Domestic Psychology

Aspie copycat

// February 6th, 2012 // No Comments » // aspergers, relatives

Children on the spectrum are brilliant imitators of the people around them. It’s a technique that helps them fill in the blind spots caused by Autism. It’s also one of the best reasons for mainstreaming with their NT peers.

Aspie Caveman has always had a very close relationship with his grandfather. When Tommy was very young and unable to cope with the sensory assault from his environment, his grandfather acted as some sort of constant to help reduce and recover from the meltdowns. As he matured and developed coping skills, Tommy and his grandfather became the very best of friends. After his grandfather’s CABG surgery, it became glaringly obvious that the child with Aspergers understood his grandfather as well as his grandfather understood him.

I’m not sure how long the transition has been taking place, but Aspie Caveman has now taken on the affect of his grandfather. They have the same mannerisms, expressions and physical movements. They use language the same. I may be able to replicate my father’s penmanship, but Tommy reflects the man who he is named after in every other way. My father would never spend half an hour describing the minutia of a game, but when Tommy does it, I see and hear my father. It always makes me smile.

I know with my head that the mimicry is a coping skill. In my heart, I see it as a gift.

Less than six degrees

// September 1st, 2011 // 5 Comments » // Family, relatives

Long ago and not very far away, two Phi Sigma Kappas with a long history of rivalry decided that the winner of a coin toss would be the one who got to ask out the sorority girl from California. The winner of the toss was my father and obviously, the girl was my mother. The story has been told dozens of times, but yesterday, a familiar name from the story, appeared in a pile of paperwork. Paperwork that we have been trying to get since the 1980s. Paperwork that revealed for the first time in his sixty something years on this earth, my father’s actual birth date.

Never knowing your birthday is a hard concept to grasp. Sure, there were home births in my Mother’s family that have mistakes on the birth certificates because of the passage of time between the arrival of the official who did paperwork and the illiteracy of everyone involved, but that was several generations ago. My FATHER didn’t know when he was born.

He knows now. He also knows that his college rival was is his first cousin. His rival’s father was my father’s birth father’s brother. My father probably looked his Uncle in the eyes and never knew it. He still wouldn’t know it if my brother hadn’t spent decades playing detective. My father was very happy with the family that chose him. He only agreed to search because his children wanted answers. We are extremely aware that any and all pain that my father suffers from the enormous amounts of information that have been revealed in the past twenty-four hours is our responsibility.

Several times at the beginning of this quest, my father tried to explain that he didn’t need answers and I always responded with overly dramatic scenarios that involved my brothers or I accidentally dating an unknown relative. My father would begin a long lecture about the number of people in the world and statistical improbabilities. “Bring me a pencil and paper so we can do the math together.” He was working from the wrong set of numbers.

Whenever people ask where my family is from, I answer that my Mother’s family is in Natchez Trace and my Father’s family is in Martin, but add that since my father is adopted, we have bonus family somewhere. Never ever, in my wildest histrionic scenario, would I have placed my father’s birth relatives in Martin and Union City. He really could have interacted with his birth parents or grandparents. As I try to sort all of this into something that my mind can accept, I find the facts that we have learned… comforting. My father really did grow up with both of his families. The rivalry between my father and his fraternity brother was like me fighting with my brothers. We only fought about the things that were really nothing. I can see that parallel because my father made a phone call today to someone he hasn’t spoken to since college. A call of love for a fraternity brother and to laugh at immature rivalries. In a few weeks, they will see each other again. Just the thought of that meeting takes my breath away and leaves me speechless.

awake, asleep, whatever

// June 9th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // health, relatives

As my father groggily fought his way out of the sedation from the CABG surgery, he repeatedly asked which leg the doctor amputated. Everyone reassured him that his legs were still attached, but even as he became more lucid, he remained convinced that he was going to lose a leg. “It was just a dream. A very bad dream.”

After he was released from the hospital, he returned to the ER. Twice. Both times, he was sent back home. Everyone became less patient with the patient. Today, he went to his one week post-release checkup. His leg is badly infected and he has been readmitted to the hospital. The first thing he asks every doctor, nurse, orderly or random stranger? “Am I going to lose my leg?” I’m starting to wonder if my father had a dream or a vision.

Grandaddy says:

// June 4th, 2010 // No Comments » // health, relatives

To family/friends: “The pain is terrible.”
To nurses: “I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you to be frightened by all the tubes and wires, but . . . I’m peeing right now.”

“That nurse has a funny accent. Does she have a green card?”

“I don’t want the nurses to help me. That’s your mother’s job.”

“Next time you visit, bring my gun. I don’t want to be unprotected.”

“Your mother may be my oldest child, but your Uncle is the eldest son, so he’s the executor of my estate and living will. Now, your mother can’t pull the plug on me.”

“Why does your mother keep telling the nurses to make me sleep?”

“Keep those male nurses away from me.”

“I’m so proud of you for doing the right thing and coming to America legally. It really is better here.”

“…and then she squished me to stick a tube in there.”
“When boys are toddlers, they deliberately squish it and it doesn’t hurt them.”
“Oh gross! How can you talk about that?”

“My friends told me that if I use my arms, I’ll feel this pain in my chest for the rest of my life. Fix my pillows again. You didn’t do it right last time.”

“The nurse said I can have sex again when I can climb two flights of stairs, but I’m going to find a woman who can carry me two flights instead. She can just do all the work.”

“Now, your mother gets to know what it was like for me when she had her knees replaced.” (fact check)

To 16-y-o grandchild: “The doctors just gave me ten years. Will I get to meet my great-grandchildren before I die?”

Noah: “Mom? Grandaddy asked me to bring him his gun so he can kill Granny.”
me: “What?!?”
Grandaddy: “Your mother didn’t give me my afternoon pain meds.”
me: “Do I need to drive over there or call 911?”
Granny: “Hello?”
me: “Dad asked Noah to get a gun so he can kill you.”
Granny: “WHAT?!?”
Grandaddy: “You didn’t give me my pain meds and made me suffer.”
Granny: “Your medicine is sorted and sitting on the kitchen counter.”
Grandaddy: “See? She isn’t taking care of me.”
Granny: “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.” <- /sarcasm ->
me: “I’m going to start forwarding these calls to your eldest son.”

humidity chronicles

// May 17th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // relatives, TN, weather

Over the weekend, we took the youngest children to a place in middle TN that was an integral part of my childhood. A place that I haven’t visited in over a decade and an area that I told goodbye during my grandmother’s funeral. A place where time stands still. Oh, wait. The trees are taller now. Also, the basement game room was sacrificed to install a much needed elevator. Other than that . . . same guy in charge, same humidity, same last names and same, same, same. Did I mention the humidity?

There’s a reason I never successfully had a frizz-free day until I moved to East TN. West and middle TN have fungus seasons when the muggy heat saps away the energy and desire to do anything except sit, nap or read. The recent TN monsoons have transformed the normally humid weather into the mosquito coast. The lush green illusion that was the park’s septic field is now a foul-smelling, toxic wasteland. The bugs are growing and multiplying into rain forest monsters. The hotel room was physically soggy. The carpet squished with every step and the clothes in our suitcase absorbed water so rapidly that I expected them to smell like the nasty kitchen sponge I threw away last week.

When the room temperature was higher than the outside temperature and the pages of books started to curl, Doug walked to the hotel desk to see if all the rooms were a swamp or just the ones that overlooked the lake. A few minutes later, we were switched to a room with dry carpeting and a temperature below 80 degrees. It was like moving from the cave to the hatch. With no phone signal, I settled in to use the Internet to call the teenagers we left at home. Doug went to report the room change to the rest of the family.

An hour later, Doug returned from telling my brother our new location. It took some work to find my brother, since he had also switched rooms. His preschooler flushed a wrapped bar of soap, overflowed the toilet and flooded their room. My mother’s careful placement of the entire family in a nice row of rooms turned into a middle of the night Chinese fire drill. Everyone settled in and slept without the distractions of absolutely anything resembling civilization nearby.

Unbeknown to us, at some time in the night, Amy came down with stomach plague. We didn’t know, because Amy switched rooms to be with her cousins. While she did her imitation of Eyjafjallajokull, her Aunt pounded on our hotel room door. The empty hotel room with soggy carpet. The room that Doug told my OTHER brother we were no longer using. The Aunt gave up and sent the uninformed brother to pound on our door. When this failed, they tried calling the empty hotel room. Maybe they called our signal-less cell phones. I’m certain they called us some choice names. If I had known we were playing the world’s meanest practical joke, I would have moved our car to the employee parking lot.

Happy Mother’s Day

// May 9th, 2010 // No Comments » // flickr, relatives

This is the picture of my mother that the Red Cross mailed to my grandfather when he was on a ship somewhere in the ocean. Every time I look at it, I skip through time to visit people now gone and places I’ve never been. Past, present and future memories are the gifts I receive on Mother’s Day. Thank you. I’ll keep them in my heart.

from Monday’s script

// May 4th, 2010 // 1 Comment » // kid quotes, life, parenting, relatives

click
Me: “What’s that…”
click
Me: “Evan! Stop taking pictures of Mommy.”
Evan: “Why?”
Me: “Never take pictures in the bathroom.”
Evan: “But I’m standing in the hallway.”

“Mom? Why are there X’s wiggling all over your phone?”

“Stop it.”
“You stop it.”
“He won’t quit throwing stuff at me.”
“He threw it first.”
“How am I supposed to leave you in charge when you are acting EXACTLY like a 4-year-old?”

“I’m not using that unisex bathroom. If don’t use the same bathroom as my husband, I’m certainly not using the same one as strange men.”

“His only option is bypass. Times three.”

“Don’t spend money on a box that you’re going to toss in the dirt.”
“Whoever is left behind gets to make that choice. If you want to decide, don’t go first.”

“… and I want you to sell the house and move in with someone who can take care of you and …”

“No tub baths. No driving. No lifting.”
“He’s not listening to you.”
“I know that, but I’m gonna say it anyway.”

“Cathy? I saw your pictures on Twitter and knew you were here somewhere.”

“Did you see the videos from Nashville today?”

“Mom? Can I have a playhouse?”

Stevenisms

// January 1st, 2010 // No Comments » // humor, relatives

“You know why they really do that don’t you?”

“Don’t let him turn gay.”

“Four way stops are the worst thing EVER invented.”

“I think I should start wearing women’s clothes.”

“It’s okay if people drink and drive, they just shouldn’t talk on their phones and drive.”

pensieves

// November 14th, 2009 // No Comments » // me, people, relatives

Today, an 80-something gentleman talked and I listened. I occasionally spoke, but my words were just connectors that threaded the man’s stories together. He asked me if I knew anyone who could write a program to help him get his opinions on the Internet. I wrote blogger.com inside the front cover of the journal he was filling with notes. I hope that the grandchild, neighbor or friend he asks for help doesn’t discourage him. Not because I agree with his political and educational ideas. I don’t. That didn’t make them any less relevant or in need of archiving. I wish I had a written record of my grandparents’ stories and opinions. I should have chased them around with a video camera. So much history lost forever.

When you’re a child, it’s funny that old people sit around telling stories. What nobody tells you is that as you get older, the most innocuous sight, sound or smell triggers vivid memories that feel so real, you wonder if you’ve slipped through a wormhole. While it’s usually comfortable, familiar memories that make you smile, occasionally it is long forgotten memories that take your breath away like a cold, winter wind slapping you in the face when you first step outside. Memories that must be written, even if they are tucked away for the future. Memories that make the heart ache at the experiences and ideas that were never spoken, never written, never shared.

I have nothing but memories of my grandparents. All that remains of what should be a part of my history, are scattered, fragmented images. Even the physical things which were promised to me were determined to be more “appropriate” elsewhere. The absence of obvious relics doesn’t stop the ever increasing flood of memories. Memories that I lacked the clarity to see until now. When my grandmother took me to visit the woman in the iron lung, it wasn’t coincidental. It was a deliberate message for a pre-adolescent who was self absorbed and histrionic about a few years in a back brace. My grandmother’s visits there were a secret that she shared with me. I repaid her by forgetting it until she was long gone.

I was always told that aging robs you of memories. Nobody warned me that the opposite could be true. It might not be normal. Perhaps the dusty archive files being shuffled to the in basket are a sign of Alzheimer’s. Maybe it’s my own version of schizophrenia. Whatever it is, I like it. It fills my senses and leaves me with a sense of contentment.

because you = your city

// June 23rd, 2009 // 9 Comments » // me, media, people, relatives

I know it’s annoying that every time your city is mentioned in a news alert, I text, IM and call until you tell me that you are okay. I can’t help myself. Whenever I hear the name of the place that you live, I think of you. It’s YOUR city. No, you ARE that city. I don’t think about any of the historical, beautiful or interesting things in your city. I think about you. Yes, I know there are a zillion other people in your city and the odds of you being involved in some of the things that make it to places like @BreakingNews are ridiculously non-existent. I’m still going to need to hear that you are okay, because it’s not about being rational. It’s about you. Maybe it’s also about me being crazy, but mostly it’s about you. Don’t feel too special though. I’m not talking only to you. All the recipients of my city-person dyslexia are equally frustrated by my pestering them to reassure me.

“Cathy’s asking me if I’m okay. Somebody check the news to see what happened.”