Today is Fiona’s birthday, and she would’ve been twenty-one.
Earlier this month, I attended the meeting of Bereaved Parents, a support group for those who have lost a child. We were asked to share a special Christmas memory concerning our departed offspring. What sprang instantly to my mind was not any particular Christmas holiday out of the ten we had with Fiona, but of the Christmas list she made up shortly before she passed away a decade ago.
I still have that handwritten list, carefully preserved. What’s unique about it is that she didn’t just list stuff for herself—she decided what everyone in the family would want that Christmas. Still, she claimed the lion’s share of wishes.
What Fiona wanted:
Sailor Moon “S” The Movie
Pokemon the Movie 2000
The Simpsons’ Wrestling (Playstation game)
Mr. Driller (also a Playstation game)
Putt-Putt Enters the Race (computer game)
PaRappa the Rapper (Playstation game to replace the one that was too scratched up to work anymore)
Lammy Tee (Lammy was a friend of PaRapper and she had a T-shirt)
PaRappa Ski Cap (He always wore a ski cap. Now you could, too!)
She wrote “Rugrats” but crossed it out. Not on the list but also requested was a video game called Threads of Fate (she’d been playing the promotional demo and wrote the game’s name on the calendar in the kitchen), and a complete set of Sailor Moon Dolls. She saw those advertised on a TV commercial and called me to come and see. “Mom! Mom! Look!” she said.
I came, I saw, I noted. Her father bought the complete set on October 14th of that year, and we put them in our closet to wait until Christmas, but alas—she passed away the next day, October 15th. All of the Sailor Moon dolls are with her now. Mr. Lucky said, “They’ll be our final gift to her.”
That was what Fiona wanted for that Christmas. Somehow she managed to find room on that single sheet of paper for the rest of us.
For her older brother, she wanted him to have a “Crash Bandicoot Color Block Long Sleeve Crew.” Obviously she copied the words out of a catalog. I think it was supposed to be a sweatshirt.
For her dad, she wanted him to have a Playstation game called Duke Nukem: Planet of the Babes. (I don’t think so, Bunny Buttons.)
She wasn’t as specific about what I should get for Christmas, or maybe she was starting to run out of space, but she knew Santa Claus could never go wrong with “Book’s” (sic) for Mom.
When she showed me the list, I told her that she forgot her baby brother. Even if he was her archnemesis, wouldn’t she like to put something down for him?
Fiona promptly amended her list. She wrote down the name of her younger brother, and next to it added the word, “Bear”.
He got a stuffed Teddy Bear that Christmas.
That’s how the Baby of the family came to be known as our Bear . . . by the final Christmas wish of our Bunny.
Showing posts with label Fiona. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiona. Show all posts
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Fiona, Ten Years Later
Dear Fiona:
It’s now been ten years since you left us—almost the same length of time you were with us. We still miss you, and not a single day goes by that my brain doesn’t hit the replay button on those final moments.
I can talk to people about you and what happened to you, and remain stoic and dry-eyed. But then I go to Wal-Mart, where we happen to casually pass through the ladies’ lingerie department. I see a rack of bras and panties adorned with Disney characters, and just like that I turn into a watering pot because I wish I could buy them for you.
This actually happened a few months ago—and this wasn’t little girls’ underwear, either—these were bras and panties for grown females with bosoms. I froze in my tracks to stare at them, and told your dad, “Fiona would love these. You know she’d love to wear them. And if she were still here, she could wear them, and they would fit,” because you’d be twenty years old now. The waterworks started gushing right there in the middle of Wal-Mart, and your dad had to drag me away. Perhaps it affected him, too, but he wouldn’t admit it.
For a fleeting time frame of only three short years, I had all three of my children and our family was complete. Those were the days when we went bowling as a family every Sunday afternoon. Baby Bear sat in his stroller while the rest of us bowled, and you got a kick out of lofting balls like Mr. Burns. Afterwards we always went to CiCi’s for pizza.
I’ve told your older brother that whenever we hear thunder, that’s you bowling up in heaven. “What’s that sound?” I ask him whenever thunder rolls, and he always replies, “Fiona’s bowling.” He still talks about your last day, of the paramedics who came to the house that morning, and of going to see you in the hospital afterward, but he seems to understand you’re now an angel in heaven.
When you were still here, every morning when I got up, I always went first into your room, because your school bus came earlier than your brother’s, and after you got sick, you had medical needs that had to be taken care of first thing. The day after you died, a Monday morning, I got out of bed and went straight to your pink bedroom without a second thought. It was purely out of habit, a reflex. But you weren’t there. The four-poster bed, with its canopy and comforter all covered with cheerful little hearts, was empty.
I still have your comforter, put away where the blanket-loving Bear can’t get to it. Those hundreds of little hearts are still whole, but my own heart is missing a piece.
At least I know where it is.
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
It’s now been ten years since you left us—almost the same length of time you were with us. We still miss you, and not a single day goes by that my brain doesn’t hit the replay button on those final moments.
I can talk to people about you and what happened to you, and remain stoic and dry-eyed. But then I go to Wal-Mart, where we happen to casually pass through the ladies’ lingerie department. I see a rack of bras and panties adorned with Disney characters, and just like that I turn into a watering pot because I wish I could buy them for you.
This actually happened a few months ago—and this wasn’t little girls’ underwear, either—these were bras and panties for grown females with bosoms. I froze in my tracks to stare at them, and told your dad, “Fiona would love these. You know she’d love to wear them. And if she were still here, she could wear them, and they would fit,” because you’d be twenty years old now. The waterworks started gushing right there in the middle of Wal-Mart, and your dad had to drag me away. Perhaps it affected him, too, but he wouldn’t admit it.
For a fleeting time frame of only three short years, I had all three of my children and our family was complete. Those were the days when we went bowling as a family every Sunday afternoon. Baby Bear sat in his stroller while the rest of us bowled, and you got a kick out of lofting balls like Mr. Burns. Afterwards we always went to CiCi’s for pizza.
I’ve told your older brother that whenever we hear thunder, that’s you bowling up in heaven. “What’s that sound?” I ask him whenever thunder rolls, and he always replies, “Fiona’s bowling.” He still talks about your last day, of the paramedics who came to the house that morning, and of going to see you in the hospital afterward, but he seems to understand you’re now an angel in heaven.
When you were still here, every morning when I got up, I always went first into your room, because your school bus came earlier than your brother’s, and after you got sick, you had medical needs that had to be taken care of first thing. The day after you died, a Monday morning, I got out of bed and went straight to your pink bedroom without a second thought. It was purely out of habit, a reflex. But you weren’t there. The four-poster bed, with its canopy and comforter all covered with cheerful little hearts, was empty.
I still have your comforter, put away where the blanket-loving Bear can’t get to it. Those hundreds of little hearts are still whole, but my own heart is missing a piece.
At least I know where it is.
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Christmas Tree with Angel Fiona
I forgot to turn on the flash, but I think it looks prettier this way with the tree lights:
Our dark-haired angel Fiona (whose twentieth birthday would have been this Sunday) holds a giant candy cane. It wasn't till after I took this photo that I realized the pleated shade in the fan light above the living room window spreads behind her like a peacock's tail--or even a nimbus!
Fiona, of course, would look at it and see half a pizza.
Our dark-haired angel Fiona (whose twentieth birthday would have been this Sunday) holds a giant candy cane. It wasn't till after I took this photo that I realized the pleated shade in the fan light above the living room window spreads behind her like a peacock's tail--or even a nimbus!
Fiona, of course, would look at it and see half a pizza.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
About That Balloon Boy: A Grieving Mother's Perspective
First, let me say I am beyond relieved and grateful to God that little boy was never in that balloon.
But it now appears the whole thing was a hoax, staged for a publicity stunt.
If that is true, then this boy’s father clearly has no clue what he did to millions of parents who have lost a child, whether through illness or accident or abduction, or that split second of distraction when a child wanders off, perhaps never to be found again . . . or found, but not alive. We’re all familiar with the old fable about crying wolf. Perhaps, when a child goes missing in the future, people are more apt to wonder if it’s another hoax. Precious moments may be wasted trying to discount that possibility before real action is taken, putting an innocent child in deeper, potentially irreversible danger. I hope to God I’m wrong about that—and as a chronic world class worrywart, there’s nothing I love more than to be wrong about something.
But this man did something else: He tore open the wounds of grieving parents all across the country who saw this story on TV, and were brutally reminded of the indescribable horror that comes with losing a child forever, sometimes in circumstances the parents can barely stand to think about—but must live with for the remainder of their lives.
I’m one of those bereaved parents. And to make matters worse, this hullaballoon took place on the anniversary of my daughter’s death. I heard it on the radio as I drove to the grocery store, and the tears started flowing almost immediately. I thought not only of Fiona, but of how easily something like this runaway balloon could happen to my fast and fearless Baby Bear who is autistic and can’t even talk.
I’m at least grateful that Fiona, who succumbed to complications from a rare autoimmune polyglandular disease, died at home surrounded by those who loved her most. But what if my precious Bear ever slipped away from me in the wink of an eye, and fell into a terrifying situation where he had no escape, no comprehension of what was happening, and no one to help him? It would tear me into so many pieces, I don’t know if I could ever pull myself back together again. It’s precisely because of his special needs and recklessness that I’m so overprotective of him, and can never stop worrying about him or what will become of him if—and someday, when—I’m no longer there.
I came home from the grocery store crying, wondering if they can put a man on the moon, then why can’t they figure out how to rescue someone from a runaway balloon? (I hereby confess: Hot air balloons are pretty, but you couldn’t pay me to ride in one, let alone allow one of my children to go up.) For several hours, my heart that’s been shattered before broke again for a helpless boy I thought was trapped in the balloon—and for the frantic parents. I was unable to function until the announcement he was safe—and what a relief it was!
Every time I see a story about the death or disappearance of a child, I know the hell that child’s parents are going through—a hell I would never wish on my worst enemy—that no grieving parent would ever wish on their worst enemy. It’s a nightmare from which there is no awakening.
And don’t give me any of that “closure” crap. Maybe for the rest of the world, closure comes with the autopsy results, or the funeral, or when a body is found or the killer sent to prison. But for that child’s parents, the doorway to hell always remains wide open, gaping before us as we teeter on the threshold, struggling not to plunge into that dark, bottomless abyss, as we rack our grief-crazed minds to figure out how we are supposed to get through the rest of our lives without ever seeing and holding our beloved child again, never to watch him or her grow up and become what could have been but never will be.
It’s a hell these publicity seekers know nothing about, or they wouldn’t have pulled this stunt.
And it’s a hell I hope they never have to know.
But it now appears the whole thing was a hoax, staged for a publicity stunt.
If that is true, then this boy’s father clearly has no clue what he did to millions of parents who have lost a child, whether through illness or accident or abduction, or that split second of distraction when a child wanders off, perhaps never to be found again . . . or found, but not alive. We’re all familiar with the old fable about crying wolf. Perhaps, when a child goes missing in the future, people are more apt to wonder if it’s another hoax. Precious moments may be wasted trying to discount that possibility before real action is taken, putting an innocent child in deeper, potentially irreversible danger. I hope to God I’m wrong about that—and as a chronic world class worrywart, there’s nothing I love more than to be wrong about something.
But this man did something else: He tore open the wounds of grieving parents all across the country who saw this story on TV, and were brutally reminded of the indescribable horror that comes with losing a child forever, sometimes in circumstances the parents can barely stand to think about—but must live with for the remainder of their lives.
I’m one of those bereaved parents. And to make matters worse, this hullaballoon took place on the anniversary of my daughter’s death. I heard it on the radio as I drove to the grocery store, and the tears started flowing almost immediately. I thought not only of Fiona, but of how easily something like this runaway balloon could happen to my fast and fearless Baby Bear who is autistic and can’t even talk.
I’m at least grateful that Fiona, who succumbed to complications from a rare autoimmune polyglandular disease, died at home surrounded by those who loved her most. But what if my precious Bear ever slipped away from me in the wink of an eye, and fell into a terrifying situation where he had no escape, no comprehension of what was happening, and no one to help him? It would tear me into so many pieces, I don’t know if I could ever pull myself back together again. It’s precisely because of his special needs and recklessness that I’m so overprotective of him, and can never stop worrying about him or what will become of him if—and someday, when—I’m no longer there.
I came home from the grocery store crying, wondering if they can put a man on the moon, then why can’t they figure out how to rescue someone from a runaway balloon? (I hereby confess: Hot air balloons are pretty, but you couldn’t pay me to ride in one, let alone allow one of my children to go up.) For several hours, my heart that’s been shattered before broke again for a helpless boy I thought was trapped in the balloon—and for the frantic parents. I was unable to function until the announcement he was safe—and what a relief it was!
Every time I see a story about the death or disappearance of a child, I know the hell that child’s parents are going through—a hell I would never wish on my worst enemy—that no grieving parent would ever wish on their worst enemy. It’s a nightmare from which there is no awakening.
And don’t give me any of that “closure” crap. Maybe for the rest of the world, closure comes with the autopsy results, or the funeral, or when a body is found or the killer sent to prison. But for that child’s parents, the doorway to hell always remains wide open, gaping before us as we teeter on the threshold, struggling not to plunge into that dark, bottomless abyss, as we rack our grief-crazed minds to figure out how we are supposed to get through the rest of our lives without ever seeing and holding our beloved child again, never to watch him or her grow up and become what could have been but never will be.
It’s a hell these publicity seekers know nothing about, or they wouldn’t have pulled this stunt.
And it’s a hell I hope they never have to know.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Arrival of Fiona Season
Yes, it’s that day again—the one without the cake and candles.
Every year on this day, we take one of those mini-pumpkins to Fiona, and we place it on the narrow ledge around the bottom of her heart-shaped headstone. Thus begins what I call “Fiona Season” which runs from this day until Christmas.
Fiona Season includes not only the best and happiest family holidays, but Fiona’s birthday, which falls on December 20th.
Her brothers have never cared about dressing up in costume for Halloween, but she always did. In fact, she enjoyed wearing costumes more than she liked the trick-or-treating part. On one Halloween I couldn’t even get her to go to anyone’s door for candy. Instead she wanted to just parade around the neighborhood showing off her pink fairy princess costume.
As Halloween 2000 approached, I wondered how we were going to do trick-or-treating in her wheelchair. I asked her if she wanted to be one of the Powerpuff Girls, for she loved Bubbles, Blossom and Buttercup, and since the popularity of those little superheroines was beginning to spike, the costumes were readily available.
But Fiona was adamant. She didn’t want to be one of the Powerpuff Girls. She wanted to be Cleon, a mischievous, giggly little pink fairy. Cleon was just one of numerous cute characters from Fiona’s favorite video game, Bust-A-Move 4:
Cleon is pictured in the lower left-hand corner
One has to give Fiona high marks for originality. Half the girls that year would probably come out as either Bubbles, Blossom or Buttercup, but what kind of girl would have the imagination to go out as the more obscure, but equally playful Cleon?
Fiona Lingefelt.
With only two weeks before Halloween, we were still pondering how to do a Cleon costume when the angels swooped down and took our mischievous, giggly little pink fairy away.
By the time Fiona Season ends, the little pumpkin is starting to go bad, and we toss it into the nearby woods.
In my fanciful thinking, I can’t help hoping that someday, all those little pumpkins will spawn some sort of enchanted pumpkin patch. I have yet to see it.
Or maybe it really is there, but it’s visible to no one but angels and mischievous, giggly little pink fairies.
Every year on this day, we take one of those mini-pumpkins to Fiona, and we place it on the narrow ledge around the bottom of her heart-shaped headstone. Thus begins what I call “Fiona Season” which runs from this day until Christmas.
Fiona Season includes not only the best and happiest family holidays, but Fiona’s birthday, which falls on December 20th.
Her brothers have never cared about dressing up in costume for Halloween, but she always did. In fact, she enjoyed wearing costumes more than she liked the trick-or-treating part. On one Halloween I couldn’t even get her to go to anyone’s door for candy. Instead she wanted to just parade around the neighborhood showing off her pink fairy princess costume.
As Halloween 2000 approached, I wondered how we were going to do trick-or-treating in her wheelchair. I asked her if she wanted to be one of the Powerpuff Girls, for she loved Bubbles, Blossom and Buttercup, and since the popularity of those little superheroines was beginning to spike, the costumes were readily available.
But Fiona was adamant. She didn’t want to be one of the Powerpuff Girls. She wanted to be Cleon, a mischievous, giggly little pink fairy. Cleon was just one of numerous cute characters from Fiona’s favorite video game, Bust-A-Move 4:
Cleon is pictured in the lower left-hand cornerOne has to give Fiona high marks for originality. Half the girls that year would probably come out as either Bubbles, Blossom or Buttercup, but what kind of girl would have the imagination to go out as the more obscure, but equally playful Cleon?
Fiona Lingefelt.
With only two weeks before Halloween, we were still pondering how to do a Cleon costume when the angels swooped down and took our mischievous, giggly little pink fairy away.
By the time Fiona Season ends, the little pumpkin is starting to go bad, and we toss it into the nearby woods.
In my fanciful thinking, I can’t help hoping that someday, all those little pumpkins will spawn some sort of enchanted pumpkin patch. I have yet to see it.
Or maybe it really is there, but it’s visible to no one but angels and mischievous, giggly little pink fairies.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Jasmine, Bees, and a Butterfly
After some much needed rain every day for the past week, my jasmine tree has exploded with blossoms and buzzing bees dancing all around it:
And because of all the rain, the grass is growing and can't be mowed till everything dries out somewhat. But oh, our whole back yard is perfumed with jasmine and it smells wonderful!
In addition to the bees, yesterday I saw what looked like a huge monarch butterfly fluttering near the tree, which made me think of Fiona. A huge fan of The Simpsons, one of her favorite episodes was where Bart told Lisa that he believed when you die, you get to come back as whatever you want. And Bart planned to come back as a butterfly.
When Lisa asked why, he replied, "Because no one ever suspects the butterfly."
Fiona always cracked up at that. And now, every time a butterfly crosses my path, I wonder . . .
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Looky What I Got for Mother's Day!
Three peachy-pink roses and three little bears--brown for my two sons and white for my daughter--each bearing three heart-shaped boxes containing three heart-shaped candies that say "#1 Mom."
I love my bear cubs . . . and their Papa Bear. He's just right.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
"Christmas Tree Up!"
Our Christmas tree is up and ornamented, and if I had a camera, I would post a photo of it here. (I’ve asked Santa to bring me a camera so simple to use that even I, of the many thumbs and wits so dim, can figure it out.)
For over fifteen years now, we’ve had an artificial tree—or as Mr. Lucky calls it, “the tree that saved our marriage.” When he was in the Air Force and we were stationed in California back in the early 90’s, he insisted on driving from one end of the San Joaquin Valley to the other in search of the perfect tree—by his definition, a tall, lush fir that didn’t lose a single needle when he shook it, boasting a retail value of at least $35.00, but sold to him for less than $10.00 because he had a nice face.
We had some hideous arguments that once nearly got us into a car accident. After a whole day of searching in vain for his idea of the perfect tree, we came home without one, and weren’t speaking to each other. After dinner, he stormed out by himself and came home an hour later with the $35.00 tree that earlier that day almost landed us in divorce court.
Two days after that Christmas, he went to Sears and found an artificial tree on sale. It more than paid for itself the following year. It lasted for many years.
A couple of years ago we bought a new artificial tree that stands 7 feet tall, as no one chez Lingefelt is shorter than 5’10”. And God bless whoever came up with the idea of a pre-lit tree! It’s spared me a ton of aggravation. Every January when I put the ornaments away, I would carefully coil up the lights as neatly as possible to no avail. They’d spend the next eleven months in the box tying themselves into knots. Come the following December, I’d spend hours trying to untangle them, laying them out in long trails all over the house, plugging one strand into another to see if all them still worked (every year at least one had managed to strangle itself to death), before they could be added to the tree.
For many years we had musical lights that played seventeen Christmas carols over and over. The lights would blink in time to the music. The Crown Prince loved them, and when he was home and awake, that music had to be on. When the musical lights finally died, we elected not to buy new musical lights. Fortunately he didn’t mind. When he lived at home, he enjoyed helping to trim the tree, and always insisted we put it up the day after Thanksgiving. Failure to do so would result in an endless mantra of, “Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up . . .”
For many years we topped the tree with a star that twinkled with multi-colored lights. The Christmas after Fiona died, we didn’t put up a tree at all that year, but went to Georgia to spend the holidays with Mr. Lucky’s relatives. Since then, we’ve replaced the star with a dark-haired angel with outstretched arms. She looks as if she’s supposed to be holding something. Fiona loved pizza, but I have yet to find an artificial pizza the right size for that angel.
But a candy cane fits perfectly in her arms, so that’s what she holds every year. If only I had a picture!
Maybe next year, if Santa brings me that camera.
For over fifteen years now, we’ve had an artificial tree—or as Mr. Lucky calls it, “the tree that saved our marriage.” When he was in the Air Force and we were stationed in California back in the early 90’s, he insisted on driving from one end of the San Joaquin Valley to the other in search of the perfect tree—by his definition, a tall, lush fir that didn’t lose a single needle when he shook it, boasting a retail value of at least $35.00, but sold to him for less than $10.00 because he had a nice face.
We had some hideous arguments that once nearly got us into a car accident. After a whole day of searching in vain for his idea of the perfect tree, we came home without one, and weren’t speaking to each other. After dinner, he stormed out by himself and came home an hour later with the $35.00 tree that earlier that day almost landed us in divorce court.
Two days after that Christmas, he went to Sears and found an artificial tree on sale. It more than paid for itself the following year. It lasted for many years.
A couple of years ago we bought a new artificial tree that stands 7 feet tall, as no one chez Lingefelt is shorter than 5’10”. And God bless whoever came up with the idea of a pre-lit tree! It’s spared me a ton of aggravation. Every January when I put the ornaments away, I would carefully coil up the lights as neatly as possible to no avail. They’d spend the next eleven months in the box tying themselves into knots. Come the following December, I’d spend hours trying to untangle them, laying them out in long trails all over the house, plugging one strand into another to see if all them still worked (every year at least one had managed to strangle itself to death), before they could be added to the tree.
For many years we had musical lights that played seventeen Christmas carols over and over. The lights would blink in time to the music. The Crown Prince loved them, and when he was home and awake, that music had to be on. When the musical lights finally died, we elected not to buy new musical lights. Fortunately he didn’t mind. When he lived at home, he enjoyed helping to trim the tree, and always insisted we put it up the day after Thanksgiving. Failure to do so would result in an endless mantra of, “Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up . . .”
For many years we topped the tree with a star that twinkled with multi-colored lights. The Christmas after Fiona died, we didn’t put up a tree at all that year, but went to Georgia to spend the holidays with Mr. Lucky’s relatives. Since then, we’ve replaced the star with a dark-haired angel with outstretched arms. She looks as if she’s supposed to be holding something. Fiona loved pizza, but I have yet to find an artificial pizza the right size for that angel.
But a candy cane fits perfectly in her arms, so that’s what she holds every year. If only I had a picture!
Maybe next year, if Santa brings me that camera.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Fiona's Anniversary
It's that other day, the one without the cake and candles.
Dear Fiona,
It's been eight years. We've now had your little brother longer than we had you.
You know he still doesn't talk. Sometimes I'll find him looking at your pictures, and he'll tap on them until I say, "Fiona. That's your sister Fiona."
Sometimes I go strolling with him around the house, and we look at family pictures. I'll ask him, "Where's Fiona?" and he taps on your picture.
He was three years old when you left us, and we have no idea how much he remembers about you, or if he remembers anything at all.
But he does know who you are.
The rest of us--your dad, your older brother, and I--still remember. Oh, how we love to remember!
And we still miss you.
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Unfair Hair
Both my sons are blessed with hair I can only dream of. It’s thick and wavy, and if they go too long without haircuts, they wake up in the mornings looking like Lyle Lovett. I love to run my fingers through Baby Bear’s locks, and he seems to enjoy it. Meanwhile, my own hair remains naturally straight.
I say it’s not fair.
I don’t know whether it’s the result of encroaching middle age (oh, all right, so it's already encroached!) or the humidity in Florida, but my hair no longer holds curls as well as it used to. I can’t remember the last time it was permed, except it was before the photo at right was taken, which was in May 2003. By that time I’d given up on perms because they never lasted more than a few weeks, even when my hair was shorter. Since then I’ve resigned myself to the curling iron—not that I can perform miracles with it.
Daughter Fiona had the same kind of hair as me, long and straight, save for the inevitable tangles. How did the Crown Prince and Baby Bear get so lucky?
What an odd choice of word, because when I asked him, Mr. Lucky said our boys got that thick wavy hair from him. I only have vague memories of that now. When we got married, he did have thick chestnut hair, but it was already receding, and now, twenty-one years later, he’s gone totally bald.
And he wholeheartedly agrees it’s not fair.
His own father went bald, and he has four brothers, all of whom still have all their own hair. This raises the question: Will my sons eventually go bald?
Mr. Lucky is of the opinion that if our oldest was going to lose his hair, we’d see evidence of it already, because Mr. Lucky himself started losing hair as a teenager. He believes the Crown Prince is safe. The fate of Baby Bear’s locks remain to be seen.
I say again: It’s not fair.
I say it’s not fair.
I don’t know whether it’s the result of encroaching middle age (oh, all right, so it's already encroached!) or the humidity in Florida, but my hair no longer holds curls as well as it used to. I can’t remember the last time it was permed, except it was before the photo at right was taken, which was in May 2003. By that time I’d given up on perms because they never lasted more than a few weeks, even when my hair was shorter. Since then I’ve resigned myself to the curling iron—not that I can perform miracles with it.
Daughter Fiona had the same kind of hair as me, long and straight, save for the inevitable tangles. How did the Crown Prince and Baby Bear get so lucky?
What an odd choice of word, because when I asked him, Mr. Lucky said our boys got that thick wavy hair from him. I only have vague memories of that now. When we got married, he did have thick chestnut hair, but it was already receding, and now, twenty-one years later, he’s gone totally bald.
And he wholeheartedly agrees it’s not fair.
His own father went bald, and he has four brothers, all of whom still have all their own hair. This raises the question: Will my sons eventually go bald?
Mr. Lucky is of the opinion that if our oldest was going to lose his hair, we’d see evidence of it already, because Mr. Lucky himself started losing hair as a teenager. He believes the Crown Prince is safe. The fate of Baby Bear’s locks remain to be seen.
I say again: It’s not fair.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Daughter of Imagination: A Fiona Story
In the children’s classic, Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder, Laura’s very first doll was nothing but a corncob wrapped in a handkerchief. Later in the story, for Christmas she received a more human-looking—indeed, a more doll-looking—rag doll she named Charlotte.
Our daughter Fiona had something of a reverse experience with a toy collection of characters from the Disney movie, Beauty and the Beast. (I hereby confess: Every time I watch it, I get all teary-eyed at the end.)
For Christmas 1994, Santa Claus brought five year old Fiona the plastic figures of Mrs. Potts the Teapot, Chip the Chipped Teacup, Cogsworth the Clock, and Lumiere the Candelabrum. She was delighted with them, and I still remember when it was her bedtime Christmas night, how she scooped all of them up and took them to bed with her, even though they weren’t as soft and cuddly as the stuffed animals favored by her older brother.
All was well until several months later, when for reasons that will always remain a mystery to us, she put all the characters save Mrs. Potts (whom we can only surmise was granted clemency due to her generous girth) into the microwave and cooked them.
As far as I can recall, that was the first and last time Fiona ever operated the microwave.
Oddly enough, she did it while Mr. Lucky and I were in the family room watching the movie Mrs. Doubtfire, not too long after the scene where Robin Williams accidentally set his fake boobs ablaze.
Flames danced inside the microwave, smoke wafted throughout the kitchen, and black soot dusted the kitchen cabinets, which we planned to replace anyway. Fortunately Fiona was not hurt; in fact, she behaved with amazing aplomb throughout the entire episode—as if this were just another ordinary day chez Lingefelt. (Hmm, now that I think of it . . .)
If one good thing came out of what could have been a disaster on many fronts, it was the discovery that our smoke alarm was kaput. (The ones in our newest home work almost too well. They shriek in horror every time Mr. Lucky broils or even fries something.)
Alas, nothing could be done for Chip, Cogsworth, or Lumiere, and by that time, they were no longer available at The Disney Store, and this was back in the days before we might have been able to find them online.
But Fiona figured out how to deal with it. The next time she played with Mrs. Potts, she substituted a regular Corelle coffee cup for Chip, and stole my alarm clock to take the place of Cogsworth.
The part of Lumiere, meanwhile, was now played by my old breast pump.
Somehow I think that roguish candelabrum would have approved—and maybe wished the curse of the beautiful sorceress had turned him into a breast pump instead.
If necessity is the mother of invention, then improvisation is the daughter of imagination.
Our daughter Fiona had something of a reverse experience with a toy collection of characters from the Disney movie, Beauty and the Beast. (I hereby confess: Every time I watch it, I get all teary-eyed at the end.)
For Christmas 1994, Santa Claus brought five year old Fiona the plastic figures of Mrs. Potts the Teapot, Chip the Chipped Teacup, Cogsworth the Clock, and Lumiere the Candelabrum. She was delighted with them, and I still remember when it was her bedtime Christmas night, how she scooped all of them up and took them to bed with her, even though they weren’t as soft and cuddly as the stuffed animals favored by her older brother.
All was well until several months later, when for reasons that will always remain a mystery to us, she put all the characters save Mrs. Potts (whom we can only surmise was granted clemency due to her generous girth) into the microwave and cooked them.
As far as I can recall, that was the first and last time Fiona ever operated the microwave.
Oddly enough, she did it while Mr. Lucky and I were in the family room watching the movie Mrs. Doubtfire, not too long after the scene where Robin Williams accidentally set his fake boobs ablaze.
Flames danced inside the microwave, smoke wafted throughout the kitchen, and black soot dusted the kitchen cabinets, which we planned to replace anyway. Fortunately Fiona was not hurt; in fact, she behaved with amazing aplomb throughout the entire episode—as if this were just another ordinary day chez Lingefelt. (Hmm, now that I think of it . . .)
If one good thing came out of what could have been a disaster on many fronts, it was the discovery that our smoke alarm was kaput. (The ones in our newest home work almost too well. They shriek in horror every time Mr. Lucky broils or even fries something.)
Alas, nothing could be done for Chip, Cogsworth, or Lumiere, and by that time, they were no longer available at The Disney Store, and this was back in the days before we might have been able to find them online.
But Fiona figured out how to deal with it. The next time she played with Mrs. Potts, she substituted a regular Corelle coffee cup for Chip, and stole my alarm clock to take the place of Cogsworth.
The part of Lumiere, meanwhile, was now played by my old breast pump.
Somehow I think that roguish candelabrum would have approved—and maybe wished the curse of the beautiful sorceress had turned him into a breast pump instead.
If necessity is the mother of invention, then improvisation is the daughter of imagination.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Autistic Children in Public
This news article didn’t just hit close to home—it struck me right in the heart:
Autistic Kids’ Outbursts Stir Furor and Guilt
We know our autistic children are disruptive, and we don't like it anymore than anyone else. We don't excuse it, to the extent that we try to avoid putting them in situations where they will disturb other people. But sometimes, we have to take them out--e.g., to the grocery store or doctor's office, where there are other children. I do not relax on any of those occasions, for fear Baby Bear will spit on some unsuspecting person or knock over a smaller child like a bowling ball picking up a spare. In fact, Mr. Lucky thinks I should relax and not be so overvigilant and sensitive to dirty looks.
For the very reasons stated in the above article, we’ve never taken any of our children to church. We trust God understands this, because He’s God. Once upon a time, children like mine were probably thought to be demonically possessed. On the other hand, one might think Baby Bear’s nonsensical babbling is “speaking in tongues” and that he’s full of the Holy Spirit. I do know he’s full of unholy spit, and like the young man described in this article, he deploys it wherever we go. I'm always afraid that one day he'll spit at the wrong person, and suffer violent retaliation.
Baby Bear has never been to the movies, for the same reason he’s never been to church. The Crown Prince, on the other hand, does fairly well at the theater. Even though he’s almost twenty years old, he still likes Mr. Lucky to take him to see the newest Disney/Pixar and Dreamworks cartoons. Not only have they gotten strange looks from people, but once a woman actually approached my husband and son in the theater, and asked if they weren’t a little old for the likes of Finding Nemo. She may have been wary that they were pedophiles on the prowl, and I can understand that concern. Still . . .
Our children are not good travelers. It’s an ongoing struggle to keep Baby Bear buckled in; he liberates himself every time we go out, and we invariably have to pull over and strap him in again. They can handle a drive to their paternal grandparents’ house two hundred miles away, but beyond that, all bets are off. When we moved from California to Florida in December 1993, we drove the whole way on Interstate 10, and the Crown Prince and Fiona all but stopped eating during that week. (Don’t get me started on when the car broke down halfway between El Paso and San Antonio, on a Sunday afternoon when everything in rural Texas is closed. That’s on my Top Ten Worst Moments of My Life list.)
Even without the children, neither Mr. Lucky nor I have ever enjoyed air travel, considering it a necessary evil. We will not board a plane with any of our children unless we absolutely have to. Fortunately, this has only happened once.
When we lived in California, the military doctors at Travis Air Force Base wanted to send the Crown Prince to a specialist at Wilford Hall Medical Center at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. Right before the military medivac plane took off, the crew insisted on removing him because of the disturbance he created. After being rescheduled for another flight, with doctors’ orders to be sedated, he and Mr. Lucky managed to fly to Texas and back. The consultation, meanwhile, turned out to be a total waste of everything. Mr. Lucky said they could’ve just mailed copies of the child’s medical records to WHMC.
And just like the parents of the kid in the article whose uncle thinks he should be institutionalized, I’ve had to call the police when the Crown Prince, in the absence of his father deployed overseas, became violent toward me and Baby Bear. I didn’t know what the hell else to do. I hated doing it; I hated myself for doing it—so much so that the last time it happened, in May 2006, I let him chase me out of the house and into the driveway in hopes the neighbors might see and call the cops, because I didn’t want to. (It worked. To this day I don’t know who called, but a short while later, two sheriff’s deputies pulled up in front of our house.) He was placed in a group home after that, and fortunately he’s very happy there, but I wish it hadn’t happened that way.
Just taking a trip to the grocery store is a subject for a whole other blog entry.
I’m not complaining; I certainly hope that's not how this sounds. I’m just saying that what’s in that article is dead on, and this is how we deal with those issues chez Lingefelt. (If we had a "normal" kid, we probably wouldn't know what to do with him!) It’s the life we know, and we can’t imagine any other. But we still love our kids for it.
By the way, the article failed to mention how important it is for everyone, on both sides, to keep their sense of humor about it. That, I believe, is the secret ingredient for dealing with this.
Autistic Kids’ Outbursts Stir Furor and Guilt
We know our autistic children are disruptive, and we don't like it anymore than anyone else. We don't excuse it, to the extent that we try to avoid putting them in situations where they will disturb other people. But sometimes, we have to take them out--e.g., to the grocery store or doctor's office, where there are other children. I do not relax on any of those occasions, for fear Baby Bear will spit on some unsuspecting person or knock over a smaller child like a bowling ball picking up a spare. In fact, Mr. Lucky thinks I should relax and not be so overvigilant and sensitive to dirty looks.
For the very reasons stated in the above article, we’ve never taken any of our children to church. We trust God understands this, because He’s God. Once upon a time, children like mine were probably thought to be demonically possessed. On the other hand, one might think Baby Bear’s nonsensical babbling is “speaking in tongues” and that he’s full of the Holy Spirit. I do know he’s full of unholy spit, and like the young man described in this article, he deploys it wherever we go. I'm always afraid that one day he'll spit at the wrong person, and suffer violent retaliation.
Baby Bear has never been to the movies, for the same reason he’s never been to church. The Crown Prince, on the other hand, does fairly well at the theater. Even though he’s almost twenty years old, he still likes Mr. Lucky to take him to see the newest Disney/Pixar and Dreamworks cartoons. Not only have they gotten strange looks from people, but once a woman actually approached my husband and son in the theater, and asked if they weren’t a little old for the likes of Finding Nemo. She may have been wary that they were pedophiles on the prowl, and I can understand that concern. Still . . .
Our children are not good travelers. It’s an ongoing struggle to keep Baby Bear buckled in; he liberates himself every time we go out, and we invariably have to pull over and strap him in again. They can handle a drive to their paternal grandparents’ house two hundred miles away, but beyond that, all bets are off. When we moved from California to Florida in December 1993, we drove the whole way on Interstate 10, and the Crown Prince and Fiona all but stopped eating during that week. (Don’t get me started on when the car broke down halfway between El Paso and San Antonio, on a Sunday afternoon when everything in rural Texas is closed. That’s on my Top Ten Worst Moments of My Life list.)
Even without the children, neither Mr. Lucky nor I have ever enjoyed air travel, considering it a necessary evil. We will not board a plane with any of our children unless we absolutely have to. Fortunately, this has only happened once.
When we lived in California, the military doctors at Travis Air Force Base wanted to send the Crown Prince to a specialist at Wilford Hall Medical Center at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. Right before the military medivac plane took off, the crew insisted on removing him because of the disturbance he created. After being rescheduled for another flight, with doctors’ orders to be sedated, he and Mr. Lucky managed to fly to Texas and back. The consultation, meanwhile, turned out to be a total waste of everything. Mr. Lucky said they could’ve just mailed copies of the child’s medical records to WHMC.
And just like the parents of the kid in the article whose uncle thinks he should be institutionalized, I’ve had to call the police when the Crown Prince, in the absence of his father deployed overseas, became violent toward me and Baby Bear. I didn’t know what the hell else to do. I hated doing it; I hated myself for doing it—so much so that the last time it happened, in May 2006, I let him chase me out of the house and into the driveway in hopes the neighbors might see and call the cops, because I didn’t want to. (It worked. To this day I don’t know who called, but a short while later, two sheriff’s deputies pulled up in front of our house.) He was placed in a group home after that, and fortunately he’s very happy there, but I wish it hadn’t happened that way.
Just taking a trip to the grocery store is a subject for a whole other blog entry.
I’m not complaining; I certainly hope that's not how this sounds. I’m just saying that what’s in that article is dead on, and this is how we deal with those issues chez Lingefelt. (If we had a "normal" kid, we probably wouldn't know what to do with him!) It’s the life we know, and we can’t imagine any other. But we still love our kids for it.
By the way, the article failed to mention how important it is for everyone, on both sides, to keep their sense of humor about it. That, I believe, is the secret ingredient for dealing with this.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Happy Father's Day to Mr. Lucky!
Since none of our special needs children are able to write the usual “Why My Dad is the World’s Greatest” essays that win him gift cards to hardware and sporting goods stores, I will attempt to compose a little something on their behalf.
To Mr. Lucky:
Our oldest son thinks you’re pretty cool because you take him to the movies and Busch Gardens, where he gets to ride on the train and get wet on the “circle boat” (Congo River Rapids), and “rectangle boat” (Tanganyika Tidal Wave).
You’re our daughter’s hero, because during all those weeks when she was in the hospital, you watched all those Pokemon videos with her (to include the baffling Pikachu’s Vacation), and you went all the way out to CiCi’s every day to get her the cheese pizza she loved, so she wouldn’t have to eat that other stuff the hospital called “food.”
Our youngest son looks up to you as the Bringer of Donuts, the Unlocker of Locked-Up Computers, the Parent Most Easily Conned, and the Only Thing Standing Between Baby Bear and the Total Insanity That is Mom.
I cannot imagine a better father for my children. I could not do any of this without you.
I love you!
To Mr. Lucky:
Our oldest son thinks you’re pretty cool because you take him to the movies and Busch Gardens, where he gets to ride on the train and get wet on the “circle boat” (Congo River Rapids), and “rectangle boat” (Tanganyika Tidal Wave).
You’re our daughter’s hero, because during all those weeks when she was in the hospital, you watched all those Pokemon videos with her (to include the baffling Pikachu’s Vacation), and you went all the way out to CiCi’s every day to get her the cheese pizza she loved, so she wouldn’t have to eat that other stuff the hospital called “food.”
Our youngest son looks up to you as the Bringer of Donuts, the Unlocker of Locked-Up Computers, the Parent Most Easily Conned, and the Only Thing Standing Between Baby Bear and the Total Insanity That is Mom.
I cannot imagine a better father for my children. I could not do any of this without you.
I love you!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I'm Still Fiona's Mom
Dear Fiona,
This morning we went to visit you, and hung a set of pink butterfly wind chimes with your flowers. Mother's Day is a day I like to celebrate the fact that I'm still your mom, and will always be your mom.
That means I still worry about you, even though you’ve been gone for almost eight years. People say you’re in a much better place now, where there's no sickness or pain, a glorious place where everything and everyone is beautiful and perfect, and you’re happier than you could ever be here.
I took the idea of that place for granted until you went there, at which point my faith was sorely tested. Suddenly I viewed Heaven the way I might a preschool or summer camp. How could I be certain it was all right to leave my child in a place like this? Had it been thoroughly inspected and licensed by the state?
Only a mom would fuss over that, and I'm still your mom.
In the hours immediately following your departure, I agonized over what might be happening to your soul, your spirit. I worried that you were confused and frightened about where you were and what was happening to you.
I asked the craziest questions that no one could answer to my satisfaction: Did they get Cartoon Network in Heaven, so you could watch Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon? Would you have enough paper and crayons to indulge your love of drawing pictures? Did St. Peter know that Wednesday was always pizza night? Could I count on him to remember to always hold the pepperoni on yours?
Nutty as it seems, these were the things that drove me—well, nuts. I never fretted this way when my brother, grandparents, or mother died. Only with you, Fiona. Because I'm still your mom, while you're always and forever my girl.
Over time, among the pieces of my broken heart I've found a tiny fragment that assures me you're safe in a wonderful place that runs Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon marathons 24/7; a marvelous place where every night is pizza night, and crayons come in the most amazing spectrum of colors that no one on earth can imagine. A place that's Heaven to Fiona.
I'm the one who was confused and frightened. Yet I'll never stop worrying, because I'm still your mom.
This morning we went to visit you, and hung a set of pink butterfly wind chimes with your flowers. Mother's Day is a day I like to celebrate the fact that I'm still your mom, and will always be your mom.
That means I still worry about you, even though you’ve been gone for almost eight years. People say you’re in a much better place now, where there's no sickness or pain, a glorious place where everything and everyone is beautiful and perfect, and you’re happier than you could ever be here.
I took the idea of that place for granted until you went there, at which point my faith was sorely tested. Suddenly I viewed Heaven the way I might a preschool or summer camp. How could I be certain it was all right to leave my child in a place like this? Had it been thoroughly inspected and licensed by the state?
Only a mom would fuss over that, and I'm still your mom.
In the hours immediately following your departure, I agonized over what might be happening to your soul, your spirit. I worried that you were confused and frightened about where you were and what was happening to you.
I asked the craziest questions that no one could answer to my satisfaction: Did they get Cartoon Network in Heaven, so you could watch Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon? Would you have enough paper and crayons to indulge your love of drawing pictures? Did St. Peter know that Wednesday was always pizza night? Could I count on him to remember to always hold the pepperoni on yours?
Nutty as it seems, these were the things that drove me—well, nuts. I never fretted this way when my brother, grandparents, or mother died. Only with you, Fiona. Because I'm still your mom, while you're always and forever my girl.
Over time, among the pieces of my broken heart I've found a tiny fragment that assures me you're safe in a wonderful place that runs Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon marathons 24/7; a marvelous place where every night is pizza night, and crayons come in the most amazing spectrum of colors that no one on earth can imagine. A place that's Heaven to Fiona.
I'm the one who was confused and frightened. Yet I'll never stop worrying, because I'm still your mom.
At least I know if St. Peter forgets to hold that pepperoni, you’ll give him holy hell for it.
That's my girl!
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Family Food Fetishes, Part I
Like her two brothers, our late daughter Fiona was autistic. She loved cheese pizza and potato chips. The pizza had to have started out as a cheese pizza; we could not take a pepperoni pizza and remove the pepperoni, for she always knew. She ate only plain potato chips—no ruffles or ridges, no barbecue or cool ranch.
In her earlier years, she loved fruit loops and applejack cereal. (Oh, heck, so did we.) We bought her the most popular brand name, until the company made two mistakes: They added a new colored loop (blue) to the fruit, and a new colored jack (green) to the apple.
Fiona would not eat either of these cereals after that.
We tried emptying the boxes into large mixing bowls and picking out the offending colors, but she wasn’t fooled. She still wouldn’t eat the cereal. Could we not understand what was so obvious to her? THOSE STRANGE COLORS HAD CONTAMINATED IT!
We searched for lesser known brands that did not have evil blue in the fruit, or detestable green in the apple, but the damage had been done. She would no longer eat these cereals, regardless of brand or absence of unacceptable colors.
For years we assumed this was a feature of her autism, but her younger brother, Baby Bear, loves pepperoni more than any other part of the pizza, will eat any flavor or texture of chip, and any kind of cereal. In that sense, he clearly takes after his father.
When it comes to cereal, I bounce back and forth between raisin bran and grapenuts. Recently, when I ran out of cereal, Mr. Lucky went out to buy some more and came back with two boxes of “trail mix”—grapenuts with all sorts of exotic stuff added to it. It was as if the company took bits out of every type of cereal they made, threw it all together into one box, shook it up and called it “trail mix”--which quite frankly sounds like dog food to me.
I wouldn’t touch it.
Mr. Lucky thought I was crazy and unreasonable and stuck in a rut—as if he didn’t already know all these things about me after twenty years of marriage. “Come on, it’s the same cereal you’ve always eaten,” he said. “And it comes with lots of other stuff you like—cranberries, almonds, vanilla. Plus it was on sale—buy one, get one free.” This is the kind of logic I’ve come to expect from my husband, who’s an honor graduate of the Gracie Allen School of Economics.
I do like cranberries and almonds and vanilla. I also like ketchup and chocolate and fried chicken, but I sure as hell do not want to eat them together, and I certainly don’t want to find them in my grapenuts or raisin bran.
Mr. Lucky gladly ate the trail mix, because he’ll eat any kind of cereal at any time of day—except for grapenuts and raisin bran.
The next day I went out myself to buy cereal I knew I would eat. I had to read the boxes carefully to make sure I got just raisin bran, and not extra crunchy raisin bran, or raisin bran with grapes and nuts, or—heaven forbid, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s out there, and I mean way out there—raisin bran with chocolate flakes, chicken chunks and dried globs of ketchup.
Maybe Fiona’s aversion to blue fruit loops and green applejacks had nothing to do with autism. It could be she simply took after her mother.
Mr. Lucky likes to tease me by saying I’m no fun, that I have no sense of adventure.
That’s not entirely true. Secretly, I really want to eat cocoa puffs for breakfast. And I probably would, if I weren’t afraid he and Baby Bear would devour them as snack food, leaving me with nothing to eat for breakfast . . . except grapenuts and raisin bran.
In her earlier years, she loved fruit loops and applejack cereal. (Oh, heck, so did we.) We bought her the most popular brand name, until the company made two mistakes: They added a new colored loop (blue) to the fruit, and a new colored jack (green) to the apple.
Fiona would not eat either of these cereals after that.
We tried emptying the boxes into large mixing bowls and picking out the offending colors, but she wasn’t fooled. She still wouldn’t eat the cereal. Could we not understand what was so obvious to her? THOSE STRANGE COLORS HAD CONTAMINATED IT!
We searched for lesser known brands that did not have evil blue in the fruit, or detestable green in the apple, but the damage had been done. She would no longer eat these cereals, regardless of brand or absence of unacceptable colors.
For years we assumed this was a feature of her autism, but her younger brother, Baby Bear, loves pepperoni more than any other part of the pizza, will eat any flavor or texture of chip, and any kind of cereal. In that sense, he clearly takes after his father.
When it comes to cereal, I bounce back and forth between raisin bran and grapenuts. Recently, when I ran out of cereal, Mr. Lucky went out to buy some more and came back with two boxes of “trail mix”—grapenuts with all sorts of exotic stuff added to it. It was as if the company took bits out of every type of cereal they made, threw it all together into one box, shook it up and called it “trail mix”--which quite frankly sounds like dog food to me.
I wouldn’t touch it.
Mr. Lucky thought I was crazy and unreasonable and stuck in a rut—as if he didn’t already know all these things about me after twenty years of marriage. “Come on, it’s the same cereal you’ve always eaten,” he said. “And it comes with lots of other stuff you like—cranberries, almonds, vanilla. Plus it was on sale—buy one, get one free.” This is the kind of logic I’ve come to expect from my husband, who’s an honor graduate of the Gracie Allen School of Economics.
I do like cranberries and almonds and vanilla. I also like ketchup and chocolate and fried chicken, but I sure as hell do not want to eat them together, and I certainly don’t want to find them in my grapenuts or raisin bran.
Mr. Lucky gladly ate the trail mix, because he’ll eat any kind of cereal at any time of day—except for grapenuts and raisin bran.
The next day I went out myself to buy cereal I knew I would eat. I had to read the boxes carefully to make sure I got just raisin bran, and not extra crunchy raisin bran, or raisin bran with grapes and nuts, or—heaven forbid, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s out there, and I mean way out there—raisin bran with chocolate flakes, chicken chunks and dried globs of ketchup.
Maybe Fiona’s aversion to blue fruit loops and green applejacks had nothing to do with autism. It could be she simply took after her mother.
Mr. Lucky likes to tease me by saying I’m no fun, that I have no sense of adventure.
That’s not entirely true. Secretly, I really want to eat cocoa puffs for breakfast. And I probably would, if I weren’t afraid he and Baby Bear would devour them as snack food, leaving me with nothing to eat for breakfast . . . except grapenuts and raisin bran.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Fiona's Birthday
Dear Fiona,
Tomorrow would have been your 18th birthday. You might have been as tall as me, perhaps even taller, God help you, if your brothers are anything to go by. I'll always wonder, but never know.
This will be our eighth Christmas without you. We miss you always, but never so much as at this time of year, with your birthday and Christmas only five days apart.
That first Christmas without you--two months after you left us--was awful. We didn't even put up the tree that year. We drove up to Georgia and spent the holidays with your dad's parents, siblings, and their kids. I didn't send out any Christmas cards, nor did I do any shopping, except for your two brothers. Even then, I shopped online, because I couldn't set foot in Toys-R-Us or the Disney Store--or anywhere I might see toys and little girl things--without bursting into tears right on the spot. What made it even worse was the sudden explosion of Powerpuff Girls merchandise, right after you left. Fiona, you would have gone nuts! (While your dad, who so loved to spoil you, would have gone broke.)
The second Christmas, we did put up a tree, but with one change. Instead of a brightly twinkling, multi-colored star, we topped the tree with a dark-haired, blue-eyed angel. Do you know how hard it is to find an angel who's dark-haired AND blue-eyed, just like you? But I finally found one at Target.
That year, I still shopped only online. But I did send out Christmas cards--and I signed not only my name, your dad's, and your two brothers', but your name, too. Because you're still a member of our family, still with us if only in spirit. And such spirit! You've always had it.
All these years later, I still sign your name to the cards. I always will.
It took about five years before I could set foot in a toy department again without going into a tearful meltdown. I don't know what hurts more--going to the girls' section only to set off my waterworks, or avoiding the girls' section because I'm afraid of setting off those waterworks. One could argue that either way, I have no business going to the girls' section anymore, and that there's no point in dwelling over what might have been, simply because it will never be.
Indeed, if you were still here, I might not be going to that girls' section anymore, anyway. You'd be a young lady now. What would catch your fancy nowadays?
Every time I see a picture of this girl, born only 93 days after you, I think of you and what you might look like now. But I know you'd be just as beautiful as she is.
And you're certainly, forever and always, just as much a princess.
Though it saddens us you're no longer here, know that the memories of you always bring us joy.
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
Tomorrow would have been your 18th birthday. You might have been as tall as me, perhaps even taller, God help you, if your brothers are anything to go by. I'll always wonder, but never know.
This will be our eighth Christmas without you. We miss you always, but never so much as at this time of year, with your birthday and Christmas only five days apart.
That first Christmas without you--two months after you left us--was awful. We didn't even put up the tree that year. We drove up to Georgia and spent the holidays with your dad's parents, siblings, and their kids. I didn't send out any Christmas cards, nor did I do any shopping, except for your two brothers. Even then, I shopped online, because I couldn't set foot in Toys-R-Us or the Disney Store--or anywhere I might see toys and little girl things--without bursting into tears right on the spot. What made it even worse was the sudden explosion of Powerpuff Girls merchandise, right after you left. Fiona, you would have gone nuts! (While your dad, who so loved to spoil you, would have gone broke.)
The second Christmas, we did put up a tree, but with one change. Instead of a brightly twinkling, multi-colored star, we topped the tree with a dark-haired, blue-eyed angel. Do you know how hard it is to find an angel who's dark-haired AND blue-eyed, just like you? But I finally found one at Target.
That year, I still shopped only online. But I did send out Christmas cards--and I signed not only my name, your dad's, and your two brothers', but your name, too. Because you're still a member of our family, still with us if only in spirit. And such spirit! You've always had it.
All these years later, I still sign your name to the cards. I always will.
It took about five years before I could set foot in a toy department again without going into a tearful meltdown. I don't know what hurts more--going to the girls' section only to set off my waterworks, or avoiding the girls' section because I'm afraid of setting off those waterworks. One could argue that either way, I have no business going to the girls' section anymore, and that there's no point in dwelling over what might have been, simply because it will never be.
Indeed, if you were still here, I might not be going to that girls' section anymore, anyway. You'd be a young lady now. What would catch your fancy nowadays?
Every time I see a picture of this girl, born only 93 days after you, I think of you and what you might look like now. But I know you'd be just as beautiful as she is.
And you're certainly, forever and always, just as much a princess.
Though it saddens us you're no longer here, know that the memories of you always bring us joy.
We love you, Bunny Buttons!
Monday, November 5, 2007
Of Bowling Balls, Hammers, and Hangers
All three of my children were born with varying degrees of autism. One of the features of this mysterious disorder is a tendency to develop an attachment to a particular object. My daughter never did this, but her brothers are two different stories.
When our firstborn, the Crown Prince, was about six years old, we gave him one of those toy "whack-a-mole" things that came with a plastic red hammer, and a plastic indoor bowling set because he liked bowling. Alas, he wasn't interested in whacking any moles, or in bowling with something that was obviously a cheap imitation of what he'd seen at the bowling alley. But he carried that hammer and bowling ball with him everywhere he went. Even to bed. Even to the table, where he'd shovel food into his mouth while still clinging stubbornly to the bowling ball and hammer. He did figure out how to hook the hammer over his shoulder, giving himself just a bit of freedom, but at least once a day, that bowling ball would go clattering across the floor or counter.
He allowed BB & H to stay home while he went to school. But once he came home in the afternoon, he scooped them up and did not let them go until he fell asleep. He did an excellent job keeping track of them; very rarely did we ever have to search for them.
He and his sister occasionally fought over the only computer in the house, but she figured out how to lure him away from it. One day she snatched the red hammer from his shoulder and took off at a quick, sideways skip--her idea of running.
She skipped into the family room. The Crown Prince, bowling ball in hand, charged after her. She headed straight for the middle of our curved sectional sofa, and hurled the hammer into the space behind the section that curved.
That space! It was the household dump, the Black Hole of Chez Lingefelt, full of toys, socks, crumpled magazines, and old crackers left over from the housewarming party. Sometimes the girl herself would hide back there and rummage. She knew that throwing her brother's plastic hammer in there would buy her plenty of time to usurp the computer.
Sure enough, while he scaled the back of the sofa and dived into the junk pit to retrieve his hammer, she blithely side-skipped back to the computer like one of those maidens who dance and toss rose petals in the path of a victorious returning warrior.
She liked to draw, and whenever she drew pictures of her family, she invariably portrayed her older brother with bowling ball in one hand, hammer in the other, like orb and scepter.
The Crown Prince is now nineteen, and in the past couple of years has managed to abandon the hammer and bowling ball. His much younger brother, meanwhile, has developed an attachment to hangers.
We've managed to eliminate wire hangers in favor of the plastic ones, which I really like--the ones you can buy in bundles of ten from Wal-Mart for only a dollar. Trouble is, Baby Bear also likes them--not to hang clothes, which he thinks belong on the floor, but to dangle and twirl in his hand everywhere he goes, just as the Crown Prince did with his hammer and bowling ball.
The dogs like them, too. Apparently plastic hangers make better chewing than squeak toys, beef strips, or even genuine bones. I've got hangers scattered all over the house because Baby Bear likes to pull out a new one every day, and let the dogs have the one from the previous day.
Every time I open the hall closet, I see one more jacket either draped over the vacuum cleaner or crumpled on the floor. I had to remove all the shirts hanging in Baby Bear's bedroom closet, and move them to the closet where Mr. Lucky has his office--that is, the closet is in his office, not the other way around.
Heaven help me if that child ever makes it past the crocodiles to MY closet.
There's ony one thing to do before he and the dogs go through all the other hangers in the house: Start setting aside a dollar a week to buy him his own bundle of hangers from Wal-Mart.
When our firstborn, the Crown Prince, was about six years old, we gave him one of those toy "whack-a-mole" things that came with a plastic red hammer, and a plastic indoor bowling set because he liked bowling. Alas, he wasn't interested in whacking any moles, or in bowling with something that was obviously a cheap imitation of what he'd seen at the bowling alley. But he carried that hammer and bowling ball with him everywhere he went. Even to bed. Even to the table, where he'd shovel food into his mouth while still clinging stubbornly to the bowling ball and hammer. He did figure out how to hook the hammer over his shoulder, giving himself just a bit of freedom, but at least once a day, that bowling ball would go clattering across the floor or counter.
He allowed BB & H to stay home while he went to school. But once he came home in the afternoon, he scooped them up and did not let them go until he fell asleep. He did an excellent job keeping track of them; very rarely did we ever have to search for them.
He and his sister occasionally fought over the only computer in the house, but she figured out how to lure him away from it. One day she snatched the red hammer from his shoulder and took off at a quick, sideways skip--her idea of running.
She skipped into the family room. The Crown Prince, bowling ball in hand, charged after her. She headed straight for the middle of our curved sectional sofa, and hurled the hammer into the space behind the section that curved.
That space! It was the household dump, the Black Hole of Chez Lingefelt, full of toys, socks, crumpled magazines, and old crackers left over from the housewarming party. Sometimes the girl herself would hide back there and rummage. She knew that throwing her brother's plastic hammer in there would buy her plenty of time to usurp the computer.
Sure enough, while he scaled the back of the sofa and dived into the junk pit to retrieve his hammer, she blithely side-skipped back to the computer like one of those maidens who dance and toss rose petals in the path of a victorious returning warrior.
She liked to draw, and whenever she drew pictures of her family, she invariably portrayed her older brother with bowling ball in one hand, hammer in the other, like orb and scepter.
The Crown Prince is now nineteen, and in the past couple of years has managed to abandon the hammer and bowling ball. His much younger brother, meanwhile, has developed an attachment to hangers.
We've managed to eliminate wire hangers in favor of the plastic ones, which I really like--the ones you can buy in bundles of ten from Wal-Mart for only a dollar. Trouble is, Baby Bear also likes them--not to hang clothes, which he thinks belong on the floor, but to dangle and twirl in his hand everywhere he goes, just as the Crown Prince did with his hammer and bowling ball.
The dogs like them, too. Apparently plastic hangers make better chewing than squeak toys, beef strips, or even genuine bones. I've got hangers scattered all over the house because Baby Bear likes to pull out a new one every day, and let the dogs have the one from the previous day.
Every time I open the hall closet, I see one more jacket either draped over the vacuum cleaner or crumpled on the floor. I had to remove all the shirts hanging in Baby Bear's bedroom closet, and move them to the closet where Mr. Lucky has his office--that is, the closet is in his office, not the other way around.
Heaven help me if that child ever makes it past the crocodiles to MY closet.
There's ony one thing to do before he and the dogs go through all the other hangers in the house: Start setting aside a dollar a week to buy him his own bundle of hangers from Wal-Mart.
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