Hello 37

Besides being Autistic Pride Day, Friday was also my birthday.  Yay!  Another step closer to 40.  Neat. Remember when birthdays were all about sunshine and lollipops?  Me neither.  Here's a little synopsis of My Special Day:

6:15 a.m.  Little Dude and The Peanut Butter Kid wake up extra-early and bound down the stairs like it's Christmas morning.  (Why? There are no presents for them. For God's sake, little people, go back to bed.)  Little Dude is so excited that he's flapping.  (If you're new to the blog, he's Asperger-ish.) He flaps his hands against the tops of his thighs: pat-pat-pat.  The patting causes him to bend forward slightly so that his little face is right next to mine.  "Happy Birthday, Mommy." 

The Peanut Butter Kid asks me if I want breakfast in bed.  No, I want sleep in bed.

"No thanks, honey, I need to get up and stagger to the coffee maker now anyway."

"Mommy, we are going to go make our own breakfast, because it's Your Special Day, and you should sleep late."  She pats me on the head.  Cool.  So, wait, why did you wake me up then?

They leave to go make their own breakfast.  I begin to drift back into my coma slumber. Within five minutes, Little Dude is fuh-reaking out because the cheese for his cheese sandwich broke.  He is inconsolable.  I get up and convince him that if I melt the cheese sandwich in the microwave, the cheese won't be broken any more.  Incredibly, he agrees to this.

6:45 a.m. The Absent-Minded Professor, the Peanut Butter Kid, and Little Dude do a birthday dance for me.  The overall effect of this dance number is sort of Bob Fosse meets Blue's Clues.  The Absent-Minded Professor leaves for work.  I turn on the television idiot box.

7:00 a.m.  Cookie slinks down the stairs, swipes the remote, and drapes herself onto the couch, all in one fluid motion.  She starts flipping channels.

"Chug. Ing. TON!" shrieks Little Dude.  We have a problem here.  There are shows that he is particularly attatched to, and he doesn't like to deviate from that list.  Chugginton, which is sort of a poor man's Thomas the Tank Engine, is pretty high on the list.  Even higher is Dinosaur Train, which is basically porn for 4-year-old boys.

"OhmyGodpleaseleaveitonChuggington," I beg Cookie. 

I stare at my laptop while I drink my second cup of coffee.  The kids stare at the television while they eat cereal or sandwiches. (I know, it's terrible.  I should make eggs. We should eat breakfast at the table and have a nice chat.  But it's just not happening.)

8:00 "Do you know where my camp t-shirt is?"
"Wherever you dropped it last night."
"You didn't wash it?"
"Apparently not."
Cookie and the Pork Lo Maniac's camp-issued shirts are located in wadded-up balls on the floor of their room.  The shirts have the heady aroma of Nature Camp, sweat and old Kool-Aid Linen & Sky Febreze.

8:45 Mommy's choice on the iPod: we all sing along to Blondie's Sunday Girl as I drive to nature camp.  It's already over 90 degrees out.  Conveniently, the humidity steams the wrinkles right out of those t-shirts.  This is one benefit to Texas summer I hadn't thought of: Apparently ironing will not be necessary until mid-October.

9:15 a.m.  The PBK looks at me and deadpans, "Wow.  Good-bye 36, huh?  Hellooooo 37."  Must. have. more. coffee. 

9:15 a.m. - 1:45 p.m.  Eat peanut butter sandwiches; check on garden; play Lego Star Wars; read Junie B. Jones; try, for the 243rd day in a row, to teach Little Dude how to take off his own shoes.  The laundry pile gives me the evil eye, but I ignore it because it's My Special Day.

2:00 End-of-Nature-Camp Awards time.  The heat and humidity create some sort of vacuum that actually sucks the air right out of my lungs.  I imagine I'll require a portable oxygen tank by July.

3:00 Switch from coffee to diet Coke.

5:00 Order Chinese food online for the Absent-Minded Professor to pick up on the way home from work.  Oh, happy birthday to me: I don't have to cook and I don't have to interact with anyone.  I love the internet so much.

6:00 Birthday dinner.  I'm so happy we finally found a good Chinese place.  (South Texas may be known for great barbecue and great Mexican, but not so much with the Chinese food.  The last place was so bad it made my daughter cry.  We don't call her The Pork Lo Maniac for nothing.  "This isn't lo mein," she snapped, devastated tears springing to her big blue eyes.  "This is just ... brown spaghetti.  Why did we move here?")

6:30 Presents!  I adore presents!  Especially the stuff my kids make for me.  Hand-made cards, "one tickit to play Star Wars with me," a faux watch made of real duct tape, and a Best Mommy Award.  From the Absent-Minded Professor: two thoughtfully-selected books and a gift certificate for a spa treatment.  He is a god among men.

8:00 We herd the kids upstairs.  I am sitting next to Little Dude's bed while he is supposed to be falling asleep.  This is normally the time I spend writing, but tonight he wants to quiz me on multiplication. This is a new Aspergerish thing, I guess, but if he finds multiplication relaxing, who am I to judge?

"Mommy, what's one times eleven?"
"Eleven."
"You are correct. Very good."
"Thank you."
"Happy birthday, Mommy."

Thirty years ago, this is not what I would have imaged as a perfect birthday, but here we are.  Many things have changed since then, but some things have not: I still like to sing Blondie at the top of my lungs, play outside, and eat beef with snow peas.  Pretty sweet gig I have.  Hello 37.