All Kinds of Wonderful

I'll bet the title of this post surprised you. You are not used to wonderful here at The Striped Nickel, are you?

Well, if you've been dropping by for a while, perhaps you are, but perhaps you've forgotten. Or think I have forgotten.

I haven't.

Here is some of the wonderful going on around here as we speak:

A. Benjy, Benjy, and more Benjy. He is doing so well, and his school is so amazing, I have to pinch myself a few times a day to make sure it's not all a dream. Readers, he is LEARNING, and not exclusively on his own. He has FRIENDS. He is MUCKING OUT HORSE STALLS AND FEEDING SHEEP.

Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. Not at all. I just cannot believe it and shouting allows me to hear it better. It's true, all true.

I love that boy so damn much it hurts. Seeing him hurts in a joyful way, and not seeing him hurts in a missing-you sort of way -- but not-seeing allows healing all around, so it's good. So. Very. Good.

B. Saskia is wonderful. WONDERFUL. Did I mention wonderful? Not sure what Lars and I did to deserve our girl besides contribute some genes of a very mixed nature -- when you have a spare eight hours or so I'll tell you all about our...uh, colorful families -- and teach her the things we strongly believe to be true. Which means she has a deep sense of the urgency of socio-economic justice for all. And she loves books and animals and people and ~OPERA~ and actually has the voice to SING it.

Also, she finds the dog-speak I use when I talk to Noo Noo hilarious. We laugh uproariously at the dinner table when I ask the Hound if he is ready for his Pill-Pocket with a yiddle Pred-nisone inside.

I appreciate that, because really? I think it's probably just weird.

Then again, we celebrate the weird in this household. Pied-beauties, eccentricities, things and people on the far-reaches of "normal."

Oh, and Saskia has brought music back into my life after a long, dry spell -- my own Sahara of the Bozarts, to borrow a witticism from some 20th-century southern writer but I don't remember which one -- and for that I am so grateful. Music was everything to me -- music and books, that is -- until life became so hard I couldn't fit them in anymore. There just was no room.

But every day now, there is more space in me. Every day I get to hear bits and pieces of arias and art songs floating through this house.  Sometimes I get to have them whole. And boy, does that make me happy.

Have you had enough, Readers? I hope not, because there is even more wonderful afoot here. There's Lars, of course. Everyone needs someone to make fun of, and Lars is always willing to oblige.

Somehow he has always managed to love me, even when I could not love the life I was living, or myself. He loved me through those forty pounds Risperdal packed on me, and through the long, sick period last winter and spring, when they fell off. He takes me as I am, the Gestalt, the whole package, imperfect as that may be.

Lars is good people.

Today I had the privilege of thinking about, and talking about, some of the issues that matter most to me, with some very thoughtful people. That there are real things binding all of us humans together, and that much work is yet to be done so that every person is treated with equal dignity and offered opportunities to be happy and to thrive.

It sounds so simple, but somehow it's not.

BUT: I am lucky to live in a place and at a time in which these conversations are possible. How utterly cool. How hopeful. How wonderful.

And finally, there is this:

A. E. Housman (1859–1936).  A Shropshire Lad.  1896.

LIV. With rue my heart is laden

WITH rue my heart is laden   For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden   And many a lightfoot lad.   By brooks too broad for leaping         5   The lightfoot boys are laid; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping   In fields where roses fade.

A tiny poem, a profound thought. My Dad gave it to me as a gift when I was maybe ten or twelve. He did not write it, of course, but he wrapped it in tones of love and offered it to me so we could cry together. To this day, I hear those eight short lines in his voice. I thought of it last night because Saskia was talking about the generation of English poets writing around the time of the Great War. This was written earlier, but it trembles with that same unbearable sense of loss you find in Thomas Hardy and Wilfred Owen.

Readers, I have been thinking about "With Rue My Heart is Laden" since last night. It is so sad, yet so utterly beautiful.  Nearly perfect, I think. I hope you like it, whether for the first time or the hundredth. It's the final bit of wonderful I have to share with you until next time.

I hope next time comes soon!

Want to share your own wonderful in the comments? That would make my day!

Hello, Goodbye

It is such an odd thing. He comes and goes like a dream.

Hello, goodbye.

This is not the way of most thirteen-year-old boys. The healthy and the happy ones stay, mostly. Sure, they go for short periods of time. Sleep-away camp. Sleep overs with friends. School trips. Visits to Grandmas and Grandpas and aunts and uncles and cousins.

But their home is with their parents, their siblings, their dogs or their cats. Their neighborhood is theirs to roam. They feel comfortable in it. Their community -- the one in which their house sits and their parents pay taxes -- opens its arms to them.

Not my boy. He had to go a hundred miles from here to find a community that would open its arms to him. To find a home that was not bounded by four walls, and companionship that was not always and only his mother.

If the cost was seeing Lars and Saskia and the Hellacious Hound and me only twice a month, it was worth it to all of us. I know he misses us. He misses this little house and the butterscotch couch and the trampoline out back. He misses sleeping in his own bed.

But what I have not quite figured out is, which home is his REAL home? Ours? The one he flits in and out of like a dream? Or the one that lies a hundred miles from here, where his friends also live, as does the large staff that helps him navigate life and learning? The one that comes with the three people who love him more than the world, or the one where he can access just about everything he wants to do, and feel successful?

Readers, it is not just that this school has a working farm on it, and lap-bunnies in the classrooms. This is a place that can offer Benjy things like golf (yes, he goes every week to a golf course. He is learning and loving the game). And on-site batting cages. Tennis and swimming right outside his door. Access to a gym where he can lift weights. A ropes course. 3-D printers that will let him create all kinds of cool stuff. A fly-fishing pond a short drive from his current house, and just behind the house he would like to move into (and is self-advocating a strong case for said move).

I could go on and on. But it will just confuse me more. I don't know for sure which home is Ben's real home now, but I am so glad he has them both.

He's coming here tomorrow for his first two-night stay since he left us in early July. To say I'm excited would be an understatement. I'm a little scared, too. But Lars and I have a plan. We're going to keep him active the whole time. After school he plays football and Frisbee and tennis, or goes to the gym or the golf course. Here, he will get to go kayaking, play tennis, do some archery, maybe teach his younger cousins how to throw a football with just the right spin. We're going to have him plan some meals and help cook them. He is going to eat good food.

Most of all, we are going to love him and keep him as close as we should, but no closer. If I had my way I'd just hold him the entire 48 hours, but that is not, apparently, what you do with a happy and healthy 13 year old.

He's not cured. He will live with what he's got his whole life -- just like I do. And so many others, too. But he is learning to manage his Homeric catalogue of Hard Things. What a gift that is, to all of us.

And the Party's Back On...For Now

Okay, for the umpteenth time I have written a post that turns out to be untrue.

It's not that I'm a liar. Or being "writerly" and making stuff up. It's just that my boy changes moods like a teenage girl changes clothes: frequently, and often for no discernible reason.

Hey -- is that why they call it a "mood disorder"?? Huh. Who knew? ;)

So I either need to wait a day before posting doom-and-gloom status updates, or I need to qualify them with "wait a day or two and things will be better."

The day after the episodes I described in my last post, Benjy was happy and even CHATTY on the phone. (All you readers who are parents of teenage boys will understand why I put "chatty" in caps.) And he continues to do well, as far as we can tell.

We miss him so much, even though our house is noticeably less stressful now that he is not in it. Doesn't that sound awful? Man, it sure feels awful when I say it. It makes me feel like a horrible mother -- callous and self-serving.

I am not either of those things, which is why the feelings bouncing around inside of me are so damned confusing.

How can you love a child as much as I do mine and feel better when your home is no longer his? This might make sense if he'd gone off to college at 18. But he's 13, a young 13. And one day we just let him go.

But that sounds all wrong. It IS wrong. We helped him go to a place where he has half a chance for happiness and success. And you know what? It seems to be working, apart from a relatively few moments of sadness on his part.

We had our eagerly anticipated bi-weekly visit with him on Saturday. Apart from a panic attack in the car halfway through (Ben, not me) it was wonderful. Just wonderful. He has grown in so many ways, I cannot believe it.

But Lars and I have to deal with his absence and it is harder even than we thought it would be. Last night we had a rare evening out, just the two of us. Oh, it was lovely. We felt young and happy. The last time we'd been at that restaurant Saskia was a very new baby and we thought I might get a job offer from Columbia University. (We were obviously mistaken.) We dreamed and planned and thought we might live in the Manhattan neighborhood my family settled in when they fled Germany in the 1930s. Washington Heights. We thought we might be able to afford it there, and besides, there is a wonderful, beautiful park overlooking the Hudson at the end of my Grandmother's street, Fort Washington Ave, and I always loved that place as I was growing up.

The dinner was great, but sadness crept in and we had to force it back out. We just plain miss our boy.

Funny how plans get derailed. The Scottish poet Robert Burns said it best:

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

I love that to Burns, a little field mouse was worth a poem. (Then again, he also wrote a poem about a louse he observed on a lady's hat at church. So you know...) I think there's a lesson in there somewhere, something about the value of those small things we tend to think are unworthy of notice.

I think there is a lesson to me in that, for sure, as I try to figure out my life going forward.

Readers, I think I will be blogging more about me in the near- to mid-future. I won't forget Benjy, no fear, but my own path has taken yet another unexpected turn. It's called fibromyalgia. I've mentioned it more than once before, and I am trying to master it. If I can't do that, then I will have to learn to live with it on mutually congenial terms. I am trying to figure out a path to physical and emotional wellness.

Anyway, here is a little parting gift, a  memento from our visit with Ben on Saturday:

I only put this in because you can't see his face. I love the colors in this photo. It was really like that -- a clear, bright, vivid day. The red building is Benjy's house. I think what I captured here was a pause in his Frisbee toss with Lars. A few minutes later he walked back to his friends and we were on our way. If we have to leave him behind I am glad it's in such a beautiful place.

Ben, I know you won't read this but my heart is so full of love for you it seems to take up all the space in my chest. Be well, my darling boy. Be happy. You are so loved. xo Mom.

A Room of His Own

We saw him. For two-and-a-half beautiful hours. I was so frightened of what might come of it, I shivered halfway to Connecticut.

The drive took forever. We sat for an hour around Worcester, trying to crawl our way out of Massachusetts.  I dug in my purse for Ativan, but came up empty. The reason being, I am on a new med to combat my fibromyalgia symptoms -- severe pain all over the place, fatigue, and sleeplessness are the most confounding of the lot -- and I have no idea whether my as-needed anxiety drugs will kill me if taken jointly with Elavil.

So I removed the temptation before we left home.

We arrived half an hour late. Benjy was waiting for us in his therapist's office. His back was to the door, his head bent over some object he was fiddling with.

"Ben?" I said tentatively.

"Mom?" he said shyly.

"Can you stand up so I can hug you?"

He did, smiling. And for ten or twelve seconds I had the feel of his warm body, the itch of his wiry hair against my cheek, all to myself.

For those ten or twelve seconds he was mine.

Saskia and Lars hugged him too. We remarked upon his incredible good looks: he has lost most of the weight put on by his cocktail of medications. He is fit and tan. He still looks dazed, but that is what Abilify plus Lexapro plus Tenex will do to a person.

He is also very much alive. That is the other thing Abilify plus Lexapro plus Tenex can do.

We sat and talked with the therapist for half an hour, and then Ben and Saskia and Lars played some Frisbee. There was one close call -- a moment of frustration and self-loathing on Benjy's part when he did not perform at Frisbee the way he'd hoped to, in front of his family -- but I figured lunch would avert the storm, and it did. When Ben needs to refuel he needs to refuel.

We went to the pizza joint down the street and ate al fresco. It was lovely, being there all four of us together. Benjy seemed quiet, but content to just be in the moment. There was no restless seeking, no yearning for the Wide World to be his own, to fill the aching void inside him.

I'm not sure that void exists anymore.

I said to him, "I think this was a good choice we made for you, don't you?"

And he nodded and smiled and said, "Yes."

We asked him what he would do when we had to leave, and he said, "Just relax."

I asked him what that meant, and he said,  "You know, just hang out with my friends."

My friends. I am almost weeping even now, two days later, when I think of that. so little to ask for. Saskia does that all the time. Hangs with her friends. Lars and I do, too.

Benjy never really had that, and now he does. He seemed emotionally flat the other day, but also content. Quiet but comfortable with his new life. As Lars reminds me,  flat and quiet are Ben's baseline. Comfortable and content are not.

Readers, this is something to rejoice. When I held him again for another twelve seconds, laid my cheek against his curly head and told him I loved him and would miss him, I felt his absence like a gaping wound in my chest. Right where I suppose my heart beats.

He is in some ways already gone, even though we will see him again in two weeks, and for more hours. He has found his place, a home that works for him. It is not the same home the rest of us inhabit.

I am trying only to be glad about that, to think of my boy and not myself. This is my crowning achievement.

Think about it: my crowning achievement as Ben's mother has been to find him another home. Writing that just now nearly killed me. It defies logic. It is not supposed to be the way of things. Not at all. Not in families like ours.

That is our heartbreaking truth. If our child is to be okay, to live and live an independent and productive life, he must move henceforth on a trajectory away from here. From us. Most every child does that, but not so often at 13.

Yet, mental illness defies the "normal" way of things. There is nothing to understand about unquiet minds, not really. Not in the same way that numbers or landmasses can be calculated and mapped and darkness can be penetrated by light. You can only learn how to tiptoe softly around the landmines, locate the best and most reliable paths and then cross your fingers -- because invariably, from time to time, you will tread in the wrong place.

As sad as I feel about it, I think we have trod in the right place this time. Ben's new home is working for him in ways you would not believe. He is doing things we never dreamed he would -- and in one short month. I'll write more about these wonderful accomplishments soon -- small steps toward a state of functionality in this World we all have to function in if we possibly can.

All in all it was a wonderful visit, except it left me with a horrible migraine -- probably the result of my own emotional turmoil.

I am trying so hard not to blame myself that it has come to this. And to overcome the physical and emotional dysfunctions that eleven years of living on high alert have wrought in me.

I am trying to be happy for Ben, that finally he has found his place on this earth, that he is happy and successful, and that he is able to be those things without me by his side.

And I am trying to quell the fires in my head. Migraines suck. This is my first one, and it's a doozy. Saskia knows all about them, and she's given me some pointers. Tonight we will be with my brother and sister-in-law and their family, which I think will be healing in itself.

Benjy Update. And Me Update.

He has been at his new school for almost two weeks. Most evenings we talk. If we do not it's usually because he's busy and he's OK. I am beginning to learn the art of walking past his empty room and not catching my breath.

All these gasps, as if he just disappeared from where I was expecting him to be.

This school is a beautiful place. The staff there are beyond belief. Two cats named Clyde and Cleo live at the farm on the premises. Not to mention horses, sheep, chickens, and a little bunny with a sad laboratory history who has found his safe, forever home.

Yesterday, Benjy got to feed and water the chickens. For some reason that lies completely beyond my imaginative ken, he really likes chickens.

Yesterday there was no visit to the sheep, but that was OK. It is very likely there was a horse-kiss or two, though. Benjy is learning the pleasure of horse-kisses, which are one of the greatest things a person can experience in this world. This may be true of the next world too, if one exists. In case one does, I sincerely hope there are horses there.

The school part of school is fine at this beautiful place. Those are more or less Benjy's words. I do not believe I have heard the words "school" and "fine" is succession in quite some time. It helps that there are two bunnies in his classroom (well, one in, one just outside, because, as I have mentioned before, if the two bunnies consorted with each other there would soon be six or eight or ten of them, which might be a distraction). Bunny-time is a given. I would imagine holding a bunny to your heart when your heart hurts is akin to holding a cat there (but without the humming motor). A glorious comfort.

We will see Ben in a little more than two weeks. He is marking the days off on the Lolcats calendar I sent him. It took a lot of looking to find a 2013 Lolcats calendar, let me tell you, and when I did it was 75% off.

Double score!
I am also counting the days. We all are. And in the meantime I am focusing on the rest of us -- and most importantly, on me. That is a novelty. But man, do I need it.

You thought I was sane, didn't you? It turns out I am most definitely not. My logic is intact, don't get me wrong. I live in the same world you do, more or less (no people or places only I can see). But suddenly there are no daily fires to put out. There is beginning to be regularity in my life. I can make and keep appointments. I am not living with the constant fear of crisis.

And I have no idea what to do with myself. With the quietude. With my own grief, my sense of loss. This new expansiveness scares me. Literally.

I have to relearn how to be a "normal" adult, living a "normal" life. (I know, there's no such thing. But there may be degrees of normalcy. Of "proper adjustment." I have forgotten all about that zone, and how you live in it.)

Now that I'm not fueled by fear and adrenaline (hey, that adrenaline is some major stuff) I can look into what else is inside me. What I see in there is a whole lot of broken stuff.

So now comes the fixing. I have good people on my side, too many to list here with hands not so co-operative this morning. I know will get there.

I wonder if a bunny would help?

Big Change on the Horizon

We're living in a sort of Best of Times/Worst of Times maelstrom around here. The turmoil is mostly of the emotional sort.

Four human lives and one canine life are about to change in some big ways. (The crustacean lives will pretty much continue as is, since I am generally the one who makes sure they get what they need to continue their humble existence in our house.)

I am buffeted by mixed emotions, but overall I think the winds are driving us in the right direction. Benjy's life is about to expand in some pretty neat ways.

Monday we get to introduce him to the school where he will be living and learning (and having fun) starting ASAP.

I truly never thought it would come to this, Benjy not with me. I'm scared and I'm elated. Because a lot of the things we would like to give him but cannot are things he will have on a daily or weekly basis now. Including friends who don't drift in and out of his life. And animals of various types. And STRUCTURE. And cool outdoor sports and activities. And a 3-D printer as well as other cool tech stuff. And baby quails. (What???? you say. And I say, Yes. Quails. More on that soon.)

We hope he will be able to learn there, too, and experience the joy that can come of acquiring knowledge.

Maybe he will take up violin again. Maybe he will fall in love with horses, like I did at his age. Maybe he will catch (and release) a whopping big fish at the fishing pond on campus.

Maybe he will enjoy the new expansiveness in his life.

He knows this is going to happen. He gets it, and is on board. But he's scared, too, even though he doesn't really say it.

I will have to figure out how to fill the hole created by his absence. After a month or so he will come home every other weekend. and in-between we will be able to visit him. He will be an hour and a half away from us, which on the one hand feels like he'll be living on the moon, and on the other is really not bad at all.

This may be Benjy's last chance for happiness and success. Readers, beam us some of those warm wishes or prayers or other kind thoughts you are so good at sending our way. I know I can count on your well-wishes, my friends. That means the world to me.

Oh, and Happy Father's Day to anyone celebrating it tomorrow!! I wish all of you fair weather and loving people in their lives, tomorrow and always.

Shame and Joy

Funny how shame and joy often travel in pairs. At least, they do in my life.

Yesterday I wrote a post that was beneath me. Only I didn't know it until someone I love gently told me so. And then I was ashamed, and I was also flummoxed. I thought, "What the hell was I thinking when I wrote that?"

The answer is, I wasn't. I was panicking, and I was feeling very sorry for myself and my boy and my whole family. The former is a fairly common occurrence in my life. The latter, not so much. I can't let it be or I will just come undone. And that would not be pretty.

I deleted that post last night. Then I tossed around all night worrying about whether I am just a crappy person. And also about what was going to happen at 11 this morning.

What happened at 11 is that Benjy's hospital case manager and I met with him in the "living room" on his psych unit to tell him how his life is going to change in a couple of weeks.

I believe, in my heart of hearts, it will change for the better. But I did not know what he would think. and I did not know if this talk would hurt like hell or feel good, or whether we both would cry.

The case manager and I told him he will be going to a new school, and that he will live at that school. That it won't be forever, and that after he starts there he will no longer be lonely and sad, and that he will have lots of structure in his life and all kinds of wonderful things to do that Lars and I cannot provide for him.

Such as archery and tennis and fishing and boating and snowboarding and work with animals, and therapeutic horseback riding. And possibly haying (??) and ice-fishing. And overall, an expansive new world.

Not to mention, friends and friends and friends, and they will  be kids like him so they will get him, and he will get them.

We are going to choose between two schools and then he will go for an interview and hopefully in a couple of weeks he will finally find his place in this world.

God I will miss him. I told him today that he will be living somewhere else because we love him so much. And he got that. He did.

He seemed shocked for a moment, and it looked like he might cry. But he didn't. He said he was okay. And after I told him all about the new things that would be entering his life he said, "Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me."

And I held him and tried hard not to cry. He said, "Can I stay at my new school until I graduate?"

And I said, "One day at a time."

I didn't even mention that one of the two schools is engaged in repopulating a certain kind of quail, and every year during the season when quails lay their eggs they raise over a hundred chicks.

I couldn't tell him because the decision is not yet made -- but if and when I do he will go nuts.

Long-time readers of this blog know that Benjy LOOOOVES birds.

Anyway, the grace and maturity with which he accepted the coming change -- a HUGE one -- was stunning. It made me happy, really happy. And he was happy, too. I took him out for a celebratory lunch. And to Target to buy some much-needed shorts and PJs and a board game to play in the evenings with the other kids on his unit. He was with me until Lars came home, and after the two of them played some Frisbee we drove him back to Boston. To his now-home. And soon enough we will be driving him to another home.

But after the first month we will have him weekends if he wants to be here. And if not we will spend a lot of time in Connecticut or New Hampshire, wherever he ends up.

And let me just say this: none of this would be happening if it weren't for all the amazing folks who have devoted time and energy to helping Ben. Social workers and doctors and special ed administrators. And friends. Huge shout out to our district's SPED team, who responded to Benjy's need with compassion and without hesitation. These are pretty amazing folks.

Tonight I think I will sleep well. I hope so. Tomorrow's another day, and we'll see what it brings.

Haven't We Met, Out and About Town?

Oh yes, right here. At The Nickel.

How could I forget? I mean, it's only been, what, 11 days? On the other hand, 11 days can be an eternity.

So much has happened in those 11 days. The sun has increased its volume by 35 percent. (Don't look it up, just take my word for it. You know you can trust me.) The grass in our yard has risen to ABOVE-KNEE HEIGHT. (And we live in a town where virtually EVERYONE has fancy landscapers taking care of their emerald plots. Embarrassing.) Every morning when I take the Hellacious One out for his walk I say, "Welcome to the jungle."

All kinds of things are waxing around here, and a lot of them are good things, for once. Except for the grass, and the weeds, and the weed trees on our property (the latter of which drop all kinds of disgusting, wet vegetative matter on our cars all spring, so we're driving around looking like the Beverly Hillbillies of Eastern Massachusetts, but before they found that oil well in their yard and got stinking rich. I've got the junker car and the house with peeling paint but none of the benefits of a supply of "black gold" on the property.

Oh. Well.

Anyway, the waxing of good things. Well, there's Benjy. He's been back in the hospital for about three weeks after severe suicidal longings, a desire to stab himself -- or for me to do it for him -- greater and more intense than I had ever heard . His stay in the acute inpatient unit went pretty well, but we had no indication he wouldn't end up right back in the revolving door to the hospital. And that was getting pretty tired. For everyone.

Then our insurance did us a favor, only at the time we didn't know it and we were pretty angry. They kicked him off Unit One onto a lower level of care -- the CBAT unit. (CBAT=community-based acute treatment.) It's in a different part of the hospital. It is a different beast. Still inpatient, but not a locked ward. Very, very structured -- more so, I believe, than Unit One. Every day Benjy has group therapy sessions and school and lots of outdoor activities (he has organized a regular ultimate Frisbee game there. He has taught the other kids how to play it. He turns out to be something of a mover and a shaker, at least within the confines of CBAT. We never knew he had that in him).

He is thriving on the structure there. He is rising to the challenge of participation in all aspects of his current life: groups, school, eating the bad food without complaint and without hassling me to bring him outside food (and baby, that food is BAAAAD). He has tripled the amount of time he is able to tolerate participating in school before needing a break. (Ten minutes to thirty, if you must know.)

And here is the BEST thing of all. The BEST SUNSHINY BEAUTIFUL HEART-STOPPING GOLDEN THING OF ALL: he has friends. A community. And we have realized for the first time how isolation, how not belonging to any kind of community outside your own family, can crush a person's soul. Make depression and anxiety ten  times worse.

So, let me spell it out for you: 24/7 structure and clinical supports + a built-in community of peers who really are peers and are there for him ALL THE TIME=happy and functional Benjy.

That gives us data we can work with. Finally. And we are working with it. With a wonderful team consisting of school administrators (some pretty spectacular ones in our town, I must say), clinicians and social workers, and a very special friend, we have moved a mountain and done it so easily I have to pinch myself every so often to make sure I am awake.

Lars and I spoke with urgency, passion and love about our boy and his needs to people -- one person in particular -- who could make things happen, and things are happening, For real and true. That's all it took -- passion and love and a clear idea of what was needed. And a person on the receiving end who cares about our child and our family -- all of the children and families he serves, I am quite sure -- and who accepted without question his ethical (and very costly) mandate.

I can't say more now. I will as soon as I can. But for the first time in a really long time -- at least two years -- I have hope for my boy. That feeling of hope waxing in my breast is so wonderful I could scream (but I won't because Lars is snoring away upstairs and I wouldn't want to disturb his beauty rest).

Other waxings: somehow, in spite of my own sometimes vexing symptoms and Benjy's implosion and that leaf-meal-encrusted junker that makes small blond children turn and stare as if I am some sort of freak, and my car is an even bigger one because it is leaf-encrusted AND not a German luxury car)*** I am writing like a demon (a good kind of demon. I'm sure that kind exists). And for me, that kind of productivity looks like four pages in three days. Three good days. But it is happening, and it's coming out in good shape.

I just "sold" (for the currency of tons of exposure and a nice feather in my cap) a personal essay on stress to the Huffington Post, for their series on...stress! I'll link to it here and on my website when it comes out in a couple of weeks. That was one of those four pages in three days kind of essays.

I most likely sold (for the currency of a small handful of greenbacks) a different essay to a glossy magazine. (That one has been out there looking for a home for about a year -- and if they accept it, it may be another year before I am paid. Publishing is slooow, even if you have the good fortune to be able to work quickly.) The editor who would like to buy it is awaiting an A-Ok from the Grand Poobah of Glossy Magazine Publishing.

And then I will take Lars out to dinner with the proceeds.

I was also invited by the editor of one of the most prestigious literary journals in the country to please submit some more creative non-fiction, pronto, because he was very enthusiastic about the last one I submitted although he was not going to publish it. (Win some, lose some.) This is one of those "50 bucks and two free copies" kind of venues. At the rate I am going I'll earn a couple of dinners out a year, if I am lucky, but it's gratifying.

Oh, and I have one more little piece, also written over a long stretch of weeks, in the hands of an editor at The Paper of Record. Hoping to hear back on that one soon. Again, payment in exposure (as far as I know). And probably a long shot.

On the downside, stress is waxing larger than ever for all of us around here but I hope and believe it will subside soon.

But we are laughing, too, and having a little fun. Our Saskia has been whisked away by friends for a weekend in NH. Lars and I are thinking of fun things to do with Benjy on his home passes this long weekend, while tackling, finally, the grass jungle.

Shit happens, and less frequently (for us, anyway), lovely things happen.

So there it is.

***I do, however, have a German Luxury Husband, whom I've only seen leaf-encrusted once, when he decided to get up on the roof and clean out the gutters during a prodigious rainfall. So there, smug blond children. There.

Anxiety or Illness?

It's a beautiful day today, clear and bright. But for Benjy this day contains some darkness.

He's not at school. When I woke him at seven he complained of a severe cough. And he is coughing quite a bit. But with Ben you never know whether a somatic complaint is actually a psychiatric one. So here I am, analyzing my boy, searching for clues. Is he hot? His forehead feels cool. Is he listless? A little, when I ask him to try to rouse himself and go to school.

The reason it's concerning to me is that we've had a few setbacks of late. Nothing extreme. I have not seen any shredded fingertips or bloodstained clothes. His lower lip is scabby and a little swollen but it has been, consistently, for the past six months. But there have been a  few nights and mornings when he's pleaded with me to let him stay home from school. And recently there was a sleepless night, complete with a 3 a.m. bath to relax him, that brought back uncomfortable memories. ( The worst of these memories is from a time that preceded his first hospitalization -- a weekend of sleeplessness and agitation, five or six useless baths throughout the long, dark nights, and Lars and I as despairing as Benjy himself).

So I wonder what's going on. Ben tells me he's opted out of two field trips recently, one to a bank and the other to a library. I have a theory about these opt-outs. I think he is anxious about the unpredictable behaviors of his classmates, and how those might play out in public. He has never dealt well with unpredictability or disruptiveness in other children -- these things stress him out. And right now there is a boy in his class who struggles with containing his emotions, is aggressive and volatile -- sometimes toward Ben. So today's somatic complaint may be a protest against the unpredictable and the disruptive at school. I just can't know for sure because that is not something Benjy would fess up to.

So here we are at home, and all I can do is keep him off the computer for as long as possible and tell him if he's too sick for school he's too sick for fencing tonight. And keep my fingers crossed we're not in for another storm.