I sit on the couch with a soft throw over my legs typing, occasionally listening for Ivy in the other room. When that cat isn’t in view, you have to wonder what she’s doing.
Soon I will have lunch with my daughter.
It’s not hard to locate Ivy if you want to know where she is. Just knock a pen or some other object to the floor and she comes flying into the room, ready for battle.
Soon I will be able to open the front door to let the sun in. But right now the sun is so strong beaming into my living room that it is blinding.
Charlie has had an upset tummy the past couple of days. I’m wondering if it’s all the meds he’s been put on. At least he rarely coughs.
I have a call in to the vet, though I probably won’t hear from him until evening. He is the only vet there and they tell me he never even stops to eat.
Charlie kept going outside yesterday and trying to eat the frozen leaves of the pineapple sage, which usually calms his stomach.
Today is my baby girl’s 40th birthday. Forty years ago I was 21 years old, about to have a C-section to deliver my second child.
It was early in the morning, around 8 a.m. that surgery was scheduled to begin. At least with this delivery there was no emergency.
With my first one I was 17, had pre-eclampsia, and was rushed into surgery on Thanksgiving Day of 1974.
Fast forward to now. She is all grown up now. I can still picture her in pigtails.
She excelled at school and sports. She has a Master’s degree and a great career.
She has been married for 16 and a half years to the boy she fell in love with in her early twenties.
And of course now there is four year old Andrew.
She chose the restaurant for mom to take her to lunch. We do that on our birthdays.
I am so proud of her. Of her compassion and dedication. Her education and her ability to deal with numbers and problems and equations. Which just boggle my mind.
If I had to deal with numbers all day I think I would sign myself into the loony bin. I like words.
My daughter likes numbers because, she’s told me, the answer is always the same. Numbers don’t lie. There is no ambiguity.
I can understand that. But I’d rather deal with words any day of the week. I like to compose with them and have them frame my thoughts.
I like the ability to choose from a plethora of possible words, all similar, to find just the right one. The one that seems to speak to me and whispers: This is the one. This is the word that fits best.
I like puzzles. I like figuring out where things go. Writing is a puzzle of sorts.
You have an idea, but then you must map it out on paper or computer. You tell your story with words.
Oftentimes I have an end first, then a beginning, then I fill in the rest. Everyone has their own way of writing.
With numbers there is a definite answer, an obvious solution. It is black and white.
I don’t deal well with gray areas in my life except when I’m writing. With writing you have metaphors and euphemisms and analogies. You can pick and choose what best suits your thoughts.
On the other hand, as someone with Asperger’s, the way I deal with the world is more black and white. Gray areas confuse me. There is a right and a wrong. There is the truth and a lie.
We often get into trouble socially because someone will ask us a question and they really don’t want to know the true answer. A lie will make them feel better.
But a lie sits on my tongue and does not taste right. It is a bitter taste and I am loathe to tell the lie they seem to want to hear.
I don’t understand why someone would ask a question they don’t really want the answer to. I don’t get the point.
But then again, I am extremely sensitive to some situations. It’s like I can feel what’s in the air. I don’t need to see it.
I recall once I was helping a handy man, who I knew fairly well and was a little bit younger than I was, take down wallpaper in my home.
I hate to sit down and watch someone doing something for me unless it’s something I have no knowledge of.
Anyway, we were stripping the wallpaper. And suddenly out of nowhere I said: “Who hurt you?”
He had been working for us on various jobs for about a year. Building fences, taking down walls. Putting down floors.
There was this strange thick silence. The kind you could slice with a knife.
Finally he said: “How did you know?”
He didn’t look at me. I didn’t look at him. It feels odd to look into someone’s eyes.
“I just felt it,” I told him.
And then he began to share his childhood with me. His pain.
It came to me out of nowhere, this knowledge that there was something haunting him.
Some think that people on the autism spectrum don’t feel empathy. Actually I think some feel too much. Thus being able to decipher the energy in a room.
We aren’t bound by the social niceties and cut to the chase. So maybe if you aren’t aware of and bound to some things, your mind is free to pick up on deeper things.
Well, I don’t know how on earth I got on this topic. But I need to get ready to meet my baby girl for lunch to celebrate her 40th birthday. She’s in the mood for Chinese food.