I Love The Smell of Autism in the Morning
OK - so I woke up today (a good start, yes?) and headed into my bathroom. I clean my bathrooms every week. More often if the girls do something, something, something, icky. I had cleaned my bathroom last Thursday. Should still be fairly clean as I rarely do icky things in my bathroom - I am quite neat and tidy in my toileting habits. Don't laugh, when you have kids with autism you don't take these things lightly.
So - I'm in my bathroom, wondering (as usual) if the folks in the 55+ condos next door can hear me peeing through my window (I'm weird that way.) Let me rephrase that. I do not actually pee into or through my window. I sit on the toilet in a relaxed fashion - no need for the mall squat in your own house, right? Oh, the mall squat? My Mom taught me to never sit on a public toilet. Dirty. So I use my quadriceps and hover over the toilet in public restrooms - which I only used when forced to by Venti Starbucks coffee or a gallon of Dasani. And only to pee. I rarely if ever do anything other than pee in a public restroom. My husband says that's a girl thing. Guess what? I'm a girl. Well, now I've embarrassed myself, so onto my story.
I'm sitting this morning and I sniff sniff sniff something yucky. I look around. Bathroom looks clean. I sniff again. I scratch my... head, you dum dum. Only men scratch their naughty bits. Nothing to be seen. Plenty to smell. I washed my hands and headed downstairs to make breakfasts and lunches for the girls.
I went back into my bathroom. Sniff. Ick. I took out the Scrubbing Bubbles and sprayed the toilet, the floor around the toilet, the sink and the tub, leaving the bubble men to work their magic. Got the kids off to school. Went up to shower. Cleaned bathroom fully. I clean my shower while I shower. That way I reach everywhere. I get out. Sniff. I smell clean. My bathroom smells like ick. I am puzzled. I dress and go out.
I get a call from John Robison who says he'd like to stop in my town for lunch on his way to Random House and BEA in New York. I am right off the Merritt. John has a great memory. And he's a fantastic listener. He remembers I live right on his way to New York. We meet for lunch. We have a lovely time. I come home. I have had the Venti Starbucks and two giant Club Soda's with John. I have to use the bathroom. I go into my bathroom. Sniff. Ick. Yet I know I just cleaned it.
I sit down. I happen to glance over to my scale. My scale is a fancy glass German scale from a company my husband used to work for. The people at the company treated my husband like shit. Which is a fine coincidence, because, there, under the glass scale are two little lumps of shit. Yup. Two marbles. Two pops of poop. The ick. The smell of autism. You see, one of my darling girls sometimes has a small problem (or two) getting to the toilet on time. And if she has a problem, she fixes it by going into the bathroom and tidying up herself. Looks like two tidies got away....... Like the meatballs in that old kids' song. I think it's great she fixes her problem. I'm really proud of her progress. I'm glad I found the ick. And now I don't have to clean my bathroom again until next week.