaps have a blind spot right around Age Two?

As evening called us bedward, I asked the boys to please help me clean up. We had amassed on the living room floor a LEGO collection equal to the task of recreating the Great Wall of China. We all picked up the pieces, depositing them with great mirth and efficiency in the appropriate container. I thanked the boys for their help and told them when we worked together, cleaning up was faster and more fun.

Butter smiled. And dumped out the whole collection right back where it was.

Hmmm. How long does one try a person-management technique before one abandons it for binge drinking and 4pm bedtimes?

Choose your story’s ringtone

Friday 8:45 a.m. Run to school trying to keep up with six-year-old on bike and two-year-old on scooter. Thank my lucky stars they stop at street corners; vow to wear a sports bra every day, forever.

Friday 9:15 a.m. Realize phone is not in the pocket it should be. Conduct embarrassing public TSA-style pat-down of self and admit phone is gone.

Friday 11:00 a.m. Receive email saying stranger found phone. Reply with effusive gratitude, offer to meet to retrieve.

Friday 11:00 p.m. Email again reiterating thanks and offer to meet anywhere, any time. Start insurance claim to replace lost phone, stop when $130 deductible demanded.

Saturday 11:00 p.m. Email again with well wishes for stranger’s weekend and mention of wide open schedule.

Monday 11:00 a.m. Receive email with request for address, apologies and explanation for weekend silence. Reply with casual understanding, address information, and repeated offer to meet.

Tuesday 11:00 a.m. Find phone in mailbox with broken back piece. Try to charge but realize shell is too damaged. Check email and see a long message apologizing for the phone that probably doesn’t work, with explanation of a non-profit rescue at sea of two children involving an overloaded dingy, erroneous captain assurances, and bailing out. Email includes apology for the phone’s probable demise in the salt water that soaked everyone on the boat and a reminder that the stranger’s heart was in the right place.

Tuesday 3:00 pm complete payment on insurance deductible and await new phone on the morrow.

Choose your own ending:
If you want to steal that random and implausible story for your novel, go to page 9. There you will be reminded of copyright and my ownership of that thread of crazy.

If you want to remember never to put your phone in your pocket again, go to page 14. There you will hear a sing-song “I told you so” from several members of my family.

If you want to forbid your children from using wheeled transport to school ever again, turn to page 37. There you will be reminded of how long it takes to get to school if they drag their feet and smell the flowers the whole way.

If you want to vow never to drop your phone where I did, go to page 82. You’ll be taken to a map of the more reasonable and upstanding members of your ‘hood.

If you want to be grateful you have your sim card and storage disk and hope against hope they work in the new phone, turn to page 25. You’ll be given a medal for perspective and general human goodness.
If you want to write a different ending than those offered here, please do.

Okay

My heart is broken and the sheen has gone off this glorious season of sun and school-less freedom.

Why? Today Butter said, “okay.”

No big deal to you, I know.

But for six months he has said, “Haykoe.” It was an adorable, dyslexic, mirror image of okay that I found so delicious I asked him several times each day if he was okay just to hear that yes, in fact, he was haykoe.

But now he’s just okay.

[sob]

Well, poop. It’s the beginning of the end.

SF neighborhoods—a sassy primer

Do like information chock full of stereotypes? Accurate-adjacent and amusing information guaranteed to upset legions of natives?

(If not, just check this map of prices sans commentary.)

If you do like snarky generalizations, I offer you this: the funniest thing I’ve seen about San Francisco neighborhoods.

(Note: he totally forgets that everyone from hipsters to migrants in the Mission is waiting in long lines for burritos. The Mission is burrito-landia. There. Now my work here is done and I can sleep tonight. Except for the omission of the Richmond, Inner Richmond, Laurel Heights, Russian Hill, Hayes Valley…I’ll wait for Part Two. And a real map.)

So if you’re considering a long-distance move and don’t know which neighborhood box to check on craisglist, peruse Drew Hoolhorst’s glossary of SF neighborhoods.

If you’d never move here in a million years but want to be vaguely educated while you mock us, use the same link. Information is information, yo. And the more you know…

(NB: if you’re a local, read the comments. There are some seriously uptight people in the Western Addition.)

Forward my mail to Terminal Two

Effective immediately, I will be living at SFO’s Terminal Two. It was vacant for years, then attacked by the zen masters from Virgin America.

Result?

Sigh.

The food, dear readers. The farm stand with organic produce, Frog Hollow jams, ACME bread; Pinkberry; Peet’s; Andale; and more

The lighting, dear readers. The lavender, pink, blue lights. Mock if you will, But Virgin does subtle mood lighting very well.

Oh, and the seating, dear readers. Computer bars with outlets galore. Egg-pod-shaped swivel chairs that offer a 360 degree view of the adjacent gates.


Compost bins. Space in which to move and breathe and not be touching other people. Eco-friendly practices and cleaning.

And then? The yoga room, dear readers. You read that correctly. Yoga. Room.

see?


Said yoga room is right outside security. I already had my shoes off for the TSA barefoot tango, so I went into the empty, quiet, softly lit room. I used the eco-wipes to clean a yoga mat and saluted no fewer than ten suns. Luckily, I travel in a skort.

yes, you read that right: in a skort.

So if you want to find me, send all correspondence to NaptimeEatingAndYogaing c/o Terminal Two, San Francisco International Airport.

Yes, I know that if lighting and food at an airport excites me that I need to get out more. But now that I’ve found my new home in T2, it might be a while.

Well, that’s saying something

Today’s successes:

Both my children are still alive.
Neither of my children was emotionally wounded today (unless you count resentment over having a light saber taken away when it was used in ways contrary to house rules, or being denied cookies as a primary meal).
I am not Donald Trump.
I am not John Edwards.
I made and frosted four cakes for the school fundraiser tomorrow.
I did not eat any of them.

Not. Too. Bad.

A Brief Interlude

The Five Stages of a Night by Myself:
1. Bewilderment
2. Flood of Nostalgia
3. Depressed Need to Overhaul Entire Life
4. Exhaustion
5. Renewed Energy and World Domination

Spouse and I have been sitting on a gift certificate for a one-night stay at a fancy local hotel; waiting until the youngest sleeps through the night so we can have someone care for both boys while we enjoy a night away. We’ve waited for two years.

And now that he’s Two, he’s only waking twice a night. So we’re getting closer. But twice is night is too much for us to feel right foisting him on leaving him with someone else.

So I took the precious promise of a night away for myself, and walked the two miles away from our house to luxurious solitude.

Oooooh was it nice.

The walk lead me through my alma mater and my old neighborhood. I walked past the hotel to finish the old route home, oscillating between the familiarity and distance of a life I haven’t felt in eighteen years. I saw new and old, jarring and comforting. And I was overwhelmed with nostalgia and a sense of loss. I’m never going to be an incredibly-hard-working undergrad with my whole life ahead of me ever again. That’s gone forever.

So for a short while I was depressed. Then I decided to make some changes to find more joy and forward motion in the life I have now. That cheered me up a bit. Lost opportunities became a Need to Conquer the World. I hurried to my room to write out a plan.

I checked in just in time for the wine hour.

The wine made writing plans for world domination an unreasonable task, so I watched terrible movies on cable. We don’t have paid t.v. at home. I like it very muchly, the badness of bad television.

A few hours after the time I *swore* I’d sleep, I turned off the bad movies and the light.

The guilt of a silent room grabbed me by the ankles and threw me around. A lot.

“How could you leave them?” guilt smashed me against a wall.
“What could possibly make you think you wanted this?” guilt threw me back on the bed.
“What a terrible mother,” guilt shoved me onto the floor.
“What a terrible wife,” guilt folded me into a small package and shoved me in the nightstand drawer.
“What a horrible person,” guilt pulled me back out and threw me out the window.
Bad
Terrible
Awful
Defenstrated
Abandoner.

About an hour of this nonsense and I finally fell asleep.

And woke six hours later, at the same time the boys are normally leaping from stillness to unabashed firecracker-ism.

I fought the urge to go for a run and forced myself to stay in bed. There’s a whole lifetime of “run before they wake up” starting again tomorrow. This morning was my one morning without “before they wake up.” So I dozed for a while and fought the urge to get up and dozed and woke and forced myself back down again. I got up at the unbearably late hour of 8:00 a.m.

I hiked, I ran, I gazed out over the bay.

view from the knee-unfriendly stretch of Stonewall-Claremont

I showered. I snacked. And I completed two lists of simple ways to improve my life, a list of goals for this year, and a list of manageable tasks to complete before school starts in September.

By checkout time, I wanted another day alone. But I was lucky enough to get to go home to three adorable humans, take them organic-strawberry picking with lovely friends, and come home overtired, filthy, and full of vitamins C and D.

An awfully good weekend prelude to a solemn day of remembrance and honor, I think.

Hope you and yours are safe and sound, that our soldiers are soon home safe and sound, and that we appreciate deeply the sacrifice of those who did not come home safe or sound.

Happy Memorial Day.

Running on empty

April’s Runner’s World has an article that promises to tell me “Why [and how] a pair of busy mothers make time to train for races and why [and how] you should, too.”

Spouse brought it home for me after he read the issue because he has a) time to read magazines, b) additional time to train several days a week and the resulting endorphins lead to sharing, c) the speed to win half marathons almost every weekend, the endorphins from which also lead to sharing, d) had enough of me complaining about baby weight and no time to exercise, and e) a death wish.

The article consists of the impressions, opinions, and feelings of two moms. They enjoy running. They race. Yay! I should, too.

(To the two moms whose stories are featured in the Runner’s World piece? I’m glad you’re enjoying your running. Really. Keep it up!)

But there are no data points in this article. How do they fit in runs? When? How many? How long do they race compared with their weekly mileage? Who helps with their children when they run? How old are their children? Does current research show that training while you exist on 5 hours of sleep is good or bad for your body? Should moms who are lactating run less, more, or the same as they would normally run? (That last one is answered on http://www.kellymom.com in case you need more than rant-iness in today’s blog surfing. I aim to be a resource even as I snark, yo. Power to the runner mothers.)

Aside from the indignity of claiming to include a “how” and then neglecting to do so, the article also highlights a wildly insulting quiz written, I’m guessing, by a male editor. In assessing what my next race should be, the quiz’s author mentions having “a baby attached to my teat” as though I were a beat of burden not a human. He also mentions the milestone of having a “child extracted from my loins” as though I just laid there and had Roto-Rooter do the job for me.

Putting aside such condescending douchebaggery for just a moment, let’s look at the pathetic options given in their quiz. According to Runner’s World, having multiple children, a fried brain, years of sleep deprivation, intense isolation, poor eating habits, and relative inactivity (all my actual answers to their stupid multiple choice questions), I should run a 5K. Jackalopes, with those qualifications you should be offering me a vacation, not a freaking three-mile race. Don’t make me stick you in my life for a month, dillweeds, to enable your writing a weepy article on how to handle a 5K when your soul is worn down in ways BodyGlide could never ease.

The other quiz results, by the way, are this stupid: go race soon, race longer than you think you can, or try a longer distance. Um, from which third-rate school did you graduate if your choices are “specific distance, unspecific distance, yay, and more”? Anyone teach you “mutually exclusive, completely exhaustive?” Thought not.

Look here, fathermuckers. Stop pandering with covers that proclaim a “Mommy Solution” and cease publishing sub-standard bullshite.

Here’s a real quiz for you.

You have only the following three choices for running:

1. get up at 5am to run before the kids wake. But you go to bed at 1am every night because that’s what business hours require for now.
2. run with the toddler in the jogging stroller when it’s time to go get the kindergartener from school. NB: you’re not a noontime runner, the toddler resists the stroller like I resist compliments, and the way to school always involves a significant uphill stretch that, with a 25-pound stroller plus 25-pound kid kills what little energy you have to run.
3. Run at 8:30 pm, despite being a morning runner; and after being beaten down all day, using all you energy to pretend patience, and binge eating once the kids finally get into the bath.

Tell me, you smug douche canoes who wrote and printed this useless pseudoarticle, which of those three options is the best for a runner who just cancelled payment on the family subscription?

If You Give an Serial Killer a Cookie

We all have books we’d like to secretly remove from our kids’ shelves. In the middle of the night. And go all Office Space on them. Nicole over at Ninja Mom Blog started a delightful tradition of giving bloggers the weapon of their choice with which to decimate the creepy, annoying, and ungrateful children…er…children’s literature characters that stick in their craw during bedtime reading. Thus was born Character Assassination Carousel, a whirling extravaganza of literary bloodshed and wicked laughter.

The last assassins, Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms, showed us how to read the truly freaky Fox and Hen Together as the hillbilly dysfunctional fustercluck Fried Kentucky Shore. Go read along with their firing squad approach to that dreadful tale.

And when we’re done here, hover around the Character Assassination Carousel to see what children’s classic Farrah at The Three Under will revile next.

Today it’s my turn. I am honored and grateful to be able to warn you the hell away from If You Give a Mouse a Cookie written by Laura Joffe Numeroff and illustrated by Felicia Bond.

****
Every time the conversation turns to If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, parents spring to their Ultimate Fighting corners. “It’s sooooo precious,” some coo, “I just love how tired the poor boy gets allowing the mouse to explore.” Others open their eyes wide with horror. “But it sets a bad example, don’t you think, of kids getting everything they want and demanding more,” they shudder, stutter, and reach for their high-fiber, food-like bar.

I’m here, ladies and gentlemen, as a public servant on the Character Assassination Carousel, to show you the darker side of the mouse. And the cookie.

We all need to understand the murderous dangers of letting your child see anyone giving a mouse a cookie. (Aside from the perils inherent in eating a calorie source larger than one’s torso, of course. But that goes without saying for parents who would *never* compulsively eat cookies the minute their children’s backs are turned. Right? Ahem…right? Yeah, me, too.)

I’m talking about the very tangible danger that your child, after enough mouse-and-cookie indoctrination, will become a serial killer.

“Oh, please,” you might laugh. “Stop the cable-news teasers. I happen to know that my child will only become a serial killer if I go back to work or don’t, sleep train or don’t, use sunscreen or don’t, and allow fast food or not. The stakes aren’t so high with this. This is just a book. About a mouse.”

WRONG. It’s a book about a nefarious leader who rewires a cult member’s moral compass and points him toward murderous deeds. It’s about mind-control drugs and hit lists and diabolical rages. And it’s a reminder to never, never trust children or mice.

Don’t believe me? Of course not. Some of you know about my precarious grasp on reality. And my distant memory of sanity. But that’s immaterial here. I am finally coming out of my fog, the one in which I was lulled into a false sense of security by my willingness to read this terrible text at the end of the day when I generally think it reasonable to do anything my children ask as long as they Just. Go. To. Sleep.

Looks innocuous enough, right? Wearing his unassumingly rolled-up overalls and clasping his big-as-a-sibling cookie, he’s cheering for his early-reader success of writing the title and drawing realistic cookies with crayon. Yay for mice who can read and write! (I guess. Except how creepy. What if they can read and write and have a wicked sense of humor and switch your candy for vitamins and vitamins for antidepressants? Then where will we be?)

That cover illustration’s smile is a ruse, dear readers. For on the very first page of the story, you see the scenario we all fear from 1970s propaganda films…Stranger Danger!


Now, I’m willing to admit that we’ve failed our rodent population. Due in part to budget constraints and fiscal politics, mice these days don’t have judgmental police officers like those in the Stranger Danger video to tell them to avoid creepy guys handing out cookies. As a result, our intrepid hero falls for the oldest trick in the book: “Come inside and I’ll give you some more cookies.”

Once locked away from prying eyes and moralistic neighbors, the boy drugs the mouse with a glass of milk laced with mind-control chemicals.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you interrupt. “That’s ludicrous. It’s a snack! Cookies and milk after school is a time-honored tradition. Maybe they’re friends. Maybe the mouse lives there.”

Um, first of all, do you give your kids cookies and milk after school? No. You try to cram them full of protein and fruit so they have enough energy to leave you the hell alone while you make dinner. And if you did give them cookies and milk? There’s a good chance they’re actually your children. Or the children of parents whose insistence on gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free snacks has driven you to revenge. But we know the mouse is a stranger to this boy.

The plotting boy has captured the eldest son of a delightfully happy mouse family, the lot of whom will be devastated by the loss of their sweet son. They’ll probably be heartbroken, as well, by his subsequent life of crime. Maybe. I don’t know them and can’t judge their lives, especially since all their children refuse to wear shirts. If that’s been going for more than a few years with three kids, I couldn’t blame them for being fed up enough to not file the Missing Persons report right away.

So how does the young mouse go from kidnap victim to life of crime, you ask? Don’t forget for a moment the results of that cocktail of brain-altering chemicals the boy pretended was milk.

What follows is not what we’d predict from a contentedly full and sleepy mouse.
We know this was not just milk because moments after eating twice his body weight in cookie and drinking three times his volume in some sort of odorless, tasteless stimulant, the drug takes effect.

He’s wired and falling apart. I’m not an expert, but it seems like a hefty dose of meth would get a mouse to do this

And this

[Can we talk for a moment about living in squalor? My dear, predator child, serial killer or no, you have to sweep a bit more regularly. You clearly keep the ashes of your victims strewn about on the floor of an otherwise tidy house. That’s just weird. If you’re compelled to tidiness and intricate body disposal schemes, you can find a way to care about the human-ash dust-blanket that fills your house. Evil is no excuse for being gross.]

Now that the mouse is in the grip of the sense-dulling drugs, the true cost of accepting that stranger’s cookie is revealed.

tweaking mouse + chloroform = you’re next!

That mouse is totally coming to get you; and if he doesn’t, your child will!

Once the poor captive mouse is transformed into a bloodthirsty maniac, he takes a moment to gloss the boy’s killing manual.

Then takes off to make his own hit list. Does he choose an abrasive celebrity? A rotten politician? The local bully?

Hold up. His own family?! [Cue the portentous music. Duhn Duhn DUUUHN.]

The boy has successfully turned the mouse into a killing machine and completes the indoctrination by reminding the little guy to always carry tools for cleaning up after the crime spree.

The mouse methodically plots his family’s murder

Meanwhile, the boy, content that his plan is working, pauses to rest

…a fatal mistake any parent would know avoid at all costs. For once you cease vigilance, they will pour the olive oil on the floor, practice throwing knives, and paint the kitchen with the fire extinguisher. (Can’t make that stuff up, people. Each one has happened the few times I dare to pee by myself.)

Note that as the boy sleeps, his student stands pondering, ominously, his unsuspecting teacher. The predator is about to become prey.

Mischievously, the mouse awakens the boy with a request for another lesson in mind-control and chemical subservience. The boy follows willingly, led by an insatiable ego.

But he has been fooled. In the final panel, we witness a gleeful mouse in the middle of a murder scene in which we can surmise he has granted himself unfettered access to cookies by mixing the nearby bleach, powdered cleanser, and milk potion to kill his mentor.

Of course, the newly evil mouse will save a few cookies as bait for the next unsuspecting creature who wanders by the house unsupervised.

Don’t let that someone be your child. Just say no to If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

And to be safe, teach your children to give all their cookies to you.

Welcome to the ’80s, son.

Oh, how I love Berkeley. The weather, the food, and the unreasonable habit the residents have of putting their stuff on the curb with a handwritten “free” sign.

For miles around, Berkeley inhabitants clean out their homes and garages and, instead of selling things on craigslist, formally freecycling them, throwing them away, or giving them to charity, my neighbors just put everything on the curb.

I’ve found brand new shoes for the boys. Furniture. Half eaten jars of salsa. (I didn’t say everything they put out is desirable. I’m just illustrating the “they put out *everything*” argument with a swear-to-god true story.) A fully functioning television. A sweater covered in green paint.

Butter made a find of the century last week, though.

High capacity diskette, baby!

“In *my* day, they were 5 1/4. And were terrified of magnets. And we *liked* it!”

So their education is complete. Peanut’s class got to listen to records on a turntable and Butter liberated his first floppy disk.

Good times, Twenty-First Century. Good times.

Cataclysmic panic

Butter is going to walk with us to school tomorrow, and then I’m going to bring him to the playground where I’ll hand him off to his new sitter for a couple of hours.

I’m terrified. I’ve never done this. And I think it’s too late to change my mind.

We never had a sitter for Peanut. We have since found someone who has taken both boys for outings maybe a handful of times. A few friends have read a book in our living room after the boys are already asleep so we can go to meetings or birthday parties.

Otherwise, it’s been all me, Spouse, and grandma.

This is a bigger leap of faith than walking onstage alone. This is a more terrifying leap off the ledge than submitting my novel to agents. This is a bigger step into the abyss than marriage, natural childbirth, or the first few strokes of a triathlon.

This might even be a farther stomach-plummet than watching Peanut line up for kindergarten. My innards fell seventy-two stories that day, and splatted in the basement as he walked into the classroom.

And this feels even worse.

I will hand my baby over to a virtual stranger, fake a smile, and walk away.

And just thinking about it makes me want to vomit.

Remind me again why I said I wanted this?

Mother’s Day Hangover

Have I told you that I hate Mother’s Day? Yes, yes I have. In last year, and the year before that, and probably the year before that, but I can’t find it.

Meh.

Several of my favorite people despise Mother’s Day, too. Absence of Alternatives has an annual rant against the holiday, and at least one friend calls annually to bemoan the day’s failure to meet expectations and the shame of what she actually expects (some time to herself).

I’m lucky enough to live near my mother and grandma. And I’m honored to be able to appreciate them on Mother’s Day. I like seeing them, cooking them their favorite foods, and finding them the perfect gift. I genuinely love being able to have Mother’s Day with my mom and grandma. So I’m not a complete jerk. In fact, I never hated the holiday we just choked down until I had a child.

And then reality hit.

Here’s the thing: the social myth is that your family will roll out the red carpet and honor you with gratitude and relaxation. Cue reels of breakfast in bed and luxurious lolling about in high-thread count sheets with precocious and adorable children who appreciate you. There are at least five things wrong with that sentence, including the fact that it only focuses on the minutes from 6:45-6:50 a.m.

What happens with the other 780 minutes of the day? A mythological and delightful dance of people throwing rose petals before you as they continually tell you to sit down so they can perform tasks both large and small for you?

Please. It’s the same day as every other day, but with an emailed discount coupon for pizza.

Pamper mom? Please. What’s my family going to do? Make a meal or two (or three), clean the house, manage their own fecal needs, let me read, and give me enough space for a run and a shower? No, Internet. They’re not. None of that.

Show mom you care? Maybe when they’re older. I don’t dare hope that they try to make the day feel special by offering sweet greetings or making precious presents and cards rather than bickering and screaming and ignoring me unless they want something. Bah. Humbug.

I’ve tried asking for what I need and I’ve tried moderating expectations. But this Mother’s Day was, as it has been for seven years, depressingly underwhelming. What I want is a break from the delightful, wonderful people who made me a mom. Because they are ALWAYS up in my space. Being cute and needy and snuggly and terrible and amazing and mean. Wanting a break for Mother’s Day sounds just terrible. Cruel and ungrateful. But what is also terrible is a day that looks absolutely indistinguishable from others, except that total strangers wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. Though that was actually quite nice.

So, out with it: I’m ungrateful. I don’t know how lucky I am. I don’t deserve the healthy, happy children and attenuating loveliness. I certainly don’t deserve a few minutes to breathe and think. What right have I? But, wait, the commercials say I do.

Mother’s Day makes me bipolar.

Thanks for all the meaningless signs at the supermarket and the freaking newsstand, Holiday Fabricated to Make Me Notice What Is Missing. I’ve let you leave me feeling disappointed, unworthy, unappreciated, and exhausted.

Can’t imagine why I don’t want to see you again next year when you raise your annoying, smarmy, fake smile-y face again.

Maybe if I spend the next 364 days appreciating my mom and grandma, I can sleep through Mother’s Day next year.

A brush with autism

I was at the playground with my children yesterday: the six-year-old Peanut was scootering like a madman and two-year-old Butter was swinging on his tummy. I sat next to the little guy on an empty swing and…just sat.

I hate swinging. Nauseates me and make me feel out of control. I know…you’d never know how treacherous a playground could be for control freaks.

Anyway. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a boy walking too close to another swing and a woman calling him.

“Roland! Roland! Too close. Roland, back up.” He was miming pushing the swing where a teenage girl was going about as high as the swing allowed. Each time the swing got near him, he got as close as he could without touching.

“Roland! You can’t push the swing! Roland!” He didn’t change his motions at all.

“Roland! You can’t push the swing. You didn’t ask her.” He moved back at this. And I stopped watching, convinced he was now safe.

“Why don’t you push someone who would say yes? Let’s ask someone. Let’s ask a mommy.”

I braced my stomach. I knew I’d be asked. I knew I’d say yes. And I didn’t want to puke if he pushed me high.

Roland walked beside me and looked away. “Ask her.”

“Mommy,” he said to me.

“Do you want to push the swing? I would like that,” I said.

So he carefully, and slowly, climbed on my lap facing me.

It was clear the woman who suggested asking me did not intend that. She started sputtering “Roland, let’s push the swing. Roland, that’s not….Roland, you can’t…”

“I don’t mind,” I said to her as I checked to make sure Butterbean was still swinging. I looked into Roland’s eyes, which were searching my face. “Are we swinging? Swinging is nice.” Roland is almost ten years old and weighed so much that I had to keep my toes on the ground as I rocked us back and forth. “Swinging,” I smiled. He kept looking at me. I looked back.

“Roland, why don’t you push her. Get down and go around and push her swing. Get down, Roland.” He paused to process that request, then did as she asked. And walked around behind me.

He stood, trying to get his hands right. He moved my hands on the swing’s chains first up, then down. He got just the grip he wanted. And he leaned against me. Then kissed me on the head. Four times.

It felt like pure love.

And the woman, his nanny, spent a while telling him why he couldn’t kiss my head.

But he can. Anyone else would have gotten an earful about boundaries and acceptable behavior. But in my book Roland gets to have different boundaries and has my permission to kiss my head.

I have no idea what the caregivers and parents of differently developing children go through. Not at all. I can’t imagine what childhood, puberty, and adulthood mean for the caregivers of children living with autism, Down’s syndrome, and other developmental differences. (And obviously I haven’t the faintest notion what it feels like to the people inside those very broad and sometimes limiting labels.) But I do know enough about autism to know that I was very, very lucky that Roland knew what he liked and could express his joy. I’m lucky Roland knew about “yay” and about “thank you” and about kissing. I’m lucky Roland made eye contact with me.

Roland wasn’t inappropriate. He was glad we got to swing. He was glad he heard “yes.” He was enjoying the day. And he told me that the way he knows people say “yay.” He kissed my head.

That was hard for his caregiver, because that’s not what people are supposed to do. Her job is to tell him “no, we don’t do that. You’re not supposed to kiss a stranger when they’re nice. Kissing is too much for a thank you.” I know she chose a mommy for him to push because other kids don’t understand and aren’t used to making accommodations. Moms are expert in accommodating.

I wish Roland never had to hear that kissing is too much for a thank you. My wish is that the whole world decides, effective immediately, to cut people with differences some slack. Empathize, understand, appreciate. If someone is too physical because they have processing or sensory or developmental needs you don’t understand, let go of your personal space boundaries for a minute and accept their physical version of a polite conversation. If someone who has trouble with eye contact won’t look at you, for heaven’s sake, dismiss your social mandates for a while and talk with them on their terms. If someone who doesn’t understand the rules of society gets too close or touches your car or talks too loudly or smiles inappropriately, just relax a bit and meet them on their level. Have some compassion, world.

Please.

My wish is that we all learn a bit more, and empathize a bit more, so people like Roland can have nice days at the park.

Because I would never speak for Roland, but I had a damned fine day at the park.

Blah blah words words

For you, today, a post to mean anything at all that you need to hear. Because I’m here for you.

Pskjdf idi spq slsl jkshdflkn vmrgjcv lfdv, mn cvadvlk vm adflkjgm, vkdfglkjtm, w aljdm, nmer vlkasilwer. dfklj amnenv ieri jjvnklfn ioeifn idnmg fodoivn eoifcmv dkek mkldo; lwpw v lpobnmen vlow. A dkbkki ieifn ojofvjinm…you.

Shall I go on? No? That took care of it? So glad I could help.

Have a wonderful week, now that I’ve solved/addressed/decided/defused/praised/deflated/congratulated that issue you were worried/thinking/concerned/happy/angry/tense/hopeful about.

Do let everyone know, if you feel like it, what you think the above says to you. Or tell us what the Magic Eight Ball said to you this morning. Either. Both equally as skilled and prescient…