A few months ago Veruca had a bad dream.  In the dream she was floating away, up into the sky and I just stood and watched.  She woke up in the middle of the night crying and could only be comforted by Special K.  Since then, I am routinely subjected to V’s rapid-fire inquisitions:  ”Why did you let me float up into the sky like that?  Why did you just stand there in my dream when I was lifting off the ground?  How could you do that to me?  Why did you let that happen to me? How?  Why?  How?”  And no answer will satisfy her.  I will never win her forgiveness for not being more proactive in her dream which will certainly lead to her having low-self esteem and bad hair for all of her days.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that my daughter is holding the eternal grudge against me for her nocturnal perceptions of my non-action, I’m also doing my part to consciously lay a path of emotional traumas that should take her a lifetime to traverse.  How?

I think I mentioned that we changed V from 5 days of school to 3.  She’s done well with that change and just this week a morning slot opened up.  This was what we originally wanted for her — school in the morning before she has a chance to be a total fucking bitch get too tired.  It’s also what every other parent in the South Shore area of Massachusetts is in pursuit of.  The mornings are popular, but I lucked out and got her in.  Today was her first morning class.

It was about 11:45 and I was heading out for her 12:00 pickup when my phone rang.  It was Veruca’s teacher calling to let me know that dismissal was at 11:30.  You don’t even know how sick I felt.  Sick in knowing that she ran out of her one-room little red schoolhouse looking for me as she does every day — clutching her homework and with a grin on her face that contradicts the nervous look in her eyes as she calls my name and eagerly searches the crowd of mommies until she sees me and her scared eyes give way to joy and relief — and I was not there.  The teachers were understanding on the phone, but I basically started going about 190 in a 25mph zone which would have been okay (if not legal) if I didn’t get stuck behind a funeral procession.  Why must dead people move so slowly?

I arrived a few minutes before noon and V was happily snapping a puzzle together.  She looked up, completely non-reactionary, and gave me her patented eyebrow arch.  The one that says, “How kind of you to finally remember that you have a child that needs care.”  I scooped her up and ran back to our car.  I must have apologized ten times.  (I let her get into her favorite fleece nightgown as soon as we got home and she was allowed as many Oreos as she wanted — nothing communicates the sentiment of regret quite like access to an unlimited supply of cookies.)

I just felt so bad.  I remember the panic I felt as a child when I’d lose sight of my mother at the grocery store and would pretty easily convince myself that she decided to give up the mommy gig and leave the store without me so she could get home, pack her belongings and move before the authorities could track her.  As I was in the midst of transferring my every childhood fear squarely onto the shoulders of my daughter, Veruca said in her most sweet and reassuring and unpanicked voice, “Don’t worry mommy.  It’s okay.”  Silence for five seconds.  More soothing tones.  ”I know your work is important to you.  And you forgot me.  It’s fine.”  See?  This is what V does.  She can so clearly assess any situation, identify the players and the emotions, and swiftly determine just which words will serve as a dagger through a major organ system.

It just made me so sad that she thought my laptop would ever have precedence over her.  In the interest of full disclosure, I do set an alarm on my phone to remind me of the time to leave my house to get her at school.  I also have one set to alert me when it’s time to go get Aspie off the bus.  When I’m in major writing mode, I can lose track of time.  But I never want my kids to think that they don’t get top ranking.  The whole purpose of working out of my home was to avoid just that.

Anyway, I explained again, for the 483rd time, that it was just a matter of me having the wrong time.  I kept glancing in my rearview mirror to watch her with wide eyes and a little smirk as she nodded in an understanding manner.  We drove for a couple of minutes in silence until she spoke again in a tone that could only be described as “toddler stern”.  ”Uh, Mommy?  You do realize that I’ll have to tell Daddy what happened when he comes home tonight.”

This was my Monday.

“Ring”

me:  Hello

NSN:  Hello, Mrs. Blogauthor?  This is Nurse Snivelnose from Aspies’ school.  I am calling because I am wondering if your son has an affinity for going to the nurses office numerous times a day?

me:  Hmmm…I don’t think so.  What can I do for you?

NSN:  Well Aspie is here and says that his stomach is vibrating and he thinks it’s from *insert condescending snort and laugh here* your new brand of toothpaste.

me:  Well, yes.  He has Asperger’s so I guess that is entirely possible.  Put him on the phone.

After a few minutes of speaking with Aspie I spoke to NSN again.

NSN:  If you can figure out what his problem is, I’d love it if you’d tell me.

me:  I’ll be picking him up in five minutes.

Click.

I wordlessly went in (in my pjs) and picked up my child.  NSN gave me the “Well now I see what the problem is” once over and I left…wordlessly.  And this is what gets me.  I don’t expect the average layman to get the Aspie thing.  Hell I don’t really get the Aspie thing and I’m his mother.  But the school nurse?  Seriously…she chose to work with kids!  The art room makes him feel like he took too much Tylenol and documentaries on George Lucas make his brain feel like it’s being tinkered with.  What can I tell you?  He’s an Aspie!  If you don’t understand, at least show a little compassion for a kid whose Colgate Total 12 Hour Multi-Protection Fresh Stripe Toothpaste makes him vibrate.  Put on your imagination cap and think of what it must be like to walk around in a world that feels like that.  It’s the worst part of sending my kid off to school.  None of these people are ever going to care enough…