There is Never Not Laundry

I don’t remember when my warrior princess’ hand fell off.   She was down to one leg by then, but she hadn’t lost the other yet.  When I met her, she was buried in a box slated for donation. Someone had mistakenly hauled her out with the detritus of a 30 year school psychology career when my predecessor left.

 It’s easy to confuse tools of my trade for toys.  They are.  I also have work dinosaurs, and a work Minion fart gun.   Warrior princess was part of a set of action figures used to test play and interaction skills in children being evaluated for autism.  I may be giving away trade secrets, but this sliver of the test goes like this: “Here kid play with these toys.” I dump out a zip lock bag full of toys and figures and then three or more adults stare casually at the child and record what happens.

When her leg first detached, my students’ reactions were fascinating.  Their response to my one-legged lady became my own test within a test.  (Don’t tell the people who standardized it.) 

Did they inquire about her?  Did her missing limb bother them?  Did they construct a story about it?  Did they attempt to fix her?  Did they ignore her in favor of the toy wrench or shovel that are also part of this section?

Sometimes, warrior princess was sent straight to the hospital in a toy ambulance half her size.  Sometimes, an industrious kiddo would try a DIY repair with the toy wrench.  Sometimes, her brokenness was too upsetting to bear and she’d be cast aside.

This lasted for years.  Most children I have evaluated for autism have met her.  I would venture some of my colleagues who regularly observe me administer this assessment think that the broken doll is intentional.  She’s an institution. 

But at some point, she lost her other leg and her hand and became just too broken to be of use.  I kept her because I’m a weirdo and because I’d challenge anyone to hang out with the same humanoid object for a decade and refrain from anthropomorphizing it just a touch.  I replaced her with a supple, bendy Wonder Woman.  In retrospect, that might make me a bad feminist. 

I tossed the chunks of my broken friend into the bottom of my already too-full work bag. 

And I forgot.

I didn’t immediately think of her when I discovered the broken and missing hand on one of my nativity figurines this December.  Again, I’m not sure how exactly she came to be missing her right hand either, though I have at least two promising leads anytime anything is broken in my house. 

You can’t leave Jesus’ mom all busted, and you certainly throw her in the trash.  I wrestled with the idea of a Frankenstein-like repair on the Blessed Virgin.  But for me, my warrior princess is no less holy, and the end result was something sacred made whole, so I glued it on and matched the paint. 

My Christmas decorations are long gone now, whisked away with the zeal known only by those with January birthdays.  But I can’t make myself pack this one up.  She’s still out and March is knocking.

She’s for every day now. 

She is mother’s love, but her hand has worked for so many children.  She’s a tough in the softest way a warrior can be.  She reminds me of the balance I seek.  She reminds me of the blessings I have, and the blessings I can be.   She reminds me of so many wonderful people I know. 

She reminds me to be grateful that I do not have to choose.

Wes was born during a full moon on winter solstice.  If any kid deserves a birthday with mystical gravitas, it’s him.  He loves the mythology that culminates at the solstice. Right now, he’s reading about the Norse gods.   He appreciates the significance and he always has.  Which is weird, because he’s only nine.  Lots of things about Wes are unusual, but not only because of his age. 

When he was very, very young we, as many parents did, used to spell things to each other when we didn’t want our children to understand.   Because that took forever, we quickly switched to another method where we used the fanciest or most pretentious words for mundane things.  Here’s an example.   “If you’re amenable, let’s assemble and venture for provisions.”  We meant, “If it’s cool with you, let’s go to the store.”  That stopped working around the time Wes was three.

I love to watch people who don’t know Wes very well have their first conversation with him.   I collect their facial expressions.  Holy shit, this kid is for real.  It reminds me of his sparkle because I am lucky enough to be around it all the time.   It’s not just that he’s bright.  Wes has the effortless weight of sincerity behind him.  He has learned from the master communicators on both sides of the family tree.  He knows how to make people feel heard.

But he’s a nine-year-old kid and he’s definitely not above a good five minute soliloquy on Beyblades while I’m trying to shower.  He’s downstairs right now launching them into each of his five stadiums and rating their performance on a 1 to 5 scale to determine the best environments for each of his custom creations.  He won’t forget what he learns. 

He pretends with his whole body and imagines grand battles and heroic victory.  Wes pours over books of beasts and delights in imagining creatures.  His favorites are made of water and earth.  They are defensive types that don’t start wars, but are more than happy to finish them. 

He likes peace and balance.  He’d rather not fight, but he feels things deeply.  And he sees unfairness to others before he notices it on his own plate.  The asterisk to this, of course, is Malcolm.  His little brother, in the grand tradition, is a truly gifted pusher of his buttons.  But in general, Wes doesn’t complain if he thinks it will hurt someone’s feelings.  I worry that he won’t speak up for himself, but he hasn’t had that problem so far.

Wes is relentlessly positive, brave, and enthusiastic.  He has ridiculously good hair. He writes amazing poetry and songs.  He loves being on the robotics team.  He is responsibly caring for his pet snake, the chickens, and the dog in the morning and is saving his allowance because he isn’t sure what he wants yet.  He practices guitar without being reminded. 

It’s difficult to be anyone’s parent, but I am lucky in the worry that being his mother brings.  The pain and the privilege of raising you Wesley, is my worry that that world will change who you are.  Everyone you meet will be better if it doesn’t.  I love you, sweet boy.  Happy birthday!

I had gotten a speeding ticket the week before.  Texts and calls were still getting lost in the universe.  Maybe the washing machine repair man had really tried to call?  Something was in the air on this morning too. 

I am a school psychologist who works for specialized programs for students with significant special education needs.  These programs are housed in our local districts and sprinkled all over the damn place.   I drive to see each student.  I dip in and out of a new environment every time I finish one task and begin another.  There is a unique flavor everywhere, and usually that’s something I enjoy. 

Unless everything is on fire.

This happens sometimes.  Blame it on the full moon or whatever else you like, but sometimes, it just blows up at once.  Ask teachers; they’ll tell you. 

I have a weird job.  Literal angry poop throwing and snotty grateful sobbing hugs are not every day occurrences, but they are on the menu.  Neither of those things happened on this particular day and the events of that day were no one’s business but the people who were there.  But yikes!  Everyone was bathed in cortisol.  Adults were upset.  Kids were upset.  If my day was happening in a bubble, it would have been a fine enough day.  It was sure as hell not.

And that is how I got my second speeding ticket on the same damn road, going even faster the second time. 

The officer was just as young.

This time, I cried.  I do believe we had a full conversation, but I mostly remember repeating, “I was just trying to help.” 

Two tickets.  Not my finest work.  The message could not be more literal.

Slow down. 

I really, extra suck at this one, which is why I received such quick remediation. 

No. Really. Slow the fuck down.

I was just trying to help.

I am not sure what help would have looked like in any of the situations I was in that day.  I sometimes find myself standing in the middle of someone else’s storm armed with a graduate degree and decade of experience and at a total loss about what in the world to do in the next moment.

Crisis feels like crisis in my body, whether I am at work or not.  That is not to say you don’t want me on your team if your student is in crisis.  I am not sure you would know what was happening with me if you were standing next to me.  Every other professional I know is also in possession of a human body.  It’s not just a me thing.  I do my best work in a crisis when I use what I am feeling to help other people understand what they might be feeling. 

Empathy is absolutely invited into my vehicle when I roll out with my test kits and clipboards every morning.  She can even drive sometimes.  But not when she is up to her eyeballs in yuck and wants to go 19 over in a school zone.  I need to some work on self-regulation if I’m going to let her make choices like that.  I need one of her sisters to drive while she gets her shit together. 

She’ll be fine. 

There’s probably even a french fry under the seat somewhere if she needs a snack. 

When last we talked, I was making for the safety of my office after an emotional, but not unusual work morning, only to find myself with the police in hot pursuit.

I pulled into the drug store parking lot.   My sedan looks and smells like kids eat french fries in it.  The detritus of my passenger seat includes a minion fart machine, a light up wand, a pokey wooden massage roller, bags and reams of tests, my own child’s pokemon underwear and a half squished box of kleenex. It’s a little bit embarrassing.

The officer was younger than me by far, and he smiled at me.   I was going 17 over in a school zone. He asked for my license and registration. I played my hand, because I am not an idiot. As I rummaged in my poorly organized glove box, I admitted that, “I’m a little flustered, officer, I am working and I’m running late.” I gestured with my eyes at the mountain of educational shit riding shotgun.  The officer scanner my car and we played do you know what the speed limit is on X road, and I sheepishly admitted that I had perhaps estimated incorrectly.  

And then something about his entire body shifted.  

His jaw set.  

I saw him change.  The guy now in front of me said things like, “step out of the vehicle, M’am.” and he meant it.  

“Ma’m what’s in the box?”  I was taken aback by the question.  I waited for him to clarify before I moved.  I told you about my car. He was going to have to be more specific.  “The red one.” I guessed he meant the tin treasure chest for small prizes students sometimes earn for working with me.  I then did something I will reflect on for a long time. I shrugged and opened the box, revealing a plastic corner for a half assembled styrofoam glider that the officer told me looked like a syringe.  

I had nothing to lose by opening the box.  This was not a box full of dildoes. Its contents painted me in a favorable light.  It did not feel risky to reach for it. I was upset, but I was not afraid. I had no reason to think the officer would not give me the benefit of the doubt.  I know of countless instances where officers in my community have dealt with hugely stressful situations with great professionalism and I had every reason to expect every officer in my neighborhood to behave as such. I knew that even though this officer was on alert and I was giving off crazy nervous energy, my best bet was to reach into my cluttered passenger seat and allow him access to the box.  I choose to do it even though I know that I have the right not to. 

I don’t know what I would have done under different circumstances.  I don’t know what I would have done if I had felt afraid, if I hadn’t trusted that this officer viewed me favorably or if something had been in that box that I wouldn’t have wanted to show him.  I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had somewhere else I really needed to be. I get to reflect on these things. I don’t have to. I don’t live in this compare and contrast. Will this person give me the benefit of the doubt? I don’t usually have to ask myself.  It’s not fair, but it’s true.  I am not done thinking about this.

There is some small justice in the world.  No one hauls ass passed a high school during lunch time in front of a cop and deserves to skate on about their day.  I still got a ticket for five over, but the officer helpfully explained how I could erase this infraction by taking a class and smiled at me as I pulled away.  My washing machine was delivered later with only minimal swear words proclaimed about the navigation required when big things are moved about old houses. It’s gleaming and giant and I am thankful for the ease at which we can replace things that are too costly to repair.  The heavens opened up and poured after they arrived but before they left and the machine came in dry. It rained, but nothing quite like the inch that was predicted.

Everything was quiet. What a garbage day. I drank some wine.  

It is dangerous to decide that you have learned your lesson.

Part 2

When we left off, I was on my way to my first appointment of the day trying to ward off fate with a cup of coffee.  Our house had no power, but most of the town was fine. The restoration time displayed online was steadily being pushed back, the heavens were scheduled to dump an inch later that day and we rely on a sump pump.  What can you do but keep doing your thing?

My first student was a delight. School was in full swing.  Kids were accessing good supports. In building A, my student used a written schedule to understand what I asked of him, chose a reinforcer to work for and used a token system to understand how close he was to earning his reward.  He used a timer for a set amount of access what he earned, and then completed more work. He knew what was going to happen. I knew what was going to happen. It felt good.  

 As I drove from building A to building B, I called the power company.  The representative informed me, in the clipped and tired tone of someone who chronically finds themselves with a dearth of answers to reasonable questions, that she had no more information what was available on their website.  She didn’t even laugh when I joked that I really just wanted to know if I needed to be angry at a squirrel sad about an accident. She was absolutely just no fun at all. Martha, or whoever, acknowledged that It was true that a job that takes longer than estimated is an indicator of an unusual problem. She heard me invoke the weather forecast, but she was so sorry, there was nothing more she can tell me.  Was there anything else she could help me with today?

I texted my husband and winced, knowing I was not sending fun news.  

In building B, my student finished up his last session by branching out and choosing a reinforcer outside his preferred interest.  The point was math, not writing, so I wrote and he told me his answers. I made plans with his teacher to come back the next week to work on some reading assessments.  As, I signed out of the building, the school secretary fretted at the impending storm and lamented that the fun run scheduled for that evening was all but certain to be rained out.  It would not be easily rescheduled.  

I checked my phone on the way out the door.   No missed calls, but a voicemail from four minutes ago.  The Lowe’s delivery guy was not pleased that no one was there and was going to wait a few more minutes.  This was the second of a myriad of missed texts, images, and phone calls that have been causing incidents of havoc for most people I know lately it seems.  The week before, our wonderful daycare provider had missed my texts to arrange care and caused a needless and frantic evening. I raced towards home. On the way, the driver lamented that they had tried to call me, had knocked, but no one was home, and could I please hold while he talked to someone about what could be done?  I waited, I drove, I prayed he would still be there. Mac had no more clean pants. He came back and told me that he would have to come back later that day, after their next delivery. There would be pants.  

Probably.

 “I wish this had gone differently and I bet you do too.” The delivery guy did not disagree.  We hung up. What had just happened?? I missed no calls. Maybe the concrete walls of the school messed up the reception?  Maybe he dialed the wrong number the first time? Maybe he was covering his ass? Maybe my phone was on the fritz? Maybe the universe ate his call?  Who knows? I sighed and planned to stop in to my office and change out my materials instead of rushing home.

That’s when I noticed the flashing lights. 

Malcolm turns five today.  He wanted a million things for his birthday, and his requests changed every time he was asked.  It depended on what was interesting to him in the moment you inquired. One request never wavered: the dinosaur suit.  Anyone who is surprised by this has probably not met this child. Of course he found something larger than life, and equal parts ferocious and goofy.  

The rest of his gifts include robot fish, wooden cooking toys and a big jar of craft supplies.  Mac understands things by manipulating them. He is a builder and a chef. He delights in using the mixer and measuring ingredients.  He doesn’t always want to eat the cake. He’s not that big on carbs. He learns by doing. He builds things to understand how they work and he won’t undertake a job unless he thinks he can do it effectively.  

When you give Malcolm your full attention, he glows.  It feeds him. He can suck you down a conversation rabbit hole, even when you think you are being very careful.   It may or may not be deliberate. I have to warn his babysitters about this at bedtime especially. Bedtime is a great time to ask, “Why don’t dead things poop?”  Malcom’s language is just catching up to what he has always understood. I never know what Malcolm is going to think, which is part of what makes conversation with him so enticing.  I’m curious.  

Malcolm knows what he thinks right away and he’s probably not going to change his mind.  Helping him navigate moments where what he thinks doesn’t matter is one of the great challenges of parenting him.  He’s extra stubborn when he knows he’s right. He told me once that he noticed that his face looks mean, even when he’s just feeling regular.  He goes all in. He has an extra gear. The resulting resting bitch face is not something most preschoolers key in on introspectively. I asked him if that bothered him, and he replied right away, “No, that’s the way God made me.”  

His teachers report that he’s well behaved at school and plays with everyone.  This is and is not a surprise. Malcolm at home is a wild thing. He jumps out from behind corners and climbs the furniture. He cackles with delight and shakes his bare butt at you.  He smells freaking terrible a good portion of the time and I’m never sure why. His fingernails are dirty and his hair is still baby fine and sticks up at odd angles. He has food on his shirt.  But Malcolm’s mirror neurons are something to behold. His fashion sense is plugged in to the zeitgeist. When we go somewhere together, he usually picks up the environmental expectations before I do.   On the playground, he often assembles a flock of kids around him, and they’re usually playing whatever game he’s into. Malcolm plays family about as often as he plays chase at school. He has a prospect for a wife, and they have agreed to have children, chickens and a greyhound.  They have agreed to treat each other “tenderly.” He really is tender. He still snuggles into his grandmothers’ lap and falls right asleep. He likes it when you kiss his hair. When he was a toddler, he used to reach over to the high chair next to him, and hold hands with a peer who often cried during meals.  It seemed to help.  

I don’t know anyone else like this sunny wrecking ball.  That’s a lie. He’s all sorts of things from people I love shaken up and twisted.  He has my mother-in-law’s social magnetism. He has my father in law’s mechanical mind.  He has my father’s intensity. He has my mother’s warm heart. He has my intuition. He has his father’s sense of mischief.  He is all sorts of things I never saw coming. He is my baby. My baby is five, and he’s unfolding into such a force of nature. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Happy 5th Birthday, Malcolm Paul. Heads up, everyone else.