I would have liked to join my fellow new patriots, watching this evening’s debates…but I have more pressing issues to attend to in my backyard. Or the neighbors’ backyard, rather. Going into this I knew the parenting gig would be no cake walk, but the unexpected “bonus” of caring for a special needs child, well, some days it’s enough to make me cry uncle. Growing up with an autistic first cousin may have given me more insight than some, but I don’t think it makes my job any easier. Unlike the typical child, who misbehaves now and then but can be reasoned with (on some level)…my son genuinely does not understand much of the time. He’s a sweet boy, but his comprehension just isn’t there yet, and he is sorely lacking self-preservation instincts. The basics, like looking out for cars before crossing a street, have yet to sink in. What he does have is a high pain tolerance, which only exacerbates the problem. I am even more leery of his time spent playing with other children. Is he going to get hurt, or inadvertently hurt others? This afternoon was a nerve-wracking example. He was out back, and had been encouraged to climb up into the neighbors’ tree, as some other kids were doing. At first I thought we’d be safe because he wouldn’t be able to do it. But he was determined. Eventually he launched himself up there, and I had my camera at the ready to document the moment. He told me he loved sitting in the tree. But then I started getting nervous. He didn’t seem to have a good handle on the whole balance thing. And there were three kids, vying for the best position and starting to get pushy. And the tree is on a rather steep grade, with dangerous debris strewn around it. And another older and rougher kid came over to cavort about, encouraging more dangerous behavior…like swinging from the branches Tarzan-style. So I pulled the little man out of there, much to his dismay. My heart gets broken over and over again…when I have to step in to stop him from getting hurt, and he just doesn’t get it. He thinks I am being inconsistent, arbitrary and cruel. And we both end up crying.

All right, I’ve spent far too much time in the last 24 hours online, looking for a new winter coat for the little man. Our requirements are pretty straightforward. The lad needs a durable daily wear jacket that’s built to withstand Minnesota winters, but with synthetic lining (instead of the non-vegan down). I’ve narrowed it down to two possible candidates, but I need help choosing between them. Exhibit A is a pretty standard number from the highly reputable Columbia line. Exhibit B is a slightly sassier number from an unknown entity, an Italian brand by the name of Invicta. Both jackets have coordinating snowpants, but Invicta’s are infinitely cooler, of course. Pricewise they are neck in neck, but stylewise? You be the judge. Please email me and let me know which you’d prefer (I do realize this would be so much simpler if I’d gotten in gear with the CMS migration and had comments enabled).

Just because I’m not feeling well doesn’t mean I can’t get my cats comfortably numb. With organic catnip, no less. But what about my needs? Ok, wants. Wanton wants. I was thinking a little conspicuous consumption might lift my spirits. Sadly exploding dog’s “the future is almost here” prints are already sold out. One of the t-shirts might make an all right consolation prize, but I like this one even better. Or any of these assorted Yoshitomo Nara treasures, but especially this amazing picture/postcard book. Anyone want to help a sister out? Didn’t think so. What I really should be looking for, though, is more mundane. The ever-growing and less-little little man needs a new winter coat. But he’ll have nothing to do with the process, thank you very much. The lad had a major meltdown yesterday morning…when we insisted he wear socks and shoes outside (rather than sandals) and a sweater over his t-shirt, as it was about 44°F when the school bus arrived. The poor kid sometimes has trouble with transitions. Especially the changing of seasons, and accompanying changes in wardrobe. Maybe we should move to California.

Yesterday marked the first time I’d thought to go out for a solo walk while the little man was at school. My destination, the neighborhood coffeehouse. If you’re going to fall off the wagon you may as well fall hard. I purchased a pound of French Roast (half off on Mondays), and a baguette for good measure. Unfortunately my return walk left me with this niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right. A suspicion which was confirmed later in the day when I came down with a cruddy cold, the same one, I suspect, that the little man succumbed to earlier. The only one way to distract myself from how useless and lousy I was feeling…reading an Elizabethan Cyborg Romance novel cover to cover, naturally. Sadly today I am not feeling any better (in fact, marginally worse) so I’ve started in on the sequel. Another entirely worthy distraction, which you may or may not have already seen, is the amazing sketchbook site of Kevin Cornell. Gorgeous design, mad skills, and a wicked sense of humor. The man has it all. Just be careful when poking the bear.

Monday morning wakeup calls I could have done without:

1. 2am: The cat puking outside my bedroom door;
2. 4am: The husband’s work boots stomping up and down the now carpet-less stairs;
3. 5am: An idjit neighbor’s car alarm screeching into the dawn for an age. One would hope they respond more quickly to smoke alarms.
4. 7am: Fully awake, with the theme music from a game, Coco’s Egg Scramble, from the Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends site, firmly lodged in my brain on repeat.

Hopefully the day can only improve from here on out.

An excellent weekend, thus far. Decided to give up on giving up. Two weeks into my coffee withdrawal and I realized it wasn’t worth it. Every day I woke up all achey, and severely lacking in the motivation department. All I looked forward to was crawling back into bed. But that changed Friday. Just one strongly-brewed cup later and I was dancing around my house, literally, listening to some old New Order while cleaning. Later on I was ready to step out, and was able to do so as the little man had an impromptu overnight visit with his grandma. I made it out for some mingling at the Poster Offensive. Bumped into several friends, including some favorite local bloggers. Afterwards I caught a showing of Shaun of the Dead with the Daves and Huey-Ling. It was perfect.

“Ridiculous and heartfelt, it’s both the funniest zombie movie and the scariest romantic comedy you’re likely to ever see.”

Indeed. Didn’t, however, make it to Mizna’s film festival, as I was anxiously awaiting the little man’s return. His grandmother gave me a rather large window of time during which to expect him, and as the hour grew later I started missing the lad more. At one point there was a false alarm. The doorbell rang so I excitedly rushed to answer it. I flung the door open and, instead of seeing my son, found myself face to face with two men in suits. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Extricated myself from that situation as quickly as possible. Eventually my boy came back to me, though he was a bit tired and under the weather. Since mom hadn’t gotten much sleep we were both content with lying about much of the day, and playing with his new toys. Today looks like more of the same. Can’t complain. And I’ll be doing it with coffee.

Sadly we’re not so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed around these parts. This morning I attempted to get the little man ready for school, something he generally looks forward to. But today he told me he had to stay home. When I asked why he gave me an unusually serious look and deadpanned “I don’t have a choice”. What he really meant to say was “I want to sit around and watch anime all day” but eventually I was able to get him going…by lugging his 52 pound bad self all the way down the stairs. Resistance was futile, but I don’t look forward to the teen years. As for me, I’m continuing to wage my coffee-withdrawal-for-the-greater-good campaign, and paying the price…in the form of serious head and neck aches, and persistent dreams of consuming the verboten beverage. During my waking hours I rarely feel alert, or alive. More like a zombie. A slightly cranky, impatient zombie who could do with some grown-up, out-of-the-house time. Which is reason enough to go see Shaun of the Dead tomorrow night, rather than one of the five films in my previously mentioned must-see list.

Just got word that my friend Justin will be DJing at a political poster show opening this Friday night. Sounds interesting, and it’s free. The show runs this weekend only, September 24th - 26th.
Here’s more info:

Opening Reception Friday, September 24, 2004 @ 7:00pm
Refreshments & Tank Goodness Cookies
DJs: Justin Martinez and Ben Pagel
Location: Frank Stone Gallery
1224 Second Street N.E.
Minneapolis, MN 55413

Utilizing the politically potent medium of the poster, the second Poster Offensive is an opportunity for artists to take action and use their voice and talents to make a statement during a very critical time in not only American history, but also world history. This event is an independent, nonpartisan show, featuring contemporary interpretations of political dissent. Participants were enlisted from the creative autonomy of Minnesota’s ever vibrant design landscape.

Participants include: Aesthetic Apparatus, Todd Bartz, Anchalee Chambundabongse, Mike Cina, Gerry D’Amour, Hilary Davis, The Decoder Ring Design Concern, Chank Diesel, Andrea Floren, Chad Hagen, Robb Harskamp, Amy Jo Hendrickson, Steve Jockisch, Haley Johnson, Jeff Johnson, Katie Kirk, Matt Larson, Justin Martinez, Patrick Maun, Kelly Munson, John Neerland, Sarah Nelson, Ben Pagel, Aaron Pollock, John Reichel, Jarrod Riddle, Nate Strandberg, Jason Strong, Adam Turman, Sharon Werner, & Jack Wilcox.

An archive of the first Poster Offensive show is available here (sample below).

This is only going to score me more NPR nerd points in the husband’s book, but last night two favorites came together…The World, and Danny Gregory. My timing was fortuitous for a change. The little man and I were heading home, from an exciting evening of errand-running and playing. We happened to be in the car at just the right time to catch an interview with Mr. Gregory (more importantly, the lad was tuckered out enough to allow me to listen to it, in its entirety). He was discussing his latest book, which I’ve been meaning to pick up. I’ve been finding his work, writing and illustrations, equally fascinating and inspiring.

In other book news…Neal Stephenson’s third volume in the Baroque Cycle is out, but I have to admit I haven’t made it through the first one yet. I’m a fan of Cryptonomicon, but Quicksilver never grabbed me the way I expected it to.

After dinner last night the little man and I settled in, in his room, to play with the new Legos he’d been given. We didn’t get around to using all 1500 of them, but we gave it a good shot. I started having weird childhood flashbacks, to playing Legos with my brother and the neighborhood kids, and how stressed out I would get when, in the midst of creating, I realized I needed some odd little piece that there were only one or two of, and if I gave voice to this need, out loud, then surely someone else was going to nab my piece, so I would have to surreptitiously search for it with sidelong glances and then oh so carefully, quietly reach for it when the others weren’t looking. Uh, yeah. Last night wasn’t quite like all that. No, it was more about the little man looking through the Lego how-to booklets, requesting I build a certain creature, and then attempting to snatch it from me before I’d finished. That sort of thing I can deal with…and am quite used to. Foolish me, however, didn’t foresee a power struggle come cleanup time. For no good reason that I could ascertain the little man decided to dump all the Legos out of one bucket, just as we were finishing up. Then he had the nerve to tell me to pick them up. Nuh-uh. I had already put away the Legos I had been playing with, thank you very much. So I coaxed and pleaded and prodded and finally lost my patience with the uncooperative little punk and hit him below the belt. Figuratively. I took away his new Batman figurine and announced that it wouldn’t be given back until every last Lego was returned to its bucket. Oh, the emotional maelstrom that was unleashed. My son repeated “I am sad sad sad” and demonstrated this feeling with some faux crying. Which eventually turned into genuine crying when he realized I was serious and wouldn’t budge. I had to leave the room, as the sound of him replacing just one lego piece per minute was too much like Chinese water torture. My departure seemed to spur him into action, though it still took him an age. At least he’d chosen to dump the 500 piece bucket instead of the 1000 piece tub.