The Attack of the B-52’s

When we bought our house, one of the features listed was a built-in intercom system. An intercom is one of those things that, in theory, sounds wonderful but in actuality ranks right up there with a central vac system on the list of "features" that are never used.

I cannot recall a single occasion when the doorbell has rung and, instead of walking to the door to answer it, I have walked the other direction to the intercom panel in the kitchen to press the button and say, "HELLO?" What really is the advantage? If I then hear the voice of someone I do not want to see, I have just given away the fact that I am home. If it is someone I actually want to let in the house, I then have to walk to the door anyway. It just seems like an extra step.

We do, in fact, use the intercom but not for the intended purpose. I don't think that the inventor of the built-in whole house intercom envisioned the parents of a child with autism spying on him, but that is what we do. We have the "monitor" button pressed in David's room so that we can hear what he is doing at night. He does not really have a problem with wandering, but I do worry about him leaving the house and the intercom is the first line of defense because we can hear if he is up. Strike that—I can hear if he is up, because I seem to be the only one in the house who can hear, or who pays attention to the noise, that constant backdrop of activity in David's room.

I must admit, I do get tired of trying to read my book, watch a TV show or write while trying simultaneously to pay attention to but also to tune out the noise from David's room. I guess that is the price of peace of mind.

Last night, however, I almost ripped the intercom system out with my bare hands. David has been sick and has not been sleeping well and since I can hear every cough, sneeze and sniff, I am tired. I was sound asleep when at 1:00 a.m. I heard the song "Love Shack" by the B-52's blaring in the house. It couldn't have scared me more if an actual B-52 had just flown into the house. It must have actually catapulted me out of the bed because I swear that by the time I woke up I was already standing in the door of the bedroom. I thought the noise was coming over the intercom, so I ran to David's bedroom thinking he had turned on his radio, but that was not the case. I ran back to our bedroom to check Michael's radio, when I finally realized that the intercom radio was turned on, blasting music throughout the house and probably through the outside speakers, as well. Sorry neighbors.

I went downstairs to the kitchen control panel to discover that David had managed to program the intercom system to have the radio turn on at precisely 1:00. A.M. I didn't even know it had that feature. I turned the lights on, spent several minutes pressing buttons in an attempt to figure out how to disarm the monster, ate a brownie (I could rationalize it at the time) and then climbed back into bed.

"Did you hear that?" I said to Michael who seemed singularly unconcerned about the attack of the 80's party music and he replied, "Hear what?" When I explained what had just happened, he laughed because he hadn't been able to figure out why that song had been going through his head.

Our Daily Discourse - Getting All Emotional

One of the concerns, when you have a child with autism, revolves around emotions, both the appropriate expression of emotions the ability to recognize or empathize with emotions in other people, called theory of mind.

David seems to be able to understand my emotions pretty well, although I have noticed that he often moves my hand away from my mouth when he looks at my face, particularly when we are cuddling in bed in the morning and, evidently I have a habit of covering my mouth I am sure in a subconscious attempt to protect him from my morning breath. It is as if he cannot really read my emotions from just my eyes and likes to look at my whole face before he smiles and talks to me.

Very recently, I have also noticed that he is starting to tell me how he feels. “I mad,” he will sometimes say. A few days ago, I scolded David because he kept turning off the TV while Andrew was watching a program. He looked up at me, his chin quivering, tears welling up in his eyes and announced, “I cry now” before he buried his face into my sweatshirt.

The Round-Up

David turned six years old in November and is completing a year of Kindergarten in a special education classroom. Next year, he will repeat Kindergarten in a general education classroom. Today is the Kindergarten roundup at his school, and I did not attend. Instead, I am sitting at Panera having just finished chatting with my sister.

I did not receive information in the mail about the aforementioned round-up of Kindergarteners. David does not attend our neighborhood school, which is too full to have an early childhood or a special education classroom and probably explains why sometimes we seem to be in a vacuum. I did not attend the Kindergarten round-up last year, either, because it really didn't apply to David since he was not going to be in a traditional classroom. And, we had not been invited. I also did not attend the tea for the Kindergarten mothers on the first day of school because I did not even know about it until I later read about it in the school newsletter.

So, my to-do list for Monday included calling the school office to get the information so that we could be rounded up with all of the other Kindergarteners, but then I had to pause for a moment. What really would be the purpose of going? To take David on a tour of the school that, by next fall, he will have attended for three and a half years? To take a look at the classroom that he already spends some of his time in? Should I pull him out of class for the round-up? Or go by myself and have to explain to people why I am there without my son?

Do I really want to subject myself to comparing David to all the other precocious kids, most of whom are a year younger than David and would be galloping circles around him? Okay, that last question is not really fair. They would be galloping circles around him with their ability to communicate, but academically David would be ahead of many of them, not that any of the other mothers would be able to tell from talking with him.

It was as if there was a prom and I hadn't been invited. In the end, I decided that I really didn't want to go, but it would have been nice to have been asked. Here I sit at Panera, thinking about the first day of school next year. With or without the round-up, David has the benefit of experience and will be much better prepared than many of the other students.

So, I picture David moseying into the classroom on the first day, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, elbows out, walking with legs bowed like he has spent his whole life on a horse. He greets his peers, "Howdy there, partners. This ain't MY first rodeo."

Wordless Wednesday

I often wish I could see the world through David's eyes and I guess this is the closest that I will ever come.  Sometimes I have difficulty deciphering the shots when David has gotten ahold of my camera.  Any guesses?  

Looking down through a naked ironing board.

Coming Out of the Fog

Michael started a new job last week and his very first day on the job was a rocky one. He really didn't feel well and struggled through the day. When he arrived home, we talked briefly about his day and I could tell that he was trying to be a trooper, but I finally sent him upstairs to take a shower and go to bed. (Now I ask you, when was the last time that I didn't feel well and was the first person in the family to go to bed? Hummm…I don't seem to be able to recall. Well anyway, I digress.)

I had gotten him something to drink, checked on him a couple of times and even brought him dinner on a tray. I may need to remind you that I have had a sore hip. (Thank you, by the way, to everyone who has called to inquire about my old person injury. I must admit that I sometimes need to be reminded that this isn't really my own personal journal. I send these comments out into cyberspace forgetting that there are a handful of people who read them, some of whom I actually know. So, I appreciate you checking on me. But, I digress again—what is wrong with me today?)

Anyway, my hip is somewhat painful when climbing stairs, sometimes one at a time like I am 90 years old. So, when I heard Michael calling from the top of the stairs, "KATH? Could you come here?" I was somewhat annoyed and may have even been muttering something under my breath as I clomped up the stairs, something understanding and loving, something like, "What—do you want me to get you a little bell to ring?" And then I saw it billowing out of the upstairs bathroom. What is that? Smoke? Steam? Fog?

Surprisingly, it took a minute for the smell to hit me. It was Andrew's Old Spice Pure Sport Body Spray. David sprayed so much of it that you could barely see from the door to the striped shower curtain, and I assure you that it is not that big a room. It took several hours of running the fan to get the fog to dissipate. Unfortunately, we do not have a window in that room, although on a day where the high was 12 degrees, I am not sure we would have opened it anyway.

That very same night Andrew asked a question that he has never asked me before. "Mom, will David ever be normal?"

I am sure it is a question Andrew has been considering for a long time and it hit me like a ton of bricks. It is a question that I have asked myself, although I hadn't wanted to admit it. Will David ever be normal? It was followed in short order by a second question from Andrew, "Will he be successful?"

We had a long talk about what "normal" and "successful" really mean. What if your job clearing tables at the corner coffee shop allows you to be self-sufficient with many friends and you are extremely happy? Is that successful? Andrew thought so. If we are being honest, there was a time where I probably didn't, but it is amazing how perspective can sometimes change.

It has now been a full week since the incident in the upstairs bathroom. Of course, the fog has long since lifted, but the smell still lingers. I used to think that we would be able to "cure" David. You hear about "curing" kids with autism all the time and I really thought we would find the one intervention that would make him snap out of it. I now realize that is not going to be the case. In a sense, we are helping David through the fog. David has made great strides, but the scent of autism still lingers and probably always will.

Our Daily Discourse - A Belated Christmas Edition

It seems like I was not very organized this past Christmas season and, in the end, I had to cram all of the last minute preparations into day-long marathon sessions--a day for baking, a day for addressing Christmas cards and a day for wrapping presents.

David participated in much more of the process this year and really seemed to enjoy every part of it, which made it all worthwhile. After literally six hours of wrapping presents for friends, family, co-workers, teachers and therapists, David helped me load everything under the tree—all the presents that I had purchased and just finished wrapping—and looked up at me with those big blue eyes, smiled and in all earnestness said, “Mom-mom, no PEEKING!”

Sparring

I sat at work all day on Friday, anxious to go home. I guess I am always anxious to go home from work, but this time I had a special reason. My brand new, shiny brass "privacy latch" had been installed on the pocket door that leads to the basement and I couldn't wait to get home and show it to David.

I wasn't trying to be cruel. I was not planning to remind David of all of the marvelous things that the basement holds and then turn the latch, locking him out. I did have visions, however, of being able to enforce the rules without having to go chasing after him. No indiscriminately dumping all of the baskets of toys and no pushing the button on Andrew's video game just to see his reaction.

Well, (deep breath here), the short story is that $120.15 later, it took David approximately seven seconds to use his little fingers to turn the wheel on the outside of the door. I guess there is a reason that they call it a "privacy latch" and not a "lock." Evidently, David didn't really feel like respecting anyone's "privacy." DING. Round one goes to David.

It took me a full day of strategizing to develop my plan B. Fortunately, the locksmith had left the old hardware and I discovered that the old door pull was exactly the same size and shape as the new one. So, Michael was able to screw the old hardware on the outside of the door over the new, concealing the wheel from David's grasp. The door could still be locked, but David would not be able to use his little fingers to turn the wheel, releasing the latch. By the way, are you sure this is the same child who sometimes has difficulty with the fine motor skills involved in things like writing, but can somehow grasp and turn a tiny, low profile brass wheel to gain entry to our basement? Wait. Don't answer that.

Well, this time it took David about two hours and seven seconds to discover that if he just rattled the door endlessly, the latch would open without even having to exercise that pincer grasp. And, in all fairness to David, he probably would have figured it out much sooner, but he was involved in playing something else and did not even try the door for the first two hours. DING. Round two—David.

Round three involved the addition of a door stop wedged on the basement side to stop the door from rattling so much. David quickly perfected the door-jiggle-shoulder-shove combination that, predictably, worked like a charm. Round three--I was down for the count.

I am honestly not sure what the next step will be. Sometimes it is exhausting trying to stay one step ahead of David. I guess it is sometimes exhausting trying to keep up with any child. I just wish that this mental sparring counted as a form of exercise.

Hooray!

Dani G at I'm Just That Way and That's Just Me and Heather at Living, Learning, Laughing & Loving with Autism have bestowed upon me the Memetastic Award complete with this very classy graphic created by Jill over at Yeah. Good Times.

As it is my very first award ever--in the blogosphere, at least—I did receive that award at the Senior banquet in high school, "Most Likely to Write a Blog that Six People Will Actually Read." Anyway, I am thrilled to receive it and here are the rules—edited only slightly for the benefit of my ten-year old.

1. You must proudly display the absolutely disgusting graphic that I have created for these purposes (put it in your post, you don't have to put it in your sidebar, I think that would seriously be asking too much). It's so bad that not only did I use COMIC SANS, but there's even a little jumping, celebrating kitten down there at the bottom. It's horrifying! But its presence in your award celebration is crucial to the memetastic process we're creating here. If you need a higher resolution version... I totally have one!!

2. You must list 5 things about yourself, and 4 of them must be bold-faced lies. Just make something up, we'll never know; one of them has to be true, though. Of course, nobody will ever know the difference, so we're just on the honor system here.

3. You must pass this award on to 5 bloggers that you either like or don't like or don't really have much of an opinion about. I don't care who you pick, and nobody needs to know why. 

So, here are my five things:
I was once stuck in my car overnight in a snowstorm, eating my way through the groceries I had just purchased.
I try to jog five miles every day.
I was once stood up for a date because my date had been thrown in jail and chose not to use his one phone call to phone me.
I flunked out of law school.
I am a really bad liar—it makes my left eye twitch.


And the winner is…
Mum Accepting Autism
My Life as an Ungraced, Unhinged and Unwilling Draftee into the Autism Army
Mommy to Two Boys
Floortime Life Mama
MOM - Not Otherwise Specified

Spinning the Wheel of Life

Most parents will tell you that dealing with kids is a constant negotiation. As a famous child expert (whose name I cannot, for the moment, recall) once said, "You have to pick your battles."

I do try to keep that piece of advice in mind when dealing with David, especially. Does it really matter if we have to load nine rolls of Bounty paper towels into the back of the car before leaving the house? Can't I take just a minute so that David can listen to the sound the car makes when the lights are on and the car door is open? Does it matter what other people think when David has to open every single door in the frozen food aisle at the SuperTarget?

So, Sunday we were getting ready to go to church. David wears sweatpants almost every day because they are much easier for him to handle in the bathroom at school, but I didn't want him to wear sweatpants to church. I had chosen a much dressier (insert sarcasm here) pair of jeans, which he had worn several times before. It is not like I was asking him to wear a tuxedo. He respectfully declined (dripping with sarcasm, this time) the option of jeans and selected, instead, black and red checked flannel pajama bottoms, "a-ja-ja" as David says.

After four attempts, I did get the jeans on David when it then became apparent that he had no intention of wearing his tennis shoes. It was like we were volleying the ball back and forth in a very equally matched game of tennis. Our non-verbal negotiation went something like this:

David – I will wear the jeans, but not the tennis shoes. I want pool shoes (Crocs).
Kathy – You are not wearing pool shoes, but I will let you wear your galoshes. (Yes, M, these are the dinosaur galoshes that you bought for him in Las Vegas).
David – Okay, I will wear the galoshes but only if I can take with me the spinner from the game of Life.

Yes, David has been carrying around the actual spinner from the game, Life, which Andrew had borrowed from my sister's house but never played because it is hard the play the game without the spinner. David is enamored with it because, of course, it spins which is one of his very favorite attributes in a toy, but also it reminds him of the show, Wheel of Fortune.

At the conclusion of this negotiation, I had approximately 13 seconds to get myself ready and it is a wonder I didn't show up for the service with makeup on only half of my face--or wearing my own pajama bottoms. Maybe I did. From the look that must have been on my face when we arrived, I doubt that anyone would have told me—about the makeup, at least. I would have noticed the pajama bottoms on my own. Wouldn't I?

All I can say is that the floor in the church is not very forgiving and the spinner made a pretty loud noise as it bounced off the slate tile in the middle of the sermon, but the dinosaur on David's galoshes did flash me a cute smile as I bent down to retrieve it.

Life Story

When I meet people, I am always uncertain how much of our story they need to know. Sometimes I tell people that David has autism and sometimes I do not, depending upon the situation. I guess sometimes I do not need to worry about making that decision because they figure it out on their own, anyway.

David has been taking great delight in turning Andrew's video game off in the middle of the game. Initially, I really think he liked the sound that that the Xbox makes when it is powering off. But, we have "reinforced his behavior" which is autism-speak for made the situation exponentially worse, by how we have reacted when he does it.

Understandably, Andrew gets pretty upset, especially about the sixth, seventh or eighth time that it happens, but I think the kicker for David is when his middle-aged mother, sporting a recently acquired and as of yet undiagnosed hip problem comes charging, okay limping after him. We have turned it into a game and in David's opinion it is hysterically fun.

Plus, David has a memory like an elephant. I can block access to the door, but David will wait—sometimes hours--until the phone rings, or it is time and cook dinner, or I have to go to the bathroom and seize the opportunity to sprint toward the door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I am trailing after him, dragging my right leg behind me like the villain in a B-movie who is detected only because of the strange shuffle footprints in the snow. Occasionally, I can catch David. Most times I do not—because he has gotten too much of a head start--yeah, that's it.

So, last week I had a locksmith to our house to ask about securing the pocket door that separates the basement stairs from our family room. I thought I had explained quite clearly what I needed, but the locksmith apparently thought I was confused. He really did not believe that I wanted to be able to secure the door from the basement side, to block people (aka David) from being able to go downstairs. He finally asked me, "So what EXACTLY are we trying to do here?" It was as if he thought I wanted to be able to hide in the basement and protect myself from the alien invasion, or even to win at hide-and-go-seek every single time.

I made my full confession and told him that for the sake of family harmony, not to mention maternal sanity, our oldest son needs to be able to block our youngest son from having access to the basement after he has committed some unpardonable sin which may include but not be limited to dumping all of the toys onto the floor, or turning off a game in play, or just being a general nuisance when friends are over because, you see, David has autism.

I saw the all too familiar "too much information" look flash over his face, but I must have made my point because he informed me that he would order the "privacy latch" and call me when it was in.

I guess the next time I feel like keeping my personal business, well, personal, I need to craft a plausible excuse in advance—preferably one that doesn't involve autism or aliens.

What to do? What to do?

I could see them coming from the parking lot. David was having his weekly speech therapy and I was waiting for him when I saw them approach. The young man was probably 20 years old and was having great difficulty walking. He was wearing a belt around his waist with handles in the back so that his caregiver could help him.

I did not hear him articulate it, but somehow this kid's companion knew when they got into the waiting room that he had absolutely no intention of sitting down. Short of giving him a karate chop to the midsection, it was going to be a test of wills, not to mention physical strength to see if this tiny woman could get the lanky boy in a seat.

I quickly realized as I was sitting there, how uncomfortable I was. Should I make eye contact with her in a show of sympathetic solidarity? Or should I make eye contact with him? Did they need help or should I just act like I didn't notice them? I quickly discarded that last option, because in a waiting room the size of a postage stamp it would have been hard to believe that I didn't see them unless I was in a medically induced coma.

I later smiled at the irony of the situation. I am sure that I occasionally make others equally uncomfortable when I am out with David and it becomes apparent that he is having an issue or sensory overload or decides the he is not inclined to participate in something. Fortunately, he is still of the age and size that I can almost always coax, or even physically "encourage" him to do what I want him to do. But, (and this is a big but) I am not going to be able to do that much longer. As anyone who has ever seen David can tell you, he is a tall kid and was recently mistaken for a third grader—just wait until he repeats Kindergarten next year. Maybe the other students will think he is just a very quiet paraprofessional.

I honestly don't know why I was so surprised at my reaction to this situation in the waiting room. Apparently, this autism badge that I wear does not give me all the answers to every circumstance involving people with special needs. Can you imagine? I have given some thought, however, to what I would have wanted in a similar situation. I am sure that I would have appreciated an offer of help, even if I didn't need it (or probably would never accept it if I did). I certainly wouldn't have scowled at a kind word—to me or to David. I guess what I would have appreciated the most is just understanding in whatever form that takes.

I'll do better the next time. I promise.

Dress for Success

I recently read a column in our local paper by Rainbow Rowell about the difference between clothes available for little boys compared to little girls. Her contention is that boys are never allowed to dress their age. While clothes for little girls are actually cute, age appropriate and feature bows and balloons, the choice for little boys seems to be all skulls and skateboards, grooming them to join either an extreme sport or a rock band.

As the mother to two boys, I have to say that I do regret never having the opportunity to dress a girl. I have noticed that the clothes for boys do not seem to be very appealing, although I never could have put it as eloquently as Rainbow did. She writes, "Wherever you shop, you have to make a special effort not to dress your son like the kind of man you hope he won't turn out to be—a toxically macho dufus."

While I am happy to say that neither of the boys has ever donned anything with a skull, I must admit that I have sometimes lowered my standard on athletic shirts when they were on clearance. I absolutely draw the line, however, at those attitude shirts that you often see in the boys section. Quite frankly as a child with autism, David cannot afford attitude. And while the shirt that says, "You can agree with me…or you can be wrong" might accurately reflect David's temperament on certain days, I really don't think we need to go around advertising that he is having a bad day.

Most of the time, however, these types of shirts miss the mark for David and I would venture to say for many kids with autism. David has worked so hard to reach milestones that so come easily for typical kids that somehow phrases like "Own the Pain" or "Run Play Dunk Slam" seem to make fun of this progress. If you want to give David attitude, you would need a shirt that says "Red Rules" (still wearing a red shirt every day) or "Backward is Best" (because he has now mastered walking backward to the bus even in the snow) and maybe even "Sensory Sensation." For some reason, I have not yet seen these shirts at the SuperTarget Store.

P.S. Rainbow Rowell is a wonderful columnist and you can read her full column here. She will be releasing her first novel, Attachments, in April and it is now available for pre-order and whatever you may be thinking, I have never even met her.

Snow Day Survival Story

The call came around 8:00 Monday night. It was an automated female voice, sounding very chipper. "Due to the forecast of inclement weather…." I really could not tell you what the rest of the message said because I could not hear it over the hollering coming from Andrew. It was the second snow day in a row, and he was extremely excited. I was happy, too, because the calendar was clear and I had visions of the traditional snow day cinnamon rolls for breakfast, maybe watching a movie or playing a game as a family, and certainly a long winter's nap in the afternoon.

Let me preface the rest of the story by saying that David has a miserable cold. And since David has a miserable cold, I have a miserable cold. We really should have both stayed in bed all day, but for David who sometimes does not stay in bed all night, all day is certainly out of the question.

The day started on the wrong foot, or at least a wet foot as I stepped into the bathroom after David had used it. He had insisted upon privacy and had even locked me out of the room. Just for giggles, he decided to stand to the side of the toilet, which apparently interfered with the normal trajectory. Let's just say that there is a reason I keep Clorox wipes in every bathroom in our house, but in this instance we were way beyond using a wipe or two and into the category of a full blown scrubbing of the floor.

I will not regale you with the gory details of the rest of the morning except to say that most of the behavior (with the exception of the fight over what temperature we should use to cook the customary cinnamon rolls and how many minutes could be on the kitchen timer) was just typical six-year-old bad boy stuff and had nothing to do with the fact that David has autism. Sometimes it is important to make that distinction. He had apparently decided if I was going to be mad at him anyway, he would give me a reason to be mad. And, while he was at it, he would make Andrew mad, too, by periodically turning off his Xbox in the middle of a game.

The day was punctuated by my whole family (Mom, Dad, Sister and Nephew) bringing me lunch. It was billed as a spontaneous snow day gathering, but was really more like an intervention. I think they were trying to preserve what is left of my sanity, or possibly the skin on David's bottom, who knows. Anyway, bless them all, because it worked to break the cycle and David was much calmer in the afternoon.

That night while I was tucking Andrew into bed, I acknowledged that it had been a difficult day with David. And Andrew replied, "Yes it was. FRAZIZZLE." This word, if you can call it that, must have been the closest thing to a swear word that he could think of at the moment and was uttered by the kid who has come home from school surprised that someone has said "the F-bomb" in class and he is not intending it to be short for anything. He actually means that they said the words "F-bomb." Shocking!

I am not sure why I said it because Andrew is usually the one offering encouragement to me by telling me that he wouldn't change anything about David and loves him just the way he is, but on this occasion I said, "Remember that God sent David to us for a reason." And he replied "Could you remind me exactly what that reason is?" I wasn't sure how to respond when Andrew rolled over, closed his eyes to go to sleep and just started laughing.

My Resolution

A New Year. A new look—for the blog, that is, not for me. I still have the same classic sense of style that at this point in my life could best be described as forty (plus) year old frazzled. I have long ago given up the notion that the new year will bring with it a sudden personal transformation, an ability to change every aspect of my life. What about unwrapping the new wall calendar from the plastic means that I will suddenly get my act together? Sure, I still set goals for myself—to be more organized, to get the closets cleaned out, to exercise more, but somehow after David's diagnosis, those things lost some of their importance. Let's see, clean the guest closet or help David learn how to talk. So sorry that overnight guests at my house have no place to hang their clothes.

School is back in session and the boys are settling into their routines after the Christmas break. Perhaps, I should say that David is soaring back into his routine, because, not surprisingly for a child with autism, it is all about sameness and structure for David. He has resumed his backward walk to the bus each morning and I can now answer one of the questions posed in my previous post. "Why, after four months of walking backward to the bus every single day do you suddenly decide to walk forward?" And the answer, ladies and gentlemen, is SNOW. David may be quirky, but he is not crazy and apparently he quickly reached the realization that he cannot be as sure footed while walking backward. But, the snow is gone for the moment and we are back to our normal routine.

To say that David is averse to change would be an understatement. David likes to watch the same movies, play with the same toys and video games—even after he has mastered SpongeBob Squarepants Battle for Bikini Bottom game on the Playstation and reached the final credits. Who knew that they had credits at the end of a video game, much like at the movies? In fact, David still has wrapped presents under our Christmas tree (I know, I am taking it down this weekend.) It is not that David does not enjoy new things eventually, but getting him to watch a new movie, or play with a new toy sometimes requires major cajoling. And you can never be sure what is going to take his fancy. He was absolutely enamored with the wall clock originally intended as a gift for my husband. He carried it around chest high all of Christmas Eve, occasionally announcing the time (again, see the last post) and when he paired it with the microphone from Andrew's Beatles Rock Band set, my brother-in-law remarked that he was beginning to look like Flavor Flav—yes, well except for the very fair skin, and the blond hair, and the slate blue eyes.

I am not saying that David's attitude on change is perfectly healthy, either, but I guess this time of year I will take a cue from the book of David. Maybe I can decide to be content with what I have already and instead of putting pressure on myself to change everything, I will work on one small thing at a time. That sounds like a resolution that maybe I can keep.