Slice of Life

A Slice of Life is a weekly blog hosted by a couple of wonderful writing teachers.  Click on Two Writing Teachers to learn about this wonderful writing community, and how to use it to build a community of writers in your classroom!

Um. . . so new to blogging that I thought I could just create a separate page for these.  Guess that isn't going to work!  A big thanks to JenniferM for the heads up. Oh boy do I need to take that blogging class that they cancelled.  I hope I have time to take it when it is rescheduled in the fall . . .

My Slice for Tuesday, July 8, 2014

     As I stir the silky golden mixture, I feel it push back against my wooden spoon.  Sure enough, I lift the spoon and drizzle a small amount across the surface and see it trace, the shimmering lines that signal that this mixture of benign and caustic elements are beginning to transform into something entirely new and beautiful - soap. 

     I open the bottle of essential oil of lavender, and its scent wafts upward, mingling with the warm breeze flowing in from the window above the sink where I work.  I measure out the exact amount, and pour in the pre-measured oatmeal and dried lavender, working quickly before the mixture begins to seize.

     “Ma, watcha doin’ Ma?”  Zach hovers nearby.  He knows not to come too close when I am making soap – heeding my many warnings about the dangerousness of the lye mixture I work with. 

     “I’m just making some soap Zachy boy.”

     “I’m not a boy, I’m a man.” The last word lilts upward as it exits his mouth, enunciated into the air with pride.  Shoulders lift, along with his hands . . . and those graceful fingers that make conversation in the air.  He punctuates his sentences with them – decidedly an exclamation mark for this one.    Zach has a separate language, a grammar and set of conventions that are all his own.

     I scrape the last of the mixture into the mold, tapping the containers on the counter to release the air bubbles.  “Can you hand me the plastic wrap, please?”

     “Oh yes, mother dearest,” he says with a giggle.  He knows I hate it when he calls me mother dearest.   It’s my punishment for calling him a boy.

     “Zach, are you trying to yank my chain?”  And all I hear is a mumbled reply.  Our teasing interlude is over now.  Something outside the window has caught his attention.  I look out and see nothing there.  And for perhaps the zillionth time, I wonder what he sees, what he is thinking.  I wonder at the mystery of this boy, this man who is my son.  That there is so much more inside of him than autism will ever let us see, I have no doubt. 

     After thirty years though, I am no longer saddened by these thoughts.  Acceptance has given me the luxury of wondering what is, without the sting of wondering what could have been.  I am much like the soap I now craft in my kitchen sink.  The disparate elements that characterized the expectations and fears I held as a young mother, and then the young mother of a severely disabled child, have made their peace.   Hopes and fears have joined together to create something of profound beauty.  And like my soap, tracings of the person he is are there as well – luminous ribbons woven into the fabric of my life. 

My Slice for Tuesday, July 1, 2014

     I hear the door creaking as he opens it ever so slightly, a sharp squeak in the silent morning air.  "Ma, Ma, are you up Ma?"  His question floats out of the crack between the door and the molding.  

     Only when I say, "Yes Zach, I'm up," does the door open.  Zach unfolds himself out from behind the door.  That's really what it is - an unfolding.  His six foot tall frame slides out a section at a time, first the neck, then bony shoulders, followed by those long fingered hands.  Wings really.  Zach's hands are more like the wings of some great bird, a heron perhaps.  They flap in excitement, buzz with anxiety, and hover with uncertainty - a barometer to Zach's inner world.  They are also the first outward sign, the first clue to his Fragile X-ness.  Fragile X - that strange genetic quirk unfolding in my DNA, then Zach's DNA and all across the landscape of our lives.

     We have our morning routine, Zach and I.  I put on the tea kettle as he empties the packet of instant oatmeal into the bowl.  He reaches into the cupboard for the bag of brown sugar.  I eye the bag, wondering if he remembered to close it yesterday - and if I remembered to check it.  Guess not.  One too many times of forgetting, and the sugar has hardened into a lump.  The microwave door clicks shut.  It hums steadily as I heat the sugar, and the tea kettle begins to whistle.  Leaning over, Zach stops to sniff my hair on the way to the silverware drawer.  The coffeemaker hisses.  I pour the boiling water from the teakettle into the bowl of oatmeal, add the sugar, and splash in a little milk to cool it off.  I give it a quick stir, and set it on the table. 

     "Where's my princess?" Zach chirps.  And right on cue, Schnitzel, his adoring miniature dachshund, sits on the floor next to him.  She is waiting for that scrap of food that usually isn't far behind when Zach and mealtimes coincide.  I pour a cup of coffee for myself, look out the window, and smile in contentment at the sun that has risen on a beautiful new day.