Now, I know my regular readers were a bit befuddled by my abrupt switch of gears on Saturday night. (Thank you for the 25+ emails telling me you did not like it.) As atonement (following suit from our week theme of forgiveness), I offer a more lighthearted insight into life.
Just Want to Hear It
This week has been an emotional roller coaster like I have not had in quite some time. Anyone who has visited About Momma knows I home school my youngest two children, both of whom are autistic. While Little V is strangely verbal, Man Cub is not verbal. Some of you can appreciate the longing with which I await the words, Momma and I love you.
Art Mimics Life
A rambling rant I read this week discussed life mimicking art or vice versa. Here at M3, art is mimicking life…in case you did not notice by the links in this post so far. In bringing you the subjects you send me via Ask Momma, I do it by giving you a little slice of life from four miles past the point where all hope is lost.
I need a time out.
Being in the presence of my children 24 hours a day takes its toll. Some days I long for the comfort of an in-person, adult conversation about anything except:
- Therapy (pick a specialty)
- Strawberry milk
- The location of _________
- Disney movies
- Elementary math
- Yep, the content of everyday with autistic toddlers
Although my children are six and seven, they still function below the age of three for the majority of tasks, with Little Bear somewhere between 13 months and two years…but over four feet tall and over 80 pounds. Sometimes, after dinner and bath, I need a break.
You don’t have to go home,
but you cannot stay here.
These are the times they are banished to their room to play with some of the 8,000 toys which litter their floor and closet and beneath the beds (which is also fodder for the eternal proclamation they have nothing to do). This Monday was one such day.
Can we come out now?
No one said it, but the angelic smiles as Little Bear peeked from behind Little V screamed it from across the dining room.
Me: (Smiling sweetly) What are you doing out of your room? You are supposed to be playing. You do not have to go to sleep, but you (I) do have to have some quiet time.
LV: Because it’s time for to come out now.
Me: Oh, no it is not, my badness child. (Three big grins)
LV: I not a badness child for you. (giggles)
Me: Oh, yes. Yes, you are. Badness. Badness. Badness.
LB: Baaness. Baaness. Baaness.
Me: (Astonished look, no beat missed) I love you!
LB: I love you!
LB: (Clapping) Yay!
(Big group bear hug)
On With the Waterworks
In the last six and a half years, the word Momma has not escaped Little Bear’s lips to mean me. Not. Once. While he has told others I love you, too, he has never volunteered it to/for me. I shuffled them off after many squeezes to their room for the night. Then, I retired to my room to cry where it would not upset them.
In a world where there are no complete sentences and very few words at all, I will take I love you, Momma any way I can get it.
(c) Ann Marie Dwyer 2011
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