Sunday, January 1, 2012
Hubs is plotting the garden and I go outside to see how things are coming along. I am there for three minutes, maybe five. I return to find my nine year old Autistic son retching into a pool of vomit, surrounded by powdery white automatic dish detergent. I give silent thanks to the environmentalist in me who uses Seventh Generation and not Cascade with sheeting action.
Later I'm enjoying a bowl of blueberries alone in the living room when I hear, "want to hug momma", followed by the patter of feet. Son climbs into my lap and says, "a heart ". He takes my index finger and traces a heart on my forehead, then kisses it.