It is a Sunday and I am currently staring at a few different situations unfolding in my life while I sip on my coffee watching the two dogs watch me from the yard, anxious to be released into the back forty where they can run wild and chase the chicken’s. I make a pretty mean cup of coffee by the way with my little French press, however that is not the topic for the moment. Actually it could be, I have so much that has been floating around in my head that I have wanted to put down on paper; I just haven’t had the time. I have started a blog, I am a blogger or is it bloggess? I do like the sound of bloggess. For whatever reason, possibly my need and strive for perfection, I have not posted anything much as of yet due to the fact that I want to capture my previous writings and chronicle them in order. That bit of perfectionism that has been creeping out is proving to cause a hindrance to my creative process since I have been writing for a few years now and only started to save those writings in a designated location last year. So I have decided just to write, write, write, and will probably write something later to describe why everything is written out-of-order. As if someone will take the time to read my silly ramblings.
On to the watering can. Imagine if you will a young girl obsessed with a watering can; and then just kick that up a notch. Irene, my youngest child that I have had the privilege of raising is Autistic; what that means is she is just like you and I. Only better. Irene over the past few years has been collecting watering cans; it has only been recently that I have noticed. I can see two in the back yard now as I type, one on my kitchen floor, I know she has at least two in her room and countless others under the sink and in the garage. Often times when we are at the store, whether it be a traditional store or a thrift, she gravitates to the watering cans. I always note as she walks up to me holding yet another can, how many we have at home. Sometimes I let her get the can and sometimes I don’t.
Autistic children often have some habits that make them unique, I am not sure if she will take this into adulthood. A few of her others are she hums. I have no idea what she hums and I do not even know if she is aware of it? What I do know is that it is one of the sweetest sounds that I have ever heard and when she is humming; I know everything’s alright in her little world. Irene glides too, all around the house. I have hardwood floors and what it looks like is skating in slipper socks or actual slippers. She has a new pair of slippers that she is already wearing out. I am very surprised that the floors don’t possess a groove for her path or certain spots on my walls have not lost the glow from the paint where she touches softly to push-off and the walls show no signs of wear and tear. She bounces like a pinball and that I am positive she has no clue of but that is my best description of that.
Moving forward I will put a shelf up for her cans in the garage and let her start her collection or at least display the collection she already has. I will not dissuade her any longer at the register when it comes to a new can. As I mentioned above, it is only recently that I even noticed all the cans throughout the years and how they have grown. She likes to watch things grow and is constantly planting something somewhere. Now if I could just get her to remember to water with those cans we might have a forest over here, we do not.
Encouragement is all I do here in my life, with all of my children. I admit I may encourage this one a bit more. I remember when she didn’t speak or look at me. I remember when she screamed and cupped her ears at the sounds of just about any noise. I remember when I was told she defecated on herself in class all the time and would run out escaping to various parts of the field without anyone even noticing she was gone. I remember when they told me she would never be able to live alone, that they had centers for housing when she grew up and if we were lucky she might be able to hold a part-time job with assistance. Irene has made great strides with years of encouragement, social skills classes and love. She can do anything!
The Chicken Lady