I spent the last four days holding my breath, waiting for Elfie to start puking. Last Monday, she made the unfortunate decision to share lip gloss with her friend who threw up later that evening. Apparently there’s some virus going around with a 4-ish day incubation period. So during our entire drive to San Francisco on Friday, I was sweating bullets, wondering if Elfie was carsick or sick-sick every time she complained about feeling funny. I think I finally relaxed when we were a couple of hours from home today. I figured I could handle a two-hour car ride with a puking kid. But the thought of showing up at our friends’ place (which has one bathroom), having her get sick, infecting their toddler, and then driving all the way home without seeing the live anaconda at the Academy of Science. . . well that was just disturbing.
I think I hold my breath a lot. I know I’ve been holding it for years, waiting for Newt to get worse, not better, because of all the decisions we’ve made. Then when he really started “catching up,” I held my breath (and still do), waiting for the fantasy to end and have someone tell me he’s actually nowhere near where I think he is. But lately, I’m holding my breath whenever he’s around friends I’ve told about the autism diagnosis (now that I’ve outed him). He’s turned into a complete ham recently, and whenever he’s showing off or doing one of his “performances,” I can feel myself tensing up slightly, wondering if he’s being “normal.” My logical mind says, “Of course — just look at all of his buddies.” But there’s that annoying little voice of doubt that hangs out on my shoulder and says, “You know, he’s not like other kids. Sure, he’s outgoing — but maybe it’s because he doesn’t really understand boundaries. And he’s creative — but he still says the same stuff over and over. And, yes, adults like him and think he’s funny — but how will that play with the kids at his new school.” I’m fairly certain this little bastard on my shoulder also has some kind of lasso that’s wrapped around my neck and is cutting off my air supply.
So I’m trying to concentrate on breathing. Especially at times like when the dentist tells me Newt has two cavities. Because this takes me straight back to the days when getting his hair cut resulted in a screaming, freak-out fest (Lord only knows how many salon patrons I’ve pissed off in his lifetime. At one point, I just decided to visit a shop once and then never go back.). I cringe to think that we had trouble with spray bottles, scissors, and hairdryers, and now we’re graduating to gas masks, needles, and novocaine.
And then I try to remember Newt’s greatest consistency — if there’s one thing he’s always done, it’s never cease to amaze me. At the end of the day, he’ll get through his fillings and the first day of school and dinner with his parents’ friends just fine. His mother, on the other hand, is most definitely going to need to be put on oxygen.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.