what gives, part deux

So I made a big old proclamation last post, dramatically saying that I was stepping down.

I am.

I mean, I'm trying.

My boss, who is also one of my best friends, listened intently as I explained it all, nodded, and said, "But you will still direct the shows."

I said, "I will oversee that the quality remains assured."

Then she said, "Which means that you will still direct the shows."

I explained that my job has always been outlined as a program director, a Chair - making sure that our productions are quality - but I am not required to direct.

"But we're getting a new Arts Facility," she said.

"And I'm sure you'd like to have me remain here to see it," I countered.

So it's a gradual process, this weaning the entire community of my withered teat; we compromised that I would oversee and produce and direct twice a week, and my assistant would do the rest. I would still do all the legwork, producing, and limit my Saturdays to mornings only.

By next semester, I am merely producing.

Fair enough.

I understand the need to keep status quo while we are in an important fundraising year.

I am also holding firm that I need to be a family woman again.

At one o'clock this morning, Roxie crawled into our bed and projectile vomited onto my husband's face. I changed the sheets, and she barfed three more times.

She's got the bug.

During the second sheet change, I said to Drama Daddy, "I'll stay home with her tomorrow," to which he turned sharply and let a small smirk seep out.

"Oooookayyyyy..." he said, scraping barf off of the hardwood floor.

We have napped. Watched Barbie (God help me) movies. Chatted. I worked from our bed. Discussed which fairy was the cutest in Sleeping Beauty (Fauna) and made Roxie her favorite sick food - salty, MSG-laden Top Ramen. (I know, I know - it's the Devil's Dinner, but it's sick food, for Crissakes!) She slurps up the florescent broth. "This is the food of the Gods," she said, closing her eyes.

It seems as though she's been stealing my lines.

Every so often, she snuck her little hand out of the covers to pat mine, momentarily stopping my fingers flying across the keyboard.

I could get used to this.

On my third Tassimo Caffe Verona (just like Starbuck's,only better), I blew on my coffee and realized just what has been eating me. (uh, see last three posts)

It goes something like this: Yes, I wonder where my husband and I have been while we've been weathering Hurricane Autism. Ducked and covered, yes, but now we emerge- and then what?

That's part of it.

My chickadees are growing up, thriving in school, and frankly, capable of heating things up in the microwave all by themselves. Miss M told me what Maxi Pads are used for, thank you very much, she won't be needing that little talk. They close their doors for privacy now, too old to have us in the room while they expose their tanned little bodies.

Part of it, too.

It's that now that the autism is - no, not recovered - just as I am of Mexican American descent, I won't ever be anything else - and neither will Miss M be anything other than her fantastically fascinating, quirky, generous, and hilarious self. She's remediated a good bit, yes, so much so that I needn't hang my hat on her autism.

It's been a convenient distraction, her autism.

It's been a very good way to throw myself into an important project - the most important -and not look at myself for a good, long time.

Not have to face those cracks in a marriage.

Not have to be responsible for anything but worrying, remediating, and talking, talking, talking about autism.

Work is a good one, too. It's awfully easy for me to become fixed on my work, my productions, helping as many kids as I see who need my program. That need - it makes one feel so important, so necessary, doesn't it?

It's so easy not to look at oneself, to look at chances missed, dreams deferred as we power on, being a generation of rescue.

That's a pretty strong responsibility.

This is not to suggest that my experience has anything to do with your experience, dear reader - I know and understand the gravity and importance of parenting a special needs child.
I'm expressing my awe at this stage of our familial development.


It's been a pretty nice way to -look over there! - distract the world away from the fact that I stopped, cold, in the middle of my performing career to raise children.
There is no regret, of course. But now, as the dust settles, there's nothing to hide behind.

I am at Ground Zero of myself, smoke flumes still trickling into the sky, as I rebuild and rediscover what foundation is left.

I believe that my daughter's "disability" was a very good excuse for me to go -as I love to say - Cassandra on everyone's ass. It hit me harder, made me crazier than anyone I know.

What was I afraid of? Too much success? Working so hard, who was I trying to please? Others? To what end?

What was I hiding?

Avoiding?

For now, I thank you, Autism, for giving me a focal point, a raison d'etre, something to rail against.

I won't be needing your services any more.

The road is open, beckoning, shimmering lilac, waiting for me to take my first tentative steps out of the Wonderful Land of Distraction and Denial. I'm sure, whatever the road, it will be endlessly fascinating and deliciously bumpy.

You coming?