We Shaved The Kitty!

I've always been wary of cats. When my husband suggested we get one, I balked. Cats are fluffy. I hate fluffy. When we had a chow mix, I personally shaved her to the "needs sunscreen" level every three weeks. My aversion to wooly textures causes me much squirming and hand washing.

If cats came with reptile skin and ornate bumpy patterns, I'd own a fifteen acre kitty farm. But, they don't, so adding one to our houshold two years ago was a big deal. I took baby steps. I started with LOLcats. Fifty pages of cute captioned cats melted my heart. I began to look for the perfect companion.

I found her at the Petsmart Adpot-A-Pet Giardia Center. Pearl, aged five, was not the loveliest cat, but she had extra toes, snaggly teeth and a sweet disposition. When I met her for the first time, she shed clumps and handfuls of white fur. The Animal Rescue staff assured me it was due to stress. She'd been at the center for months. I loved her. Instantly. She purred and rubbed on me, and I shook off the hair without thinking.

So, the cat my husband wanted became the cat my husband complained about. Kitty Pearl does not excel at grooming. I brush her, but I cannot tackle the dense fur on her bottom or poochy tummy. Every morning, cottony clouds of kitty fur breeze across our wooden floor.  I prefer to groom Pearl professionally, but it is expensive. Saturday morning, a cup and a half of kitty hair clumps greeted us.

My husband and I bickered over what to do. We settled on a butt and belly shave. Pearl was sweet and compliant through the whole process. Egor held her as I shaved off two quarts of hair. We removed the bulk of her problem fur.  When she sat or laid down, you could not tell she's been trimmed. Otherwise, she looked as if she sported a scruffy tutu.

This morning, we woke up to find the same quantity of fur littering the floor. Perplexed, my husband speculated that she must have a plastic bag of fur she scatters just to vex us.

Sleeplessness

Every now and then, the nightmare factory sends my son a humdinger. Tuesday night, Tyoma woke us up shouting “I have a bad dream! I have a bad dream!” I slogged to his room to cuddle him back to sleep. With the hysteria only a four year old can muster, he proclaimed:

“You know what’s the worst nightmare? A frog with three colors—green, red and black. Red is the worst color, because it means stop. And I don’t want to stop!”

I expected monsters, farm animals, or even a birthday party to be the subject of his nightmare, not a colored frog. I reminded myself  that dreams don’t need to make sense to be horrifying. We banished his toy frog to the laundry room and I settled him down to sleep. In minutes, his breathing became regular. Yay!  Five minutes later, he rolled over. Five more minutes passed. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed him staring at me inquisitively. I opened my eyes. He informed me:

“You know, all frogs are not bad. Just the ones with red on them…”

I had many options. Being me, I did a statistical analysis of previous nightmare incidents. I included Tyoma’s distress, time of morning and my need for sleep as variables. I decided to give him five more minutes of cuddles and let him read himself to sleep. I miscalculated. An hour later, I hovered on the jerky borderland of sleep. The knocking began.

“It’s time to wake up, guys. It’s already light outside. It’s time to wake up!”

Our little rooster had spied the first glimmer of dawn at 4:30. I had to admit, despite the bad dreams and early hour, T was impeccably polite. Papa took him back to his room as I feigned sleep. At 5:30, Tyoma returned.

“Guys! It’s time to get up! Guys! It’s very light outside.”
*pause*
“Mama...Mama, I’ve read all the books in my room. It’s time to get up.”

Thus, our day started. I cooked French toast and Tyoma read science books. T remained angelic and sweet all morning, and to my surprise, after school as well. At 6:50 pm,  he conked out, snuggled next to me on the couch. His resilience and good humor surprised and pleased me. If only I could grasp that courage at will. I would have slept better that night.

I was too tired to sleep. Insomnia usually starts with my brain grinding in obsessive, doomed circles. Wednesday night, my body felt twitchy and restive. My blood prickled, as if it wanted to escape and whirl around in a margarita machine. Pacing did not help and even the Weather Channel did not soothe me. I considered Temple Grandin’s squeezing machine. Perhaps I could invent a spinning gadget to propel me into tranquility. I vividly imagined the device, but lamented my inability to make one quiet enough to use at home.

At last, I decided to visit Cute Overload. If your mind is filled with fuzzy goodness, eventually your body has to relax. Then I hit upon the ultimate relaxer:




I adore Simon’s Cat. The simple line drawings and kitty mischief are a balm to the soul. I made it back to bed around midnight and had monochrome kitty dreams.

A Touch of Anxiety

I woke up hyper and happy. My husband chased me out of the kitchen to eat breakfast in peace--I had been annoying him with songs about how wonderful his hair smelled. I bombarded him with dish towels at him from the TV room. Egor harumphed off when I did my recycled pepsi can dance, so I performed for the kitty instead. I need to remember that good moods do have a downside. An abnormal happy morning mood usually precedes abysmal afternoon anxiety.

I was excited and nervous over Tyoma's upcoming day at the beach with our  respite worker. At first, I balked at a beach outing, but I reconsidered. If Egor and I took him, we would be burned out by the end of the day. Ashley is a professional skilled at helping kids on the spectrum do new things. She has the skill and brain wiring to turn the day into a success.  

Nevertheless, twenty minutes after Tyoma and Miss Ashley left, anxiety set in. Images of car accidents and tragedy invaded my brain. Ugh. The thoughts stubbornly circled as I folded laundry and picked up toys. I zoomed around the house until it sparkled, hoping for distraction.  I only managed to conjure more elaborate images of catastrophe. At last, I told my husband about my worries. "Ashley is a better driver than both if us. Tyoma will be fine."  This satisfied me and I quit obsessing.

Mom Goes Home

I said goodbye to my mother at the airport this morning. Each visit she seems more frail. Today, her hands shook as she lowered herself into the airport wheel chair. I wondered if emotion gripped her, but age, and medication were more likely culprits. We hugged and kissed goodbye. I glanced into her eyes and presented an automatic smile that I did not feel. Every trip, sadness washes over me when she leaves.

Mom’s month long visit lacked our usual adventures and trips. We did not hunt for lighthouses in Maine or haul her scooter to remote beaches in Massachusetts. Mom, Tyoma and I stayed home, enduring sniffly colds and endless rain. I missed getting away and doing something different. A change of scenery is invigorating, since taking care of my family consumes me.

Mother came to help me recover from my recent Asperger’s diagnosis. My diagnosis is a happy occurrence, however, the stress and excitement of the process left me overwrought and exhausted. I welcomed her help and support. The smell of home cooked meals again wafted through the house. Tyoma gladly spent time with her, leaving me time to read, relax and fold laundry.

In the evenings, Mom had many questions. The process of answering them drained me. When my son was diagnosed with autism, we realized that my dad had autism too. Accepted quietly last fall, Dad’s diagnosis of Asperger’s was an obvious fit. Seeing the condition in me challenged my mother, not only because women on the spectrum present differently, but also because I am her daughter.

In the end, Mother educated herself through books and websites, embracing my diagnosis. Although I missed our seaside trips, we both needed this time to reflect on my life and future. Now, I want those trips back, with all the joy they bring. A diagnosis has not changed who I am, but it has given me insight into how I can handle my life with wisdom.

My Private Face

I have two faces. Looking at my profile picture, I am coifed and painted. This is assembled for doctor's visits, teacher's meetings, and the occasional dinner out. In reality, this is who types the blog:

Two months ago, I would have been embarrassed of my scruffiness and filed this picture away. Now, I'm proud of my slightly combed, definitely unwashed hair. My lack of make-up reflects a sensible woman, and even my discount watch is a statement of pragmatism.  Around the house, I wear my regulation comfy clothes and simple hairstyles. Out there, I fret over appearing appropriate and agonize over details of my attire.  I do want to look pretty, but I don't  need to be squeezed and painted into attractiveness.

Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg's slide show inspired me to share photographs. One person's bravery can give courage to many. Seeing her childhood photos sent me on a personal expedition. What would I find? Although I started out looking through childhood pictures, I ended up focusing on my adult snapshots. I learned more about myself than I expected.  After the jump, a few more pictures for you!

Awwww!

My sweet little guy! You can see eraser marks where T wrote "Love Mama," on the second page.  Tyoma wrote in his ornate made-up font "Love Mama" but they made him erase it. Sads!

And yes, I really do love Malt O'Meal! I don't mind eating the same thing for days on end. You can fix an absolute VAT of Malt O'Meal and it will last you for days. Right now, I'm eating the ultimate easy food, Kix cereal!

Fun With Saifun

I think the stomach bug that hit Sunrise Daycare finally ignited my poor sad GI tract.  Mom came down ill early yesterday afternoon and I crashed at dinnertime.  I am pleased to report I fixed not only dinner, but E's lunch for tomorrow as well. Yay me!

Let me tell you a little cooking secret. Saifun noodles are not the same as rice vermicelli:

Rice Vermicelli





Saifun



Saifun, or cellophane noodles, are made from mung beans. You find them in dishes from China and Southeast Asia.  Rice vermicelli is also from China and has a delightful, firm texture. I could eat a gallon of rice pasta in Chunky Prego sauce.

Wikipedia warns rice vermicelli "should not be confused with cellophane noodles."  This is because saifun are the slimiest noodles on earth. Incompetent cooking renders them unpalatable.

My dinner experiment follows:  I fixed my famous leftover tenderloin surprise by floating sliced pork in a bath of sizzling canola oil. After I finished making sauce, I tossed in the saifun.  The translucency of the noodles startled me. They looked wormy, like dangerous internal parasites.

As I stirred, the noodles undulated suggestively. I chased  a clump with my fork to inspect it further. The noodles evaded me in a faintly biological way. Brrr.  How to serve this to my husband?  I decided to use his mother's secret Russian cooking trick. I added more garlic and some red peppers. E loved it. Dinner success!

The Oatmeal

Created by Oatmeal

How long have I lived without knowing about this guy! ZOMG!

Flipping around on my usual sites, I came across a geek blog with a link to The Oatmeal's site. He's almost the Larson of the 21st century. After a day of agonizing fabric testing and seam searching (AKA clothes shopping for T) I was ready to be entertained by someone who knows the value of kitties and zombies. Yay!

Deathday

So how did my day start? I woke up early, bolted out of bed. My mind filled with things to do. I had lunches and breakfasts to fix, lists to make and toys to pick up.  Groggy from the massive dose of benadryl I took last night. I supplemented accordingly with tea.

I popped on the TV to watch the weather channel, since I start every day that way. News rattled on in the background, as I put together meals and tapped my fingers rhythmically.

Every morning, I have a special moment with the Local on the Eights.  In between Doppler radar segments,  news burbles in the background, ignored. Today, I noticed the words "Osama bin laden" and "killed." I truly did not think much about this as I fixed turkey sandwiches and cooked chicken broccoli pasta. A tiny "hmmm" registered but not much more.

Breakfast fixed and lunches packed, I plopped on the couch. Alabama is in crisis. Tornados devastate communities and kill over 300 people. I see the splintered homes that almost look like scenes from a disaster movie. I think, what is not right?—why this does not look real? I realize that hollywood movies have dramatic lighting, incomparable to the stark sun on raw shattered wood. Truth is ugly.

The Eights come and go. "Osama Bin Laden is dead, " they announced.  I cannot believe it. I remember 9/11. We were at AAA picking up our tickets for a trip to France. We watched with the staff as the second plane crashed into the towers. I was so shocked. I could not process the enormity of what had happened. I just asked about our tickets. I could not think of what else to do. In retrospect, it must have seemed incredibly selfish, but the truth was that it took me hours to process what had happened. When it hit me, my insides felt hollow and my skin tingled. I wept. I paced. I called my best friend and clung to her for the rest of the day.

Hearing of Osama's death was unexpected. As the details unfolded, I watched people celebrating in the streets. Maybe it's just me, but when I think about the loss of the twin towers and all those people, I don't want to celebrate. I want to sit and think and mourn.

Slideshow!

I need to post this before my scatter-brained self loses this!

I found the website Journeys with Autism a while ago and then lost it in the sea of new information I was taking in. I am pleased to report that I found it again via Nicole Nicholson.  I hope my brain will let me unleash something profound and moving in response, aside from, "The 70's were fantastic! Look at her cool clothes!"


ETA: Okay, I'm calmer now. Well, marginally. I am grateful to Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg. I feel less alone with my brain! Her school pictures and insightful commentary unleashed a flood of "OMG, that's ME!" She told my story, except for the details of her school system (blah New Mexico). I ordered her book "The Uncharted Path: My Journey with Late-Diagnosed Autism." It will take me a month to read it, because the subject matter is so volcanic I will reel off on spazzed out tangents every few pages. Bzzzz! Already getting excited!