So named because a while ago, AJ commented that my mind was like a ping pong ball. And I think that today’s post, long overdue because I’ve been at a loss for words again, is going to have the same feel.

Emma is sick. It started on Saturday night when she came home from the neighbor’s. She was really, really sick on Sunday. Enough to worry me. Enough to bring me home early from work. And she was sick yesterday, home from school and spending her entire day on the couch, glassy eyed and moaning from time to time about the pain in her head or in her tummy. This morning was no better. And so, she’s home with me again today, camping out in the same spot on the couch, watching TV, sucking on a cup of apple juice and managing to nibble on a few pieces of dry cereal. Corn Pops, to be exact, partly because the texture agrees with her and partly because they aren’t overly flavourful and partly because I can’t yet bring myself to give her the other cereal hiding out in the cupboard.

Don might not have been able to open his dryer and deal with the pile of my clothes sitting inside any more than he can deal with the small collection of my dirty clothes sitting in his laundry hamper but I am no better. I still cannot bring myself to open the cups of Apple Jacks and Fruit Loops that I bought and brought home for the girls. I like the way that they look in my cupboard, the green and the red peeking out at me from behind the sugar bowl and coffee whitener. And those stupid cups of cereal have started to take on a life of their own. If someone eats them, they will be gone and that trip to the grocery store, before the BIG trip to the grocery store, will be eaten up, too. So while everything else is fair game and the assortment of eighty different mini chocolate bars is quickly dwindling, those cups of cereal remain. Reminding me with every cup of coffee I make for myself that I was there.

I’m really tired of being cold. It’s fucking freezing outside today and it makes me want to scream at this point. The sun really only manages to come out at the end of the day, right before it’s due to make it’s voyage to the other side of the world and set on Janet Land, plunging us into cold darkness and then taking it’s sweet fucking time returning the next day. We had some nice, summer like weather back in fucking April but it’s been all downhill from there. A few days here and there of warm temperatures and baking like sun, but it never lasts and it makes me wonder what the temperature in Saskatchewan is.

I dream every night. In between my travels, I dream, vividly, of the most random things. Counters cluttered with magazines and sunglasses and shitty lighters and dirty only with water blue cups and a turquoise bag with a hot pin up girl on the side. Red sheets and hampers full of extras and two dressers, nothing folded, and little knick knacks and little reminders everywhere you turn. Nothing taken for granted. Nothing wasted. Every physical reminder of my love on display, for the world to see and for him to use when the impossibility of the situation gets the better of him. White boards with my handwriting on it, my own silly words bringing me to tears because “can we fix it? No, it’s fucked” felt normal and easy. Dreams where I remember where the bathroom is. Dreams where I hold close the body that hasn’t been loved enough. Touched enough. Dreams where I wrap my legs around his warmth and lay my head next to his. Dreams where his mouth opens and I wake up in the right position, my own hand reaching for what he needs. Vivid dreams of random things. Things that I can see clearly if I close my eyes. Things that I can see clearly even if I don’t.

When I wake up, it takes me a good couple of minutes before I float back down to my body. When I wake up, it take me a good couple of minutes before the realization that I am at home sinks in. And with that, disappointment and sadness begins to take grip.

It’s not getting any easier.

I quit my job. Oh yes, read that sentence again, folks! Janet finally quit her fucked up and shitty job. I gave my notice on Friday. Two weeks. They weren’t immediately impressed and their inevitable reaction to my leaving dug up from inside of me the old, lingering doubt that I’ve carried around like an old, out of style handbag. Maybe I was making a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t doing the right thing. Maybe it’s not that bad there, I’ve just been muddled and lonesome and victim to a case of tunnel vision. And then my boss came over to me and tried to convince me to work the weekend after the two week period and my “WHAT THE FUCK?!” reaction ripped that ageing purse into tiny shreds. I’m done. It’s over. I’m letting go of fear by letting go of this job. And as Mel reminded me a few weeks ago, it’s all a lesson, preparing us for the next stage. Best to pay attention, eh, Mel? Don’t want to miss anything…

As I write, I’m keeping one ear tuned to the sounds in the rest of the house and keeping the other ear tuned to the sound of gravel and tires on the driveway. The roof guys were supposed to come today. Oh, I know…where have I heard that fucking tale before?! They were supposed to be here two weeks ago. They were supposed to be here the following Thursday. And they’re supposed to be here today. But they aren’t. And I’m glad that the house insurance is footing the bill for this job because if it was me, I would be right royally pissed off by their unprofessional business. But whatever. No skin off of my ass so long as the roof doesn’t actually start to leak before the repairs are done.

I don’t want to be here. Not any more. I want to be sitting on a really small deck, looking around and taking it in, thinking, “this is so beautiful” about twenty times for each half a cigarette I have. I want to imagine the landlord’s house, gorgeous and lived in and slightly rough around the edges, as my own. As our own. I want to imagine a kitchen with him standing in it on an everyday basis. I want to imagine four children bombing around a yard with us keeping close watch from lawn chairs. And the truth is that I imagine all of these things from my own backyard. I imagine all of these things from the warmth of the inside of my house.

And I dream of these things, too. Only the loveseat and chair and ottoman are never in the living room.

We are overrun with mosquitoes. It’s been so damn damp around here that they’ve been breeding like honeymooners. The house has more than it’s fair share zooming around, looking for fresh skin to stop on and bite. My legs are covered with a dozen, literally, of bug bites. And poor Michael has about six on his little face. Kate has a couple of doozies, too. She’s one of those people who are especially allergic and break out in a fucking welt whenever anything bites or stings her. I want hot weather. I want viruses to be killed off. I want the bugs to return to their normal level of annoyingness and I want to wear Capri pants without shivering, goddammit!

In the middle of writing this, my friends, K and J and their son, Bradley, stopped by. K is 24 weeks pregnant and was heading to the clinic to have her glucose test done. J was there to run interference with Bradley. They stopped by to pick up baby stuff. Some of K’s stuff that she generously gave to me when Michael was born and a lot of my stuff that I am finished with and ready to pass on. I was waiting for them, too, with one year on the driveway and one ear on the door. And I was ready to give her up as I handed over the baby stuff and the world’s latest birthday present of Body Shop soap and body butter.

I am never disappointed by any of you. But you all must realize that you are the exception to the rule, right? So, I never mean to sound like I’m attacking you when I blog about sexuality and disability or when I simply blog about missing the boy and loving the body he’s in. I forget, sometimes, that all of you are miles ahead of the “real” people surrounding me in my life.

I sometimes forget how surprising the world can be.

I remember an African American man talking about racism once on TV. How he believed that racism hadn’t really gotten that much better in American, the country and the world in general, had just gotten bigger, so the problem wasn’t as noticeable. Racism was easier to hide in a world this big. And a racist could blend in. I remember hearing him speak and really thinking about his theory. I remember agreeing with it on some levels. And it stuck, you know? I’ve carried his words around with me… I’ve carried his ideas and observations around with me for years now. And now I can safely say that I agree with that man whole heartedly. The ignorance isn’t less. The world is just bigger.

My own friend, K. One of my oldest friends, at that. A girl whose pregnancy I followed. A girl whose birth of her son I missed only because I was working. A girl who told me after Bradley was born, “I wish you had been there. I would have kicked everyone else out if I could have had you with me.” A girl whose son I held the next day, pure and beautiful, blond and bright eyed. A girl whose son I have considered as my own nephew ever since (and have subsequently spoiled fucking rotten every chance I get) and a girl whose is “Auntie K” to my own children.

Her ignorance floored me a few days ago. I stood, in my breezeway, unable to comprehend what I was hearing. Unable to voice anything other than her name, long and drawn out, like a moan or a gasp because my brain was having trouble catching up to my ears and my heart…well, my heart was not sure whether or not it was appropriate to keep on beating.

So, I was ready this morning for an exchange of words. I was ready for more jokes and more negative, disgusting, ignorant reactions and I was armed and ready to have an exchange of my own. I could hear Don’s voice saying, “please be done with her”, in my head. And I heard myself silently assure him that I was. It’s one thing to sit idly by as strangers hurt the boy that I love with their stares and their glances and their obnoxious words 540 miles away. It’s another to know that someone close to me is just as bad, if not worse (most definitely worse, now that I’m thinking about it because she has met him and has listened to me talk about him for months…) and put up with it. That’s unacceptable for me.

And so the morning was the most anti-climactic thing ever. Nothing was said. Only pleasantries and kid talk. And that boy…my surrogate nephew, Bradley. I can’t muster up anything but love when he’s around. I adore that little boy. I could eat him up, I could. And so, because he didn’t leave my side the entire time they were here, I tabled my thoughts and reactions and words for the next time.

And I feel terrible about that.

Sometimes I feel as though I should be psychic or something. Like I should be able to predict when this kind of shit is going to go down. But I can’t see it coming. Because I don’t see it as they do. And I’ve never seen it the way that they do.

What I wonder from time to time is this:

How did we get to be so narrow minded? How did we manage to stop looking at people in an effort to see it all? Did I miss that day? Was I absent? How come I can do this and so many others can’t or won’t? Believe me, I’m not that special.

I’m not even that smart. Which maybe is a blessing, eh? Maybe my lack of smarts and my lack of specialness made way for my ability to look at Don and see him without struggling. Maybe those things contributed, long ago, to my ability to take him in without ever needing to look past him or his disability.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Doesn’t really matter.

All that I know is that I’m so fucking sick of people surprising me and disappointing me at the same fucking time. Don’t ever confuse my feelings of having had it up to HERE with feelings of surrender or defeat. I’m not tired. Just sick.

It was my son, Michael, that brought Don and I together in the beginning. That and a love for one another’s words. But the words were really just the introduction. It was Michael who pushed us into one another. Michael, with his similarities so profound, at times it was scary. Michael, with his history so close it was mind boggling. And Don, with forty one years on the little guy. Half a lifetime worth of lessons to share and insights to speak. And support the likes of which I had never encountered. It was Michael who changed us both, almost at the same time. It was Michael who saw everything before it really appeared.

And so, I think of Michael now and his song, “Sweet Child Of Mine”. I think of how Michael taught me (oh Christ…not past tense, Janet! Present tense! For surely his lessons haven’t stopped, yet!) to come out from under the bed to face the storm. To believe that we can get to the other side if only we step out.

And I am once again floored as I realize that Don teaches the same thing.

No more hiding. Not for either of us. There is a time and a place that calls for nothing short of standing up on that box and screaming…

…to my friends.

…to his sister.

…to my parents.

…to his mother.

…to the people in such a hurry at an airport they need my swift elbow in the ribs (oh yes, baby, I did).

THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU.

I will no longer make it easier for people to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. I will no longer hide under that bed until the storm has passed. I will crawl out and stand up straight and face the storm and in turn, make them all face it, too.

Enough is enough.

And with that, the baby needs to go down for his nap. And Emma is waiting to watch “Mommy’s show”, cuddled up on the couch. I hate to say it, but it’s nice having her home without Kate. There’s something about her energy that fills me up when she’s here. I’m reminded, all at once, of the days when it was only Emma and Janet against the world. How we existed in a little world comprised only of the two of us during the day and evenings, until Rock would come home. How we included so few in our little world… just the friendly to the point of annoying neighbors in the apartment building and my sister once a week to dote on Emma and give me company and my Dad once a week to do the same in his own way. It’s rare that I’m able to catch that Emma and Janet feeling, so while it’s here, I think I’ll do my best to grab hold of it … if just for a little while.