In the wake of the Great Flood, we removed the plug from the drain in Baby Bear's bathtub, and put it in the bathroom cabinet. He took it out of the cabinet and pushed it back into the drain for an encore performance. We pulled it out again, and this time hid it high in a cupboard somewhere in the kitchen. He hasn't found it--yet. But he will. Every day I catch him rummaging through the cupboards--not necessarily for the plug, but for anything he can use as a weapon of mass destruction--and as he grows taller and his arms get longer, he's reaching higher and digging deeper.
Keeping the bathroom door locked at all times isn’t feasible, as he doesn’t always communicate that he needs to go. To encourage him to independently use the bathroom while still alerting us, we installed an alarm on the bathroom door, the child-safety kind designed for gates to swimming pools. But for various reasons having to do with the complexities of activating and deactivating and reactivating the alarm each and every time someone opened or closed the door, coupled with the acoustics of the bathroom and the potential for hearing loss, we concluded this wasn’t the best solution.
Mr. Lucky and I did some brainstorming, and we decided to hook a wreath hanger over the bathroom door, and hang a cluster of bells dangling from multiple cords. As quaint as it sounds, this has worked very well . . . until last night.
The husband and I were watching TV. I assumed Baby Bear was in his room, because even though his door was closed, I could hear his electronic keyboard playing that annoying, repetitious rhythm he likes. Two of our dogs were with us, and for some reason I suddenly realized the third one—the same one who’s always going into Bear’s room to chew up his toys (and more recently, the boy’s mattress)—was missing.
I don’t know why this occurred to me when it did, but I told my husband he’d better go check on that dog, and make sure he wasn’t taking another piece out of that mattress. Our son doesn’t seem to care what that dog chews up, but I most certainly do.
It turned out no one was in the boy’s bedroom. The dog was lounging outside the bathroom, and Mr. Lucky went in to find our ten year old son naked and sitting . . . in the bathroom sink.
Not the tub. Not the toilet. The sink.
The drain was plugged. The water was running, and had just started to flow over to the floor. But most alarming of all was his precarious position. He’s five feet, six inches tall. The sink and vanity are only about thirty inches wide. Contrary to what you'd expect, Bear was not sitting with his back to the mirror, and his legs dangling over the cabinet doors beneath the sink, oh no. Instead, he was curled up sideways in the sink/on the vanity, with his back to the toilet, which is right next to the vanity.
How easily he could’ve slipped and fallen backwards, hitting his head on the toilet and worse! I was beyond horrified, and I’m still shuddering to think of what might have happened had Mr. Lucky not checked on him when he did.
The roar of water in the bathroom sink doesn’t make as much noise as the bathtub. Bear seems to have figured that out. And why hadn’t we heard the bells—unless he’s also deduced that if you open and close the bathroom door very, very slowly, the bells will not ring? He doesn’t talk, so who knows what goes on inside his head or where he gets his ideas?
In any event, Mr. Lucky removed the plug from the bathroom sink. Why do we need one in the child’s bathroom, anyway? We have two sinks in the master bathroom, and I only use the plug on mine when I’m inserting or removing my contact lenses; otherwise they will jump off my fingertips and dive straight into that drain.
We know it won’t end here. Every time we build a better Bear trap, our youngest simply evolves into a better, more dangerous Bear.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Hung Up on Hangers
I mentioned in an earlier blog entry here that Baby Bear seemed to have a thing for hangers, the thick plastic, triangular kind. Well, it’s mushroomed into a very big thing. He’s not just collecting them—he’s hoarding them like a leprechaun with a pot of gold.
Every time—oh phooey, all the time—I do laundry, I always seem to come up short on hangers. We can’t hang anything in the hall closet, because Bear yanks jackets right off the hangers and lets them drop to the floor, only to run off with the hangers. He has no clothes in his closet—I have to hang his clothes in the closet of his father’s office, or they’ll always be piled on the floor.
Every few weeks I buy a bundle of ten white plastic hangers from Wal-Mart. Bear will take one and carry it around everywhere he goes, frequently twirling it around his index finger (he’s become very adept at that). Sooner or later, he’ll leave it for one of the dogs to chew into bits unless I manage to intercept it first, and then he pulls another out of the closet. Rinse and repeat.
While I was at the TARA meeting this last Saturday, Mr. Lucky bravely ventured out for a walk around the neighborhood with all three dogs and Baby Bear. (Only the dogs were on leashes; thanks for asking.) He said our son did very well, except for when they passed by a house where the garage door was up. The owner was sitting out front, one of those old guys who would rather sit in a camp chair in his open garage than inside his nice, air conditioned house. There are several men in the neighborhood like that; Mr. Lucky believes their wives banish them out there so they don’t smoke up the house or otherwise get underfoot. (Maybe I should talk to those wives.)
Baby Bear broke into a run, charging up the driveway past the old man and into his garage full of junk. He emerged a moment later, holding up none other than a white plastic hanger as if it were a priceless idol he’d just retrieved from an ancient temple in a cave.
Neither the old man nor Mr. Lucky had any idea how that kid zeroed in on that hanger.
Then yesterday morning, Bear took me by the hand and pulled me into the living room, where he pointed at the sofa.
“That’s a sofa,” I said.
No, that wasn’t what he wanted from me. He pulled me closer, jabbing his finger repeatedly toward the very top edge of the sofa.
“Did you slide something back there?” I asked. “Not another DVD?” I pulled out the sofa a few inches, and found a hanger back there. I gave it to him, then after I pushed the sofa back into place, he slipped the hanger behind it again and wanted me to get it back out.
I told him we weren’t doing that, and walked away. He conned Mr. Lucky, who moved the sofa from the wall and found a whole secret stash of seven plastic white hangers.
Then last night, after Bear fell asleep, I went into his room to conduct the usual bedtime protocols that can only be done after he falls asleep—making sure his overhead light was off while the ceiling fan continued to revolve; unplugging his electronic keyboard (he sets it to some repetitious and annoying rhythm that somehow acts as a lullaby for him); adjusting his covers, and clearing the floor. Last night I had to clear it of hangers.
There were hangers everywhere! On the floor. On top of his dresser. In his toy box. Even in his bed. Not a single one dangled from the rod in his closet. I gathered them up—twelve total—and hooked them over the lonely rod.
Like a kid in a candy store? Not my Bear. He'd rather be turned loose in a dry cleaners.
Every time—oh phooey, all the time—I do laundry, I always seem to come up short on hangers. We can’t hang anything in the hall closet, because Bear yanks jackets right off the hangers and lets them drop to the floor, only to run off with the hangers. He has no clothes in his closet—I have to hang his clothes in the closet of his father’s office, or they’ll always be piled on the floor.
Every few weeks I buy a bundle of ten white plastic hangers from Wal-Mart. Bear will take one and carry it around everywhere he goes, frequently twirling it around his index finger (he’s become very adept at that). Sooner or later, he’ll leave it for one of the dogs to chew into bits unless I manage to intercept it first, and then he pulls another out of the closet. Rinse and repeat.
While I was at the TARA meeting this last Saturday, Mr. Lucky bravely ventured out for a walk around the neighborhood with all three dogs and Baby Bear. (Only the dogs were on leashes; thanks for asking.) He said our son did very well, except for when they passed by a house where the garage door was up. The owner was sitting out front, one of those old guys who would rather sit in a camp chair in his open garage than inside his nice, air conditioned house. There are several men in the neighborhood like that; Mr. Lucky believes their wives banish them out there so they don’t smoke up the house or otherwise get underfoot. (Maybe I should talk to those wives.)
Baby Bear broke into a run, charging up the driveway past the old man and into his garage full of junk. He emerged a moment later, holding up none other than a white plastic hanger as if it were a priceless idol he’d just retrieved from an ancient temple in a cave.
Neither the old man nor Mr. Lucky had any idea how that kid zeroed in on that hanger.
Then yesterday morning, Bear took me by the hand and pulled me into the living room, where he pointed at the sofa.
“That’s a sofa,” I said.
No, that wasn’t what he wanted from me. He pulled me closer, jabbing his finger repeatedly toward the very top edge of the sofa.
“Did you slide something back there?” I asked. “Not another DVD?” I pulled out the sofa a few inches, and found a hanger back there. I gave it to him, then after I pushed the sofa back into place, he slipped the hanger behind it again and wanted me to get it back out.
I told him we weren’t doing that, and walked away. He conned Mr. Lucky, who moved the sofa from the wall and found a whole secret stash of seven plastic white hangers.
Then last night, after Bear fell asleep, I went into his room to conduct the usual bedtime protocols that can only be done after he falls asleep—making sure his overhead light was off while the ceiling fan continued to revolve; unplugging his electronic keyboard (he sets it to some repetitious and annoying rhythm that somehow acts as a lullaby for him); adjusting his covers, and clearing the floor. Last night I had to clear it of hangers.
There were hangers everywhere! On the floor. On top of his dresser. In his toy box. Even in his bed. Not a single one dangled from the rod in his closet. I gathered them up—twelve total—and hooked them over the lonely rod.
Like a kid in a candy store? Not my Bear. He'd rather be turned loose in a dry cleaners.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
It's My Blog and I'll Whine If I Want To (First in what will certainly be a never-ending series)
The day started out well enough, except when Baby Bear lunged at me (something he does a lot for no particular reason). As I reflexively held up my hands, he smashed my left ring and pinkie fingers. That made it very painful to type on the computer.
Mr. Lucky went and picked up our firstborn, the Crown Prince, and brought him back for a visit. Baby Bear was thrilled to see his big brother, constantly smiling up at him and tugging on his hand. There was many a moment, in fact, when I saw his mouth and tongue moving in such a way, that I was sure he was trying to say his brother’s name. I did my best to prompt him many times, pointing to the Crown Prince and saying his name, but Bear has yet to say a real word.
Still, I loved seeing them get along so well, and it made me wish the Prince still lived with us.
Shortly after four, Mr. Lucky left in his Buick Riviera to take our oldest back to the group home where he lives, about thirty miles away. About a half hour later, he called me on his cell phone. He’d just taken the exit off the Interstate to the group home, which was still about seven miles away, and the belt on his Buick broke, overheating the engine. He needed me to come and pick them up and take them the rest of the way, then bring Mr. Lucky back home.
It was almost five o’clock on Monday. I couldn’t think of a worse time of day to be on the Interstate, especially with Baby Bear. We’ve been having a lot of trouble keeping him buckled in the back seat of the minivan lately, but for some reason he’ll stay buckled in the front passenger seat (at 5’6”, he’s big enough), so that’s where I strapped him in minus his shoes because he would’ve doffed them before I backed out of the driveway. I switched on the ignition, and with an ominous ding, a picture of a little gas tank lit up on the dashboard. The needle on the fuel gauge just brushed the top of the letter E.
Mr. Lucky, the last person to drive the minivan, had struck again. That man will not pull into a gas station until he’s running on fumes, or—in at least two cases that I’ve been holding over his head for years—until the tank simply runs dry and the car sputters to a halt in the very middle of the road. Me—Ms. Perfectly Self-Righteous—I never let the tank go below half, and let me tell you, that paid off several years ago when we had to evacuate because of a hurricane (subject for a future post).
We usually gas up on base (when we go out there, twenty miles away) or at Wal-Mart about seven miles away, but I didn’t want to take a chance on going that far with so little, so I pulled into the first gas station on our trip, which had pumps very different from what I was used to. A Cadillac was directly in front of me, and turned into the nearest available pump. I stayed right on his tail, hoping he’d pull forward to the next pump, but instead his reverse lights flashed on, and I had to back up. He wasn’t there to get gas, he was there to go into the convenience store, and decided he wanted to back in to the parking space out front. I had to sit and wait while he maneuvered his huge car as if he were trying to steer the Titanic around that iceberg. In the meantime, another car zoomed in from the opposite direction and took the pump I’d originally hoped to get.
Finally I got to a pump. Baby Bear screamed and thrashed in his seat, probably because we were in an unfamiliar place and weren’t moving. I came thisclose to locking the keys in the minivan (thank you, God, for stopping me just before I shut the door).
I inserted my ATM card and played twenty questions with the computer while some very annoying rock music blared from speakers over my head. Then I couldn’t get the pump to work. Twice I pushed the Help button. In a moment of desperation, I pushed the blue handicapped button. No one came out to assist me or even point out to me what I was doing wrong. In disgust I slammed the nozzle back into the pump, which was a very stupid thing to do, because in so doing I smashed the same two fingers I’d bashed earlier while fending off the lunging Bear.
I said a couple of very bad words, and got back into the minivan, where Bear was using the dashboard as a busy box. I pulled forward to the next pump, which had been vacated while I was smashing my fingers.
I inserted my ATM card again, and answered the same old twenty questions--but this time I figured out what I’d done wrong before—there was some silly lever I had to flip up (or maybe it was down) before the fuel would flow. No wonder they wouldn’t come out and help me. I was very frazzled.
As the gas tank filled, our bank account drained. Fifty dollars later, we were on our way. My two fingers were throbbing. The air conditioner blew heat on my feet because Bear had been playing with the knobs. All the way, he rocked back and forth in the seat as if he were playing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” with an invisible playmate. It actually affected my ability to accelerate.
I had to get on one Interstate, then from there merge onto another Interstate, all during rush hour, before we finally found Mr. Lucky and the Crown Prince just off the exit ramp.
The Crown Prince, at 6’5”, insisted on folding himself into the very back seat. Bear decided to join him. We drove to the group home to drop off the older boy, during which time Bear got out of his seat and came up front to lay on the horn. As Mr. Lucky strapped him into the back seat using at least two seat belts, Bear started rocking forward again and hit his dad right in the nose.
Ah, if my husband and I had a dollar for every time that kid hit one of us in the nose, or the mouth . . . or smashed our fingers . . . we could buy a full tank of gas for every car and truck on our street.
I asked him if he wanted me to drive back, otherwise he’d have to sit with Bear to make sure he stayed buckled. No way was Mr. Macho doing that, even with a throbbing nose. He insisted on driving, so I crawled into the back with Bear.
To get back to the Interstate, we had to drive a seven mile stretch of highway running parallel to railroad tracks. Every time we passed a railroad crossing, with the red lights and crisscross signs and striped barricades—Bear pulled on me and pointed to it, jabbing his finger in the air until I said, “Railroad crossing.”
There must be a railroad crossing every hundred feet along that stretch, because it seems as if that’s all he did until we got to the Interstate. Who are these people always complaining that railroad crossings aren’t clearly marked? My autistic son sees every darned one of them.
On the way home, something that could only spring from my anxiety-fevered imagination occurred to me: I told my husband how I put my ATM card and PIN number into the first pump but didn't get gas from it. I was worried that someone could pull up immediately afterward and fill up on my card. He said no, that it should time-out and even if it didn’t, the person wouldn’t get more than fifty dollars’ worth.
By that evening, I had two blue fingernails on my left hand, and wondered if I’d have to polish the rest in a similar shade to match. Though they’re still tender, they’re doing better now, as is Mr. Lucky’s nose and his Buick, which went in for repairs the next morning.
A check of the bank account confirmed that no one got free gas off my ATM card. At least it gave me something new to worry about.
Oh, and the number of times I had to get up for Baby Bear related incidents while writing this post? 9
Mr. Lucky went and picked up our firstborn, the Crown Prince, and brought him back for a visit. Baby Bear was thrilled to see his big brother, constantly smiling up at him and tugging on his hand. There was many a moment, in fact, when I saw his mouth and tongue moving in such a way, that I was sure he was trying to say his brother’s name. I did my best to prompt him many times, pointing to the Crown Prince and saying his name, but Bear has yet to say a real word.
Still, I loved seeing them get along so well, and it made me wish the Prince still lived with us.
Shortly after four, Mr. Lucky left in his Buick Riviera to take our oldest back to the group home where he lives, about thirty miles away. About a half hour later, he called me on his cell phone. He’d just taken the exit off the Interstate to the group home, which was still about seven miles away, and the belt on his Buick broke, overheating the engine. He needed me to come and pick them up and take them the rest of the way, then bring Mr. Lucky back home.
It was almost five o’clock on Monday. I couldn’t think of a worse time of day to be on the Interstate, especially with Baby Bear. We’ve been having a lot of trouble keeping him buckled in the back seat of the minivan lately, but for some reason he’ll stay buckled in the front passenger seat (at 5’6”, he’s big enough), so that’s where I strapped him in minus his shoes because he would’ve doffed them before I backed out of the driveway. I switched on the ignition, and with an ominous ding, a picture of a little gas tank lit up on the dashboard. The needle on the fuel gauge just brushed the top of the letter E.
Mr. Lucky, the last person to drive the minivan, had struck again. That man will not pull into a gas station until he’s running on fumes, or—in at least two cases that I’ve been holding over his head for years—until the tank simply runs dry and the car sputters to a halt in the very middle of the road. Me—Ms. Perfectly Self-Righteous—I never let the tank go below half, and let me tell you, that paid off several years ago when we had to evacuate because of a hurricane (subject for a future post).
We usually gas up on base (when we go out there, twenty miles away) or at Wal-Mart about seven miles away, but I didn’t want to take a chance on going that far with so little, so I pulled into the first gas station on our trip, which had pumps very different from what I was used to. A Cadillac was directly in front of me, and turned into the nearest available pump. I stayed right on his tail, hoping he’d pull forward to the next pump, but instead his reverse lights flashed on, and I had to back up. He wasn’t there to get gas, he was there to go into the convenience store, and decided he wanted to back in to the parking space out front. I had to sit and wait while he maneuvered his huge car as if he were trying to steer the Titanic around that iceberg. In the meantime, another car zoomed in from the opposite direction and took the pump I’d originally hoped to get.
Finally I got to a pump. Baby Bear screamed and thrashed in his seat, probably because we were in an unfamiliar place and weren’t moving. I came thisclose to locking the keys in the minivan (thank you, God, for stopping me just before I shut the door).
I inserted my ATM card and played twenty questions with the computer while some very annoying rock music blared from speakers over my head. Then I couldn’t get the pump to work. Twice I pushed the Help button. In a moment of desperation, I pushed the blue handicapped button. No one came out to assist me or even point out to me what I was doing wrong. In disgust I slammed the nozzle back into the pump, which was a very stupid thing to do, because in so doing I smashed the same two fingers I’d bashed earlier while fending off the lunging Bear.
I said a couple of very bad words, and got back into the minivan, where Bear was using the dashboard as a busy box. I pulled forward to the next pump, which had been vacated while I was smashing my fingers.
I inserted my ATM card again, and answered the same old twenty questions--but this time I figured out what I’d done wrong before—there was some silly lever I had to flip up (or maybe it was down) before the fuel would flow. No wonder they wouldn’t come out and help me. I was very frazzled.
As the gas tank filled, our bank account drained. Fifty dollars later, we were on our way. My two fingers were throbbing. The air conditioner blew heat on my feet because Bear had been playing with the knobs. All the way, he rocked back and forth in the seat as if he were playing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” with an invisible playmate. It actually affected my ability to accelerate.
I had to get on one Interstate, then from there merge onto another Interstate, all during rush hour, before we finally found Mr. Lucky and the Crown Prince just off the exit ramp.
The Crown Prince, at 6’5”, insisted on folding himself into the very back seat. Bear decided to join him. We drove to the group home to drop off the older boy, during which time Bear got out of his seat and came up front to lay on the horn. As Mr. Lucky strapped him into the back seat using at least two seat belts, Bear started rocking forward again and hit his dad right in the nose.
Ah, if my husband and I had a dollar for every time that kid hit one of us in the nose, or the mouth . . . or smashed our fingers . . . we could buy a full tank of gas for every car and truck on our street.
I asked him if he wanted me to drive back, otherwise he’d have to sit with Bear to make sure he stayed buckled. No way was Mr. Macho doing that, even with a throbbing nose. He insisted on driving, so I crawled into the back with Bear.
To get back to the Interstate, we had to drive a seven mile stretch of highway running parallel to railroad tracks. Every time we passed a railroad crossing, with the red lights and crisscross signs and striped barricades—Bear pulled on me and pointed to it, jabbing his finger in the air until I said, “Railroad crossing.”
There must be a railroad crossing every hundred feet along that stretch, because it seems as if that’s all he did until we got to the Interstate. Who are these people always complaining that railroad crossings aren’t clearly marked? My autistic son sees every darned one of them.
On the way home, something that could only spring from my anxiety-fevered imagination occurred to me: I told my husband how I put my ATM card and PIN number into the first pump but didn't get gas from it. I was worried that someone could pull up immediately afterward and fill up on my card. He said no, that it should time-out and even if it didn’t, the person wouldn’t get more than fifty dollars’ worth.
By that evening, I had two blue fingernails on my left hand, and wondered if I’d have to polish the rest in a similar shade to match. Though they’re still tender, they’re doing better now, as is Mr. Lucky’s nose and his Buick, which went in for repairs the next morning.
A check of the bank account confirmed that no one got free gas off my ATM card. At least it gave me something new to worry about.
Oh, and the number of times I had to get up for Baby Bear related incidents while writing this post? 9
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.
Monday, March 31, 2008
As If My House Doesn't Stink Enough Already . . .
Mr. Lucky has acquired yet another dog, a chocolate beagle. Unlike our other two beagles, this one has a brown nose.
When I said I wanted more chocolate, this wasn’t exactly what I meant.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I do. In fact, last Friday night we watched I Am Legend with Will Smith, and for me, the most heartbreaking scene in that movie—the one that nearly drew tears from my eyes—was canine-related.
I just don’t like having to do extra housework to keep down the odor. Unless you’re one of those clean freaks (pardon the redundancy), who amongst you cannot appreciate my dilemma?
Mr. Lucky proposed we use potpourri to keep down the odor. The words were barely out of his mouth when I started having visions of Baby Bear dumping baskets of potpourri and scattering trails of it all through the house.
After I vetoed that idea, he suggested scented candles. NO WAY! I will not have open flames of any kind in the house because of—who else? Baby Bear.
Mr. Lucky argued that scented candles didn’t have to be lit to be effective. I countered they had to come with wicks for a reason.
We used to have “plug-in” deodorizers, until Bear figured out how to unplug them.
In the end, we went shopping in search of a compromise, and decided to try some jars of “odor absorbing gel.”
Our new chocolate beagle is a good dog who's bonded well with the other two beagles. Mr. Lucky is happy, and I’d rather have a happy husband than not. He says he likes having three dogs. “There’s just something about the number three,” he said. “We had three kids, now we have three dogs.”
Methinks I'd better keep my mouth shut, lest he gets some harebrained notion about having three wives.
When I said I wanted more chocolate, this wasn’t exactly what I meant.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I do. In fact, last Friday night we watched I Am Legend with Will Smith, and for me, the most heartbreaking scene in that movie—the one that nearly drew tears from my eyes—was canine-related.
I just don’t like having to do extra housework to keep down the odor. Unless you’re one of those clean freaks (pardon the redundancy), who amongst you cannot appreciate my dilemma?
Mr. Lucky proposed we use potpourri to keep down the odor. The words were barely out of his mouth when I started having visions of Baby Bear dumping baskets of potpourri and scattering trails of it all through the house.
After I vetoed that idea, he suggested scented candles. NO WAY! I will not have open flames of any kind in the house because of—who else? Baby Bear.
Mr. Lucky argued that scented candles didn’t have to be lit to be effective. I countered they had to come with wicks for a reason.
We used to have “plug-in” deodorizers, until Bear figured out how to unplug them.
In the end, we went shopping in search of a compromise, and decided to try some jars of “odor absorbing gel.”
Our new chocolate beagle is a good dog who's bonded well with the other two beagles. Mr. Lucky is happy, and I’d rather have a happy husband than not. He says he likes having three dogs. “There’s just something about the number three,” he said. “We had three kids, now we have three dogs.”
Methinks I'd better keep my mouth shut, lest he gets some harebrained notion about having three wives.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
PHANTOM PLEASURES by Julie Leto
Not only is she one of my favorite authors, but she’s high on my list of kickbutt women I admire. Julie Leto’s brand new paranormal romance, PHANTOM PLEASURES, is coming out next month, and she’s offering some super giveaways at her blog, Plotmonkeys, beginning Monday, March 24th.
Each day for the next week, Julie will be posting a chapter from PHANTOM PLEASURES at Plotmonkeys, and offering readers the chance to win a $20.00 Amazon/Borders gift card per day to anyone who leaves a comment.
Julie is a longtime member of our RWA chapter, the Tampa Area Romance Authors, and I’ve often thought of her as the heartbeat of TARA. She’s always been generous with advice and assistance to other writers, both published and unpublished. Frankly, if it weren’t for the unflagging faith and buttkicking of straight-shooting friends like her, I’m not so sure I’d still be writing books, let alone this blog.
She’s always helped me and been there for me. It gives me great joy to do the same for her.
Each day for the next week, Julie will be posting a chapter from PHANTOM PLEASURES at Plotmonkeys, and offering readers the chance to win a $20.00 Amazon/Borders gift card per day to anyone who leaves a comment.
Julie is a longtime member of our RWA chapter, the Tampa Area Romance Authors, and I’ve often thought of her as the heartbeat of TARA. She’s always been generous with advice and assistance to other writers, both published and unpublished. Frankly, if it weren’t for the unflagging faith and buttkicking of straight-shooting friends like her, I’m not so sure I’d still be writing books, let alone this blog.
She’s always helped me and been there for me. It gives me great joy to do the same for her.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Baby Bear Goes Naked
The long awaited phone call finally came at about 4 pm today.
It was the school bus driver. “I need you to be out in the driveway when the bus pulls up,” she said. “He’s naked.”
I don’t think I even blinked when she made this announcement. In fact, I couldn’t have been more blasé than if she were yet another telemarketer offering to refinance my house. The only thing that surprised me was that it took the Bear this long to do it.
Almost every day he steps off the bus in his bare feet. A couple of times he was bare-chested. Once, he kept his socks and shoes on, but still managed to take off his shorts.
Around the house, it’s an ongoing battle to keep clothes on him. I’m desperately worried that when he reaches adulthood, he’s going to make the Guinness Book of World Records—for the most arrests for indecent exposure. “He’d go naked 24/7 if he could,” is a favorite catch phrase of mine.
I told Mr. Lucky to come with me. He was playing a game on the computer, and was two cannon blasts away from sinking a Spanish galleon. My bad timing may have cost him four million doubloons and a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth I. But I needed backup in case the Bear slipped my grip—which he’s done many a time—and ran streaking down the street.
The bus pulled up and I was invited to board. Baby Bear danced in the aisle as if The Price is Right announcer had just called him to come on down. All his clothes were scattered on the floor beneath several seats, and I collected them all and dressed him in the middle of the bus, while the driver told Mr. Lucky, “She’s always saying he’s going to come home naked someday!”
Fortunately there weren’t too many kids left on the bus, maybe four or five, all special needs children. One of them would have been rolling in the aisle with laughter if he hadn’t been securely strapped in his seat. I couldn’t blame him. Even I was more amused than horrified, which was out of character for me. Maybe it’s the full moon.
But I hope it doesn’t happen again. (The public nudity, not the full moon.)
It was the school bus driver. “I need you to be out in the driveway when the bus pulls up,” she said. “He’s naked.”
I don’t think I even blinked when she made this announcement. In fact, I couldn’t have been more blasé than if she were yet another telemarketer offering to refinance my house. The only thing that surprised me was that it took the Bear this long to do it.
Almost every day he steps off the bus in his bare feet. A couple of times he was bare-chested. Once, he kept his socks and shoes on, but still managed to take off his shorts.
Around the house, it’s an ongoing battle to keep clothes on him. I’m desperately worried that when he reaches adulthood, he’s going to make the Guinness Book of World Records—for the most arrests for indecent exposure. “He’d go naked 24/7 if he could,” is a favorite catch phrase of mine.
I told Mr. Lucky to come with me. He was playing a game on the computer, and was two cannon blasts away from sinking a Spanish galleon. My bad timing may have cost him four million doubloons and a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth I. But I needed backup in case the Bear slipped my grip—which he’s done many a time—and ran streaking down the street.
The bus pulled up and I was invited to board. Baby Bear danced in the aisle as if The Price is Right announcer had just called him to come on down. All his clothes were scattered on the floor beneath several seats, and I collected them all and dressed him in the middle of the bus, while the driver told Mr. Lucky, “She’s always saying he’s going to come home naked someday!”
Fortunately there weren’t too many kids left on the bus, maybe four or five, all special needs children. One of them would have been rolling in the aisle with laughter if he hadn’t been securely strapped in his seat. I couldn’t blame him. Even I was more amused than horrified, which was out of character for me. Maybe it’s the full moon.
But I hope it doesn’t happen again. (The public nudity, not the full moon.)
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Saga of the Shorts Continues
Yesterday, those mysterious red shorts finally disappeared from Baby Bear’s backpack. Either his teacher reads this blog, or the mother of the student who owns the red shorts does. I wonder if she drove down there and knocked the fire extinguisher off the wall with her purse.
This afternoon, I went out as usual to meet his school bus. Because he’s disabled, it stops right in front of our house.
Baby Bear jumped out in his bare feet. There was nothing the least bit unusual about this, since he almost always removes his socks and shoes during the ride home. If he comes off the bus socked and shod, then I have to tell the driver there’s been a mistake, and that this is someone else’s child. It beats trying to read nametags.
The bus attendant handed me the socks and shoes, and wished me a good day. I asked, “What about his backpack?”
She searched the bus, while I turned to see which way my son had fled this time, as he seldom goes straight into the house unless I’m right at his side or directly behind him. Today he plunged into his dad’s Buick Riviera and laid on the horn.
The attendant reappeared empty-handed. She couldn’t find a backpack. They must’ve forgotten it at school.
This has also happened before.
I thanked her and the driver, and removed the Bear from the Buick before he could figure out how to hotwire it and go joyriding.
That’s when I noticed he was wearing his extra pair of shorts—the spare set I always put in his backpack each day.
That meant the ones he’d worn to school this morning—the same brown denim pair I had to track down last week and bring back like Indiana Jones retrieving the Holy Grail—had obviously been soiled . . . and left at the school.
Time to fetch my whip and fedora. Here we go again.
UPDATE 3/14: Friday afternoon he came home with his backpack--and the brown denim shorts were inside, secured in a plastic bag.
So all is right in the world chez Lingefelt . . . but for how long?
This afternoon, I went out as usual to meet his school bus. Because he’s disabled, it stops right in front of our house.
Baby Bear jumped out in his bare feet. There was nothing the least bit unusual about this, since he almost always removes his socks and shoes during the ride home. If he comes off the bus socked and shod, then I have to tell the driver there’s been a mistake, and that this is someone else’s child. It beats trying to read nametags.
The bus attendant handed me the socks and shoes, and wished me a good day. I asked, “What about his backpack?”
She searched the bus, while I turned to see which way my son had fled this time, as he seldom goes straight into the house unless I’m right at his side or directly behind him. Today he plunged into his dad’s Buick Riviera and laid on the horn.
The attendant reappeared empty-handed. She couldn’t find a backpack. They must’ve forgotten it at school.
This has also happened before.
I thanked her and the driver, and removed the Bear from the Buick before he could figure out how to hotwire it and go joyriding.
That’s when I noticed he was wearing his extra pair of shorts—the spare set I always put in his backpack each day.
That meant the ones he’d worn to school this morning—the same brown denim pair I had to track down last week and bring back like Indiana Jones retrieving the Holy Grail—had obviously been soiled . . . and left at the school.
Time to fetch my whip and fedora. Here we go again.
UPDATE 3/14: Friday afternoon he came home with his backpack--and the brown denim shorts were inside, secured in a plastic bag.
So all is right in the world chez Lingefelt . . . but for how long?
Friday, March 7, 2008
Baby Bear: Short on Shorts
One of the unique aspects of having a special needs child is the necessity for sending an extra change of clothing to school each day.
At a minimum, Baby Bear’s backpack always contains the following items: Shirt, shorts, two pairs of disposable underwear (adult diapers), at least one plastic bag for soiled items, and a notebook used for correspondence between teacher and parent.
This has been the case for all three of my children; but in the case of Baby Bear, we’ve had a bit of a problem with clothing going astray. He’s non-verbal and would happily go naked 24/7 given the chance, so he can’t be relied on to keep track of his stray clothing.
Recently, I had a problem with not one, but two missing pairs of denim shorts. (Living in Florida, he can wear shorts all year round.)
On February 14th, he came home wearing his spare pair. The pair he wore to school that morning—presumably soiled—should’ve been secured in a plastic bag in his backpack. They were nowhere to be found. So I wrote a message in the notebook, asking them to please return the dark brown denim shorts he wore on that date.
No response. No shorts.
On February 20th, I sent him to school wearing a pair of royal blue denim shorts. That afternoon he came home wearing a pair of flaming red satin shorts. The royal blue denim shorts were not in his backpack, though his spare pair (tan cotton) was. I laundered the red shorts, put them in his backpack for return to the rightful owner, and wrote another message in the notebook, asking them to please return the royal blue shorts, “and the dark brown shorts he wore on 2/14 (see entry above).”
Again, no response. And no shorts, except for that wild red thing that remained in his backpack like an omen of more, similarly colored tape to come.
I scribbled another note, adding that he was running out of clothes. (Not really, but I figured a little hyperbole couldn’t hurt.) I drew a big, thick black outline around it to make it stand out.
That afternoon, when Bear came home, I opened his backpack. No shorts, save for that devil’s pair. However, the page had been turned in his notebook, where the teacher had written on a fresh leaf that Bear “had a good day today.”
Since he’s classified as trainable mentally handicapped, he attends an “exceptional center” which is annexed to a middle school—though if not for his special needs, he’d attend a regular elementary school. I called the school. I identified myself, my son and his teacher, and explained the problem of the missing shorts. Or at least I tried to.
The woman on the other end of the line said, “Ma’am, are you saying your child gave his clothes to another student?” Apparently a ten year old will do that in exchange for a Twinkie from the other kid’s lunchbox.
“No, he only came home wearing someone else’s shorts,” I replied. “In the meantime, he’s missing two pairs of his own, because—”
“Oh, you mean he and the other student went into the school lavatory and swapped clothes?”
I didn’t know whether to bang the phone or my head against the wall. But as I tried again to explain to her, I sort of gathered the middle school, at least, had a bit of a problem with students going into the lavatory between classes to swap clothes.
Finally she said, “Oh, you want to talk to someone in the Exceptional Center!” Though at this point, I was thinking of a stronger verb than talk.
She connected me to the Exceptional Center, where another secretary said she would let my son’s teacher know that I was looking for those shorts.
Several days passed, and still no shorts. Exasperated, I drove to the school, where I endeavored to conduct myself in such a manner that after I left, they would not glance at each other in horror and whisper about what a nutcase I was; how I could be heard all the way out in the cafeteria, and, “Did you see the way she swung her purse and knocked that fire extinguisher off the wall?”
The two pairs of shorts were found still in the classroom. One was in a basket and missing the button, while the other—which had been laundered at the school—was in the top drawer of a file cabinet. The aide also pulled out of that same drawer a third pair that looked very nice, but I had to tell him they weren’t my son’s. I said he had a red pair in his backpack that the rightful owner could have back with my compliments.
I took the two missing pairs home after accepting apologies from the teacher and his aide. Later that afternoon, Baby Bear came home from school with his backpack—and those scary red shorts still nestled in there like an incubating alien life form.
I can’t help wondering if this happened because of male teachers and male classroom aides who, being men, aren’t as focused on tracking dirty laundry as the average mom. I have no scientific evidence to support this theory, though Mr. Lucky says—begrudgingly, of course—that I’m probably right.
At a minimum, Baby Bear’s backpack always contains the following items: Shirt, shorts, two pairs of disposable underwear (adult diapers), at least one plastic bag for soiled items, and a notebook used for correspondence between teacher and parent.
This has been the case for all three of my children; but in the case of Baby Bear, we’ve had a bit of a problem with clothing going astray. He’s non-verbal and would happily go naked 24/7 given the chance, so he can’t be relied on to keep track of his stray clothing.
Recently, I had a problem with not one, but two missing pairs of denim shorts. (Living in Florida, he can wear shorts all year round.)
On February 14th, he came home wearing his spare pair. The pair he wore to school that morning—presumably soiled—should’ve been secured in a plastic bag in his backpack. They were nowhere to be found. So I wrote a message in the notebook, asking them to please return the dark brown denim shorts he wore on that date.
No response. No shorts.
On February 20th, I sent him to school wearing a pair of royal blue denim shorts. That afternoon he came home wearing a pair of flaming red satin shorts. The royal blue denim shorts were not in his backpack, though his spare pair (tan cotton) was. I laundered the red shorts, put them in his backpack for return to the rightful owner, and wrote another message in the notebook, asking them to please return the royal blue shorts, “and the dark brown shorts he wore on 2/14 (see entry above).”
Again, no response. And no shorts, except for that wild red thing that remained in his backpack like an omen of more, similarly colored tape to come.
I scribbled another note, adding that he was running out of clothes. (Not really, but I figured a little hyperbole couldn’t hurt.) I drew a big, thick black outline around it to make it stand out.
That afternoon, when Bear came home, I opened his backpack. No shorts, save for that devil’s pair. However, the page had been turned in his notebook, where the teacher had written on a fresh leaf that Bear “had a good day today.”
Since he’s classified as trainable mentally handicapped, he attends an “exceptional center” which is annexed to a middle school—though if not for his special needs, he’d attend a regular elementary school. I called the school. I identified myself, my son and his teacher, and explained the problem of the missing shorts. Or at least I tried to.
The woman on the other end of the line said, “Ma’am, are you saying your child gave his clothes to another student?” Apparently a ten year old will do that in exchange for a Twinkie from the other kid’s lunchbox.
“No, he only came home wearing someone else’s shorts,” I replied. “In the meantime, he’s missing two pairs of his own, because—”
“Oh, you mean he and the other student went into the school lavatory and swapped clothes?”
I didn’t know whether to bang the phone or my head against the wall. But as I tried again to explain to her, I sort of gathered the middle school, at least, had a bit of a problem with students going into the lavatory between classes to swap clothes.
Finally she said, “Oh, you want to talk to someone in the Exceptional Center!” Though at this point, I was thinking of a stronger verb than talk.
She connected me to the Exceptional Center, where another secretary said she would let my son’s teacher know that I was looking for those shorts.
Several days passed, and still no shorts. Exasperated, I drove to the school, where I endeavored to conduct myself in such a manner that after I left, they would not glance at each other in horror and whisper about what a nutcase I was; how I could be heard all the way out in the cafeteria, and, “Did you see the way she swung her purse and knocked that fire extinguisher off the wall?”
The two pairs of shorts were found still in the classroom. One was in a basket and missing the button, while the other—which had been laundered at the school—was in the top drawer of a file cabinet. The aide also pulled out of that same drawer a third pair that looked very nice, but I had to tell him they weren’t my son’s. I said he had a red pair in his backpack that the rightful owner could have back with my compliments.
I took the two missing pairs home after accepting apologies from the teacher and his aide. Later that afternoon, Baby Bear came home from school with his backpack—and those scary red shorts still nestled in there like an incubating alien life form.
I can’t help wondering if this happened because of male teachers and male classroom aides who, being men, aren’t as focused on tracking dirty laundry as the average mom. I have no scientific evidence to support this theory, though Mr. Lucky says—begrudgingly, of course—that I’m probably right.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
When Humans Collide: Reality vs Romance
My ten year old son, Baby Bear, has autism. He's five and a half feet tall and weighs close to 140 pounds. (I suppose I should change his nickname to "Big Bear." Maybe when he turns thirty.) He's come up with a new stunt that he thinks is a lot of fun, but I don’t: The Body Slam.
He likes to run up to me and wham! Bump into me with enough force to make me lurch back a few steps and leave me breathless for a moment. But he’s never done it hard enough to knock me to the floor. For that, he’d have to run a lot faster, and from a greater distance—at least as fast as a football pro dashing down a hundred yard long field to the end zone.
If Baby Bear had the strength of a quarterback (he’s getting there), I’d probably end up in the emergency room, clutching ice packs and a cup of milk with my front tooth clinging to life at the bottom of it. In fact, that’s exactly why football players, who knock each other to the ground on a regular basis, wear all that protective gear—helmet, mouth guard, padding, etc. The injuries they do sustain would be more serious without it.
And that brings me to the subject of today’s rant: Romance novels where the hero and heroine meet by literally running into each other. The heroine invariably lands flat on her butt with nothing to break or soften her fall, and except for her pride, she is never hurt. She never howls in pain, she never rubs her tailbone, she never limps away groaning, and she never wakes up the next morning wincing and mumbling, “Damn! I can really feel that bruise on my butt now!”--before twisting and contorting herself in front of her full length mirror to see how bad it looks.
Several years ago, while judging the TARA contest, I read not one but two entries in a row, back to back, where the hero and heroine met by colliding with each other in a hallway. In both cases, the heroine was carrying a huge stack of papers that went flying everywhere, and she landed on her tush. In neither case was she injured—except for that delicate, fragile pride.
More recently I read a romance novel that started out with the heroine at a ball. With a rustle of her skirts, she rounded a corner where she ran into—who else? The hero!—and she “was knocked to the ground.”
Miraculously, she wasn’t hurt—save for the old pride. Possibly she wore enough layers of petticoats beneath her ballgown to cushion her fall. The only thing more annoying than the clichéd collision was the so-called hero who stood there for the better part of the page, gazing down at her and admiring how cute she looked with her skirts in disarray. I had to yell, “Help her up, you jerk, before I throw this book against the wall!”--and even the heroine had to ask, before he finally did so. He never apologized, and I never warmed up to him after that.
But at least she wasn’t carrying a big stack of papers, a bag of groceries, or a purse that she forgot to zip or snap shut.
If you’re a romance writer, I beg of you: Please don’t let your protagonists meet this way. Or if you absolutely must have them crash into each other, consider the speed of movement and force required to send her flying onto her butt. Think of what football players do, and why they wear all that protective gear.
You don’t need a degree in physics to understand this.
Every time I watch the movie Notting Hill, I can’t help cringing at the triteness of Hugh Grant smacking into Julia Roberts and dumping his café latte down her shirt. But while I think the writers could have given Hugh a more original excuse to get Julia into his flat, at least they didn’t have him knock her to the ground.
Landing flat on your butt hurts like hell. I know. When I was four years old, I went out the back door one winter morning to find the back porch all silvery white and glittering in the sunshine. It looked like an enchanting little fairyland to me, so I thought I would dance on it like Cinderella, my favorite storybook heroine. Whoosh! I landed right on my little tush, and have not set foot on an icy surface since. At age twelve I put on roller skates, and in seconds I was sitting on the hardwood floor, howling in pain. My tailbone hurt for days afterward—and I haven’t put on a pair of skates since.
My pride, on the other hand, is very tough and seems to withstand just about everything. That, or I have none at all.
He likes to run up to me and wham! Bump into me with enough force to make me lurch back a few steps and leave me breathless for a moment. But he’s never done it hard enough to knock me to the floor. For that, he’d have to run a lot faster, and from a greater distance—at least as fast as a football pro dashing down a hundred yard long field to the end zone.
If Baby Bear had the strength of a quarterback (he’s getting there), I’d probably end up in the emergency room, clutching ice packs and a cup of milk with my front tooth clinging to life at the bottom of it. In fact, that’s exactly why football players, who knock each other to the ground on a regular basis, wear all that protective gear—helmet, mouth guard, padding, etc. The injuries they do sustain would be more serious without it.
And that brings me to the subject of today’s rant: Romance novels where the hero and heroine meet by literally running into each other. The heroine invariably lands flat on her butt with nothing to break or soften her fall, and except for her pride, she is never hurt. She never howls in pain, she never rubs her tailbone, she never limps away groaning, and she never wakes up the next morning wincing and mumbling, “Damn! I can really feel that bruise on my butt now!”--before twisting and contorting herself in front of her full length mirror to see how bad it looks.
Several years ago, while judging the TARA contest, I read not one but two entries in a row, back to back, where the hero and heroine met by colliding with each other in a hallway. In both cases, the heroine was carrying a huge stack of papers that went flying everywhere, and she landed on her tush. In neither case was she injured—except for that delicate, fragile pride.
More recently I read a romance novel that started out with the heroine at a ball. With a rustle of her skirts, she rounded a corner where she ran into—who else? The hero!—and she “was knocked to the ground.”
Miraculously, she wasn’t hurt—save for the old pride. Possibly she wore enough layers of petticoats beneath her ballgown to cushion her fall. The only thing more annoying than the clichéd collision was the so-called hero who stood there for the better part of the page, gazing down at her and admiring how cute she looked with her skirts in disarray. I had to yell, “Help her up, you jerk, before I throw this book against the wall!”--and even the heroine had to ask, before he finally did so. He never apologized, and I never warmed up to him after that.
But at least she wasn’t carrying a big stack of papers, a bag of groceries, or a purse that she forgot to zip or snap shut.
If you’re a romance writer, I beg of you: Please don’t let your protagonists meet this way. Or if you absolutely must have them crash into each other, consider the speed of movement and force required to send her flying onto her butt. Think of what football players do, and why they wear all that protective gear.
You don’t need a degree in physics to understand this.
Every time I watch the movie Notting Hill, I can’t help cringing at the triteness of Hugh Grant smacking into Julia Roberts and dumping his café latte down her shirt. But while I think the writers could have given Hugh a more original excuse to get Julia into his flat, at least they didn’t have him knock her to the ground.
Landing flat on your butt hurts like hell. I know. When I was four years old, I went out the back door one winter morning to find the back porch all silvery white and glittering in the sunshine. It looked like an enchanting little fairyland to me, so I thought I would dance on it like Cinderella, my favorite storybook heroine. Whoosh! I landed right on my little tush, and have not set foot on an icy surface since. At age twelve I put on roller skates, and in seconds I was sitting on the hardwood floor, howling in pain. My tailbone hurt for days afterward—and I haven’t put on a pair of skates since.
My pride, on the other hand, is very tough and seems to withstand just about everything. That, or I have none at all.
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