We've been recuperating today from yesterday's Dementor-induced dementia. Sometimes you just want to wrap your wounds in warm woolens and nestle in, forgetting everything from the day before, forgetting the crazy world of diagnostic ambiguity, and the disturbing implications that your child is "disturbed." You just want to wrap that old hole-y sweater around you and wear big socks and not think too much, since thinking (other people's and your own) is what got you into this jam in the first place.
We will be taking MOM-NOS's advice and getting chocolate, the only known antidote to Dementor-induced dementia, but we couldn't do it today. We would have had to go out for that, and we weren't going anywhere. We were in full-scale retreat. Called back the cavalry. Turned and ran like crazy back to our own little cave with the idea that we will never, ever, ever come back out again. Or at least never-ever go back to any ed-psych evaluator.
While I was curled up in a ball, I heard Sweet M in the other room as she yelled out to her father, "Hey F___ (she calls him by his first name), What's eternity?"
"Ternity?" he asked.
"No, E-ternity," she said.
"Oh, eternity. Hmmh. What's eternity? Well, it's uhmm. Ask your mom, she has a PhD — she oughta know what's eternity."
He might have just said English is her first language and not mine, but whatever.
"Ma-om, ma-om, what's eternity?" she yells to me in the next room.
And so I join her in the living room. She's watching a cartoon, and someone must have said "eternity."
"It's all the time that ever was and all the time that ever will be. It's all the time always."
"Oh. It's a lot of time."
"Yes, a lot of it, all of it, ever."
Lately we've been hearing a lot of questions about time over here. Sweet M is coming into time . . . coming into some idea of time . . . into her understanding of time.
Apparently she is late on this, as on so many other things, and one wishes one had all the time in the world, so that there would be no problem of catching up . . . Or being left behind. One wishes one's child wasn't clocked against the averages of her age group. One wishes one had eternities to help them get where they're going.
That would the the sort of autism every day that would work for us: all the time we need to get her all the help she needs. No developmental windows that are constantly threatening to close forever. No emergencies on the cusp of puberty. No developmental changes among the typically developing that leave her out in the cold. No nine month school calendars that leave her with three months off and no therapy, no services, no assistance at all. An autism eternity — That's the sort of autism every day I need.