The Alphabet Song

Recently, an acquaintance asked how my "book" was coming along. "Fine," I replied, "I'm actually over half way done." Well that's sort of the truth. It's true that I have a beginning and an end, but the middle is sort of non-existent. Don't get me wrong, I have the content outlined and a lot of it is already written thanks to my blog. The problem is that the middle is mainly devoted to Emma and Jack and a little thing called autism and finding a balance between humor and heart ache is damn near impossible.

The chapter I am currently working on is called "The Scarlett Letter" and the overall premise compares Hester Prynne's "A" badge with our family's "A" badge. And wouldn't you know it, the overall theme of "cheating" works quite well with autism, (albeit figuratively). There is no question that Emma and Jack have been cheated out of a lot---and Matt and I have gotten fucked in the ass (I realize that Hester didn't get fucked in the ass literally, but she paid a pretty high price for getting a little somethin somethin). Yet I have come to realize over the years that our badge may be heavy, but I'm proud to carry that weight. I'm proud of my family and I'm proud of my children (not such a big fan of autism).

I jokingly told a friend who has a son with Downs Syndrome that a book for "dummies" needs to be written devoted to special needs. The purpose would be two-fold...it would be a legitimate reference for special needs parents to help navigate through all the weird shit their kids do plus a valuable resource for typical parents to read to understand how to act. For example, don't ask, or state the following..."how do you do it?" No matter what special need a family may have, I am fairly confident that we all despise that question or proclamation. Want to know the answer? We have no fucking clue how we do it...we just do. And by asking, you are just reinforcing the obvious that we have a lot on our plate, our marriages/relationships are strained and many of us are in debt up to our ass.

With the above tirade said, please believe that I'm not so judgmental not to notice the good intentions behind the inquiry. Nor do I expect everyone to "know" what the right thing is to say. That's why I think a Special Needs Book for Dummies would be awesome. I mean where else could you reference how not to make a complete ass of yourself plus feel relief when your child thinks painting with poo is cool, (I am grateful that neither of my children indulged in this form of artistic expression, but I'm sure I just jinxed the hell out of myself). My point is this...if you don't understand something, ask. If you want to support a family, ask how you can do this. The mere gesture speaks volumes and any ignorance attached can be rebuffed in mere seconds.

Perhaps I should address my own ignorance and allow myself to feel shitty as I write these difficult chapters. It is such an awesome responsibility to be some one's voice. There are only so many adjectives available to describe who Emma and Jack are---because their autism isn't an adjective, it's a noun. And whether I am a good writer or not is immaterial---my story is possible because of them, quirks and all---a never ending alphabet creating memories.

You're Going to Wear That...To Bed?

As I entered my dimly lit bedroom last night and proceeded to draw back the covers, my husband of 12 years asked, "is that what you are wearing to bed?" Looking down at my flannel pajama bottoms and Butler University sweatshirt I gave a slight nod and proceeded to bury myself in the comfort of our bed. Kissing me lightly on the forehead, Matt let it be known that he was planning on sleeping in the buff...and with that, my flannel wearing ass rolled over, giving Matt and his willy some privacy [End Scene].

I am going to come clean....I don't remember the last time I put on silk and lace nor do I recall the last time I slept buck naked in my own bed. Matt, on the other hand, has slept with his winkle in the air for the last 15 years. Even with newborns, his junk enjoyed a nightly dose of fresh air while I took on the "modest parent" role keeping my shit tucked and hidden. On a monthly basis, I have to endure the great "robe debate" where Matt tries to get me to be "one" with the sheets with the promise that my robe will be in arms reach if one of the kids needs me in the middle of the night---thoughtful, huh?. I have a hard enough time pulling back the sheets in an organized manner without falling out of bed so I can just imagine the outcome of trying to finagle into a freaking robe. Plus it just seems so unsanitary to tend to the needs of a child with nothing but terry cloth keeping your cooter at a safe distance.

But I would like to state for the record that I am not a frumpy person. Fashionable? Not so much, but I clean up. Make-up is my crutch, admittedly for the simple reason that I am not a natural beauty---seriously. There are some mornings, while brushing my teeth, I will look at myself and say "holy fuck my eyes, my eyes". So yes, I apply base, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow and freaking lip stick every fucking day. And yes, mother fuckers, I highlight my hair. Why in god's name would a woman in her 30s choose to go gray? Salt n' Peppa my ass...give me some auburn and honey.

This isn't the first time I have written about my lack of runway savvy in the bedroom, but I can tell you that my propensity for flannel pants is not going away, (sportin a pair as I write). What has got me thinking is the mere definition of sex, passion and the commitment it takes to keep the gears lubed, (pardon the atrocious pun), in one's marriage or relationship. Recently, I have added another guilty pleasure to my repertoire, (and it doesn't require AA batteries). It is a little blog called Sexie Sadie's Stories of Seduction: Confessions From My Open Marriage (http://confessionsfrommyopenmarriage.blogspot.com). This ain't "G" rated folks and it isn't going to jive with those that live, breathe and eat traditionalism. The topic matter is salacious, taboo and will make your inner naughty kitten purrr with delight. But to think of her blog as merely pornographic fodder is an insult. It is a journey, her journey---albeit a wet and sticky one, but a journey all the same. And I admire her bravery...may not agree with it, but I admire it.

The beauty of being in a relationship is the level of comfort that accompanies it. Yet as time passes, its easy to forget how it all began....butterflies in the stomach, racing hearts, sweaty palms. Comfort can lull, but dare I say that it can dull? And while I'm not even remotely interested in the idea of an "open marriage", perhaps its time that I step out of my "comfort zone" by ditching my flannel pants for some flannel shorts and forgoing the panties---oh yeah, I'm so walking on the wild side.