Jack colored the carpet on the stairs with dark slashes of black crayon. He shoved eight slices of bread into the crevices of the couch. He knocked over a soda on the rug. He voided on his bedroom floor. He left eighteen candy wrappers underfoot. He head-butted me with brute force when I didn’t instantly retrieve candy for him because I was doing the dishes.
Then he went into the garage and began rearranging the snowblower, lawnmower, bikes, wagon, buckets, filing cabinet, tools, nerf guns, and scooters.
It’s the weekend.
Autocorrect just turned the last sentence into “Pits the weekend,” hahahahahaha.
Whatever. I shouldn’t be complaining because I got to go to a writing retreat Friday night in the canyon with the lovelies in my writing group. We talked until 2:00 am and slept until 10:00. We ate Indian takeout and croissant breakfast sandwiches. We read each other’s essays. Crying happened, but so did laughing.
Anyway, I’m about to get really real here. Super real. Whatever, here goes:
Sometimes I feel trapped in my life. Raising people with disabilities is claustrophobic.
This doesn’t mean that I’m ungrateful or that I want to reject everything. It simply means that the nature of disabilities is to box one in with high, thick walls and suck out all the air.
There is just one tiny window that lets in a slice of light. I open it every day for air and for words.
Words are oxygen.
Writing, reading, thinking, and teaching about words is a deep, cold breath.
Clean and bracing.