lockdown

Our boy Matty just made a delivery to our kitchen window. Technically, I'm not sure he's supposed to since our governor, Janet Mills, just put us in lockdown today. However, I imagine beer delivery is an essential service, so I think we're good. Matty kept a safe distance as he put the brewskis through the window, and Michael grabbed them with kitchen towels before putting them in the refrigerator. When Matty said so long, he smiled at me from under his raincoat's hood, and I told him I love him and his family. Right then it became more real how hard it will be not to commune with our beloveds for who knows how long. My guess is September.

Everything coronavirus is intensely fascinating.

In the background we were listening to KEXP, which is broadcast from near my hometown in Seattle. They had just played a gorgeous cover of David Bowie's Young Americans by Durand Jones & The Indications, and were pausing for a top-of-the-hour break. Two DJs sitting in separate sound studios spoke of how they could perform dorky dances since no one was there to see them. They went on to notice how they were getting low on wipes to disinfect the equipment, adding that they'd play music until they ran out. That last comment made me begin to weep. Seeing me, Michael said something to the effect that music will save the world. He says that all the time.

As the one DJ was signing off, she said, "Be kind to each other." If I hadn't already been slayed by the previous comment, that one pretty much killed me. I thought of a recent conversation I had with a loved-one in which I might have been over-the-top and not as forgiving as I might have been in other times, even if a reaction was duly warranted.

As dusk is setting, a fire rolls in the wood stove. Michael is fixing salmon and sushi rice for dinner. Thankfully, a dear old friend who lives alone in a farmhouse on the edge of town, and whom I've been worried about, finally responded to me saying, among other things, that he is fine.

Love in the time of coronavirus is wild.

unease

Again, I lie awake hours before daybreak. The dark of night seems to magnify my angst. When for various reason I can't sleep, I worry about whether Calvin will seize. Under the covers, I flinch when Nellie yelps in her sleep. I fret about the list of things I need to get done that I don't seem to have the time to do, the things that have piled up during the five-and-a-half weeks that Calvin didn't go to school—sweeping, mopping, dusting (what's that?), writing, reading, researching, filing, calling. I lie in bed, my mind racing, pondering the troubles of the world: war, famine, genocide, waste, poverty, pollution, misogyny, racism, corruption. I think of the human impact on climate and the havoc it is wreaking on our gorgeous Earth. I consider refugees desperate to find better lives for themselves, whom the people of our town and nearby ones have graciously—and some begrudgingly—received.

The other night, after I heard the rain begin to fall, I laid there on the brink of exhaustion and yet buzzing, lamenting the plastic microbeads, bags and bottles choking the ocean, the single-use plastic caps and containers washing up on beaches, the straws and swizzlers and six-pack holders, the syringes, balloons and latex gloves—you name it—that sacred sea life is ingesting and strangling on as we dream. I pondered the tons of toxic materials being released into our rivers, air and seas, and the sleazy politicians who are making that more possible. I grieve the burning of the Amazonian rain forest, the flushing out of its creatures and native peoples. I consider the rabid appetite of greed.

Yes, I lay awake in a warm bed in an ample house having filled my belly with delicious food my husband cooked, thinking about Yemenee people starving to death, and Rohinga refugees being forced back to their tormentors, and hurricane victims having just lost loved ones, homes and belongings. I consider how effing lucky I am, and wish I had the means, like a handful do, to fund everything. I lament that, in this nation of abundance, our fellow humans still live under cardboard boxes or on cold sidewalks while billionaires and certain politicians continue to enrich themselves at the expense and exploitation of everyone else.

While scrolling through my photographs yesterday, feeling weary of the world and of all-things-Calvin, I came across some I'd taken at last year's Bowdoin student art show. The small, framed piece that hung on the far wall of a room where my husband taught a class called Art and Time, was titled, Receipt for a Sunday and the Things Carried There, by a talented and ambitious student, Blanche Froelich, class of 2019. Rereading it reminded me to be grateful, humble, thoughtful, and generous to others; none of us live life without our own struggles, big and small. And the night is not the only time we feel unease.

Detail, Receipt for a Sunday and the Things Carried There, by Blanche Froelich

landon's gift

Again, our day began at three a.m. with the arrival of another focal seizure, the first of two, this one several minutes long. With the help of some extra homemade THCA cannabis oil, however, Calvin had improved by eleven, and so we set out for the Windsor Fair, a town or two away from the fair we went to a week ago.

Calvin did far better this time, even holding our hands and walking, though wonkily, willingly at times. Throughout the day we zigzagged our way between sheds of lounging cows and goats, cages of enormous sows with their week-old suckling piglets, and a raucous avian barn. All the while Calvin seemed to take it in, gnawing happily on his rubber chew toy and nibbling on snacks I'd cut up for him.

Several times I watched children and adults gawk at Calvin as if he were some freak in a carnival sideshow. When this occurs, as it does anytime we're in public, I feel a mix of sadness and anger. Sometimes I'm moved to act spitefully. I'd like to think they don't mean any harm; maybe it's human nature to rubberneck at a spectacle. Still, I often feel like an alien with my sweet little peculiar Martian, orbiting on the margins of things rather than feeling an integral part of the larger world. 

When we had seen enough of the sights, we stood in line to get an ice cream cone. A handsome, dark-haired boy approached us and asked if Calvin might like to have the stuffed animal he'd won in a midway game. I fumbled to answer, fairly certain that Calvin wouldn't respond to such a toy, his go-to playthings being hard plastic and rubber ones. But I was compelled to accept the boy's kind gesture because I remember well what it was like to be his age.

The boy introduced himself as Landon. I suggested we try handing the stuffed animal to Calvin to see how he'd respond. Landon crouched down closer to Calvin offering him the toy, speaking to him directly and asking if he would like to have it. Immediately, Calvin hugged the larger-than-life emoji and began mouthing it with fervor. We were all amazed and happy when Calvin received the gift so emphatically. 

Landon, who is as sweet a boy as you'll ever meet, and worldly beyond his years, told us he'll soon be thirteen. We greeted his dad and grandfather who were at his side, and as I spoke with Landon, his father told Michael that he had no idea Landon had planned on giving away his prize.

I took a quick picture of our newfound friends before shaking their hands and saying goodbye. After they turned to leave us, I looked up at Michael and noticed that he'd gotten quite choked up. Seeing his emotion, I began to weep openly at Landon's selfless gesture.

Random acts of kindness like these make our world go round. No doubt I'll rest my head on my pillow tonight thinking of Landon and how, if things had turned out differently, maybe Calvin would have become as extraordinarily thoughtful, fearless and empathetic as he.

If you are reading this, Landon, I hope you know how deeply you touched us and how much you made us feel welcome, important, and included, while so many others look at us as if we don't belong. You yourself are the gift you gave to us, one far larger than the sideshow prize that left your arms. How very lucky we are.

college nostalgia, sweet spots, pity eclipses, etc.

For a couple of hours last evening I was taken back to my college days, to a sweet, off-campus house shared by five students, complete with a shabby, yellow, vintage sofa and rooms decked out with second-hand tables and chairs. Our host let me peruse the second floor where, at the top of a steep, carpeted, slightly askew staircase, I peered into the dimness of a few rooms, their beds and floors endearingly strewn with piles of clothes like so many college students are wont to do.

Back in the kitchen, I cracked open a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and filled four stemless wine glasses, two of them plastic. We toasted our hosts, Ben and Meghan, wishing them well in the final few weeks of their senior year. We got their takes on life in Michael's photography classes, plus updates on their current projects. They told us of their post-graduation plans and dreams, including moving to Boston, of having turned down lucrative job offers that didn't speak to their hearts, and of their desire to live near new and old friends. They explained the dating app they've been designing, how it works, and shared with us its clever name, logo and marketing campaign.

It felt good to be sitting around a table with such bright, curious and engaged youth, felt good to be in an apartment that looked, smelled and vibrated so much like the ones I shared with my college roommates thirty-five years ago. And though I was delighted to be in the company of these generous souls who perfectly seared a huge filet mignon and tossed a tasty organic green bean and tomato salad, I was keenly aware of the pinch and sting I felt knowing I'd never be doing such things with my own child. Thankfully, however, the joy of communing with these happy, energetic, optimistic individuals eclipsed any pity I might've felt for myself. I left hoping they'd keep in touch and visit us from time to time like a few other beloved former students—Arnd, Ivano, Emma—did and have done over the years.

Back at home with our fifteen-year-old son who can't speak, wears diapers, still drinks from a sippy-cup, plays with chew toys, and is prone to seize, we are celebrating his own triumphs: Calvin has suffered only one seizure this month, and it was not a grand mal. He has had only three grand mals in the past thirty days, plus just three complex partial ones. And though I shouldn't get ahead of myself, if April keeps trending this well, it could be his best month seizure-wise in four or five years, despite taking only one pharmaceutical. I'm owing this success to having significantly reduced his Palmetto Harmony CBD oil from about five milligrams per kilogram of his weight down to about two mgs/kg, a strategy for success (finding its sweet spot) that its maker and many other parents attest to.

And so today, in the happy afterglow of last night's gathering, and during a day in which my own boy is doing quite well, I'm hoping good things for the Bowdoin College seniors who are about to inherit—and no doubt change for the better and for the common good—our crazy, effed-up world.

on jesus, walls, alms and calvin

At four-twenty this morning, only three days after his last one, Calvin suffered a grand mal seizure. It was a typical one for him, self-limiting with full-body convulsions lasting ninety seconds. After it was over I wiped the blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth from having bitten his cheek or tongue. Watching my son seize is never easy, and would no doubt be terrifying, perhaps even repulsive, for most onlookers to witness, or for any parent to see their own child suddenly suffer. I think about other children who have their seizures at school. I wonder if they're made fun of behind their backs by other kids. I wonder if they are stigmatized and shunned. I wonder if they are thought of as alien in some ways. I wonder if they're walled-off from other kids; no doubt their epilepsy and its impact grossly misunderstood and feared.

On seizure days if Calvin rests, I often read the news and pop in and out of social media. The headlines lately seem to be all about the government shutdown over funding for a border wall. Apparently, Trump supporters are crowd-sourcing its funding, having raised in recent days seventeen-million dollars for the project. The notion sickens me, especially in this season of charity celebrating the birth of Jesus. I'm disheartened by the fearmongering and demonization of good and innocent people desperate in their attempts to find and make a better life here. If not descendants of slaves or indigenous peoples, we Americans came from immigrants. We mustn't be fooled by politicians eager to divide us for personal or political gain. Humans are the same the world over; if not for the accident of birth, we might be fleeing wrecked homelands, too. What claim have we to this land anyway?

In the days between Calvin's seizures, I came across two short pieces most worthy of reading this holiday season, one by a Muslim who attended Catholic high school in California, and another by the author of the outstanding book, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. The first work expresses its author's love and reverence for Jesus. The second explores citizenship and immigration. The two pieces, which make for a lovely pairing, offer compelling arguments for welcoming immigrants and refugees.

Though raised in a Catholic family, I'm not Christian. Nonetheless, I embrace what the Bible says Jesus preached: unconditional love, compassion, acceptance, charity for the needy, the poor, the afflicted. It upsets me to see and hear so-called Christians maligning other decent human beings. It's hard to see folks hell-bent on erecting a wall to divide us from those who need and bleed the same as we. Like us, migrants are laborers. Like us, they love their children. They want to live a good life, free from poverty, exploitation, oppression, violence. And, yes, they pay billions in taxes. Like immigrants are to some Americans, my boy Calvin is misunderstood and derided by the ignorant for his alleged burden on society. But like Jesus, Calvin embodies the best of humanity, teaching us unconditional love, kindness, charity, acceptance, humility. I ponder the infirm in search of treatment, imagine the migrant seeking refuge. I ask myself and others, what would Jesus do? I doubt he'd champion a fund to build a wall between his people.

In this season of getting and giving, I'm keenly aware of and most grateful for the accident of birth in a nation of plenty to parents who were not poor, disenfranchised or oppressed. I'm thankful for our health, our home, our community, for my husband's gainful employment, for generosity, safety, love, brotherhood and sisterhood. Despite Calvin's suffering and burden, I'm grateful for his purity and affection, and for what his being stirs in me to be and do—to give alms to the poor, the hungry, the homeless, and to welcome those who need safe haven, building bridges, not walls, between the world's good people.

joy ride

Red-eye flights are aptly named; mine came in this morning at just after seven. I returned from a short trip to Seattle, having stayed up past midnight one-too-many days. It was good to get away, though I had too little time to see everyone I wanted to see, and re-entering the atmosphere that is all-things-Calvin has proved a bit trying, particularly when it is his third day in a row of seizures, humid, and ninety degrees.

My trip was relaxing and invigorating. I spent some time driving around my old suburban digs—the pool where I spent all of my summers, the brand new high school, the house I lived in from the age of two until twenty, which now seems a dwarfed and somewhat dilapidated version of the one I remember, the pond where I used to catch frogs. The place had changed and yet, in ways, had remained remarkably the same.

I dined with dear friends whom I've known most of my life and who have kept in touch with me, noshed on homemade Indian food and pizza. I rented a car and cruised south to my nephew's wedding, met his new bride, sat and shot the shit with my brother Steve whose wit and humor I so appreciate. On Sunday I sipped a sidewalk bourbon at the Pike Place Market, ate roasted octopus and gigante beans in Adirondak chairs on the shores of Lake Union, strolled past sleepy Capital Hill mansions and—one of my trip highlights—rode the ferris wheel on the wharf drinking chilled white wine from a sippy cup. My other nephew and I scored some tasty shawermas on Broadway, satisfying a craving I've had since having left San Francisco seventeen years ago.

And though all that is a distant memory already, I'll still have etched in my mind forever the faces of people I love deeply, and the joy ride I took on a cool summer day in June, Seattle style.


from Christy Shake on Vimeo.

re-entry

I hiked to the top of Buena Vista park and sobbed, my chest tightening with regret for having ever left this place I think of as home. I lingered on the sidewalk across the street from my old Ashbury flat and wept some more. My eyes brimmed with tears as I sat across from Robert and held his hand for the first time in twenty years. Sitting in a car mere yards from a windy Pacific, Heather and I ate potato chips and drank white wine from red plastic cups, and laughed until we cried. Pam held me, both of us moist-eyed, as I lamented my departure seventeen years ago.

Along the way I stayed true to form befriending strangers—Lawrence, Ken, the woman at the ferry building whose name I can't remember, Enyeti (do I have it right?), Sean—all who made my San Francisco visit richer with their warmth. They were generous, kind, curious, interesting, fun-loving souls.

On a cloudy morning I paddled into the Bay. On another, I ferried across to Sausalito. I sipped espresso and wine in Cole Valley. I noshed a shrimp quesadilla at seventeenth and Valencia. I devoured Burmese noodles and curried shrimp in the Mission. I ate homemade pesto gnocchi and eggplant Parmesan in a North Beach icon. I climbed the hills of the city, and nibbled dim sum near the Embarcadero. I strolled a blustering Baker Beach eyeing a shivering quinceañera and a nude wader talking on his cell phone. I partied with my favorite lovelies who have known me since I came of age in my early thirties. I breathed deep gobs of cool air and listened for fog horns amid the intoxicating fragrance of sweet alyssum and star jasmine. I ambled through Golden Gate park's Japanese and botanical gardens. I did all these things with some of my favorite people ever; you know who you are.

Back in Maine, Calvin seized. He suffered a three-hour episode of what I can only describe as night terrors. Michael held him and kept things together. Nellie the dog snarfed up scraps of lobster and hot dogs, remnants of a college frolic at the fields. Later, she shat all over the house. Calvin then crawled through the loose, stinking feces, cluelessly slathering himself in doggie diarrhea before the nurse could intervene.

My red-eye flight home sat on the tarmac for over two hours. I missed my Newark connection and was rebooked on one getting in close to midnight a day later. Instead, I flew to Boston then rode the bus north to Maine. At home with my stubborn, sun-staring son, I went from zero to sixty suffering from exhaustion, impatience and frustration. My San Francisco chill-out was erased within minutes.

I'm slowly settling back into the reality of my existence—endless pacing behind my son, wiping up drool, changing diapers, dicing food, listening to Calvin's incessant humming, shielding my eyes and mouth from his rigid and errant fingers, waking and watching him seize—trying not to despair too much. Re-entering the atmosphere burns. Thankfully my husband, who I met in San Francisco over twenty years ago, took care to make my landing softer.

I hope before too long I'll again get back to the place that shaped me in so many ways and one I'll always think of as home. San Francisco—its crisp air, mild climate, scenic vistas, gigantic gnarled and ancient-looking trees, flowering, aromatic shrubs, glass and steel skyline hugging pastel homes, gleaming seas, outrageous food, fine folks from all over the world, buzzing neighborhoods, blue skies and fog, lush parks, clean beaches and chill vibe—is the perfect antidote to an oft stressful and limited life defined by my sweet, disabled, messed-up child.

The last time I was in San Francisco before this recent trip, December 2005, photo by Michael Kolster

bfd and thoughts thereof

I know what you're thinking about that title, at least if you are someone who has a potty mouth like I do. BFD. Big effing deal, right? But it's not what you think. This time I am referring to the Brunswick Fire Department, who came to our house yesterday in their day-glo yellow trucks, lights flashing as they silently sidled up to the curb and bailed out in their yellow, tan and reflective gray regalia like so many astronauts.

They came because Calvin's effing-breath-of-fresh-air nurse Rita, upon hearing for days our furnace had been struggling, and having smelled the fumes from our basement, suggested we call the BFD to come check for carbon monoxide. After all, and as she so humorously put it, she had some skin in the game. Minutes later they arrived, one by one making their way through the mudroom door and into the basement with gas masks on. Sure enough, we had low levels of CO on both floors and a pretty high level in the basement, so they shut down our furnace amid sub-freezing temps and said not to turn it back on.

While the men forced out the toxic gas with a large fan, one of them carried Calvin, who had been lethargic and ataxic, out to the ambulance to keep warm. It brought back bad memories of too many 911 calls and trips to the ER due to prolonged seizures years ago. Inside the ambulance, Calvin propped against me, I called a few heating specialists who were recommended to me by friends on Facebook. I told them our dire situation while wondering if the carbon monoxide might have had something to do with Calvin's spate of seizures and his lethargy the previous three days. Thankfully, I got through to Al, from A&R, who my friend Sarah so highly recommended.

Shortly thereafter, Woody came over and offered for us to sleep at his place if our house had no heat overnight. Mary and Cindie drove by on Calvin's bus worrying, having seen the fire trucks. Another friend offered us refuge for the night if we needed it.

When the CO measured zero we were able to reenter our home. I thanked the firefighters (I had no idea how much I like firefighters!) and even hugged the one who carried Calvin back indoors. They were all very kind and gentle. I wish I had taken their photo.

Within the hour, Al came by to take a look at our disabled furnace. He had the wherewithal to stop by the fire station first, to get the skinny on our situation. Immediately, I knew Al was a good guy. He was congenial to Rita and asked her where she was from. He asked Michael all about Calvin. He was professional and kind. He knew what he was doing. He fixed the furnace in just over an hour! (I should mention that Rita had asked the universe for that to happen.)

Last night, I remembered having had a waking nightmare about the three of us dying from carbon monoxide poisoning. Our furnace had been uncharacteristically failing to keep up the past two or more weeks which included several sub-zero nights, some as cold as minus fifteen, and days which struggled to reach the teens. I had repeatedly suggested to Michael that something was wrong with the furnace, but until we woke up to a house that was fifty-two degrees, he'd been in some kind of denial. After Al and Rita had left, Michael apologized for not having listened to me when I first suspected a problem with the furnace, and for giving me a hard time when I pressed him about it.

"I'm sorry. I let you down, didn't I?," he said, then repeated the sentiment, earnestly.

His first two words would have been enough, but characterizing his own behavior as having let me down reminded me of what a good man and husband he is, reminded me of the wedding vows we'd both written.

In recounting yesterday's events, I am reminded also of the benefits of a well-oiled society. When our house is in flames or fumes, no matter if we are wealthy or poor, the fire department shows up. If we are being burgled or harassed, the police come to your door. Every week our garbage is picked up curbside. Our roads are paved and swept and plowed. In storms, our downed power lines are restored. No matter who we are, or what our means, we can be sure these things will be taken care of. It's about the betterment of society. We all pay into these services so that they will be available to anyone, thus making us safer as a whole. The same should be said of health care, which is a BFD (big effing deal). If we are sick or dying, we should be able to see a doctor for treatment or have a surgery or get chemo without having to worry about bankruptcy. It is for the betterment of society if we are all healthier individuals. Healthy people are able-bodied and are less of a drag on so many other social services as a result. Our nation could actually save money on healthcare costs if we supplied health care to all.

To be sure, children suffer and die daily because they are born into hard-working families who don't have health insurance. Are they or their families deserving of their demise? Is our moral compass so out of whack that we choose to let certain families languish from neglect? Perhaps the very worst Americans would welcome those outcomes, or at least turn a blind eye to those deaths.

Again, I think of those firemen carrying Calvin through the snow, just as I remembered their colleagues carrying him to the ambulance when he was tiny as a baby and seizing in their arms. Back then, and because we had health insurance, I never had to worry that the hospital would refuse us. I never had to worry about how much it would cost or if it might mean losing our home. The reality is, no one should have to. Our health is sacred, as is our safety, as are our homes. Why some folks think healthcare is a privilege for the well-to-do rather than a right for all, I'll never understand.

Photo by Zack Tooker

picture perfect christmas

Yesterday we were graced with a picture perfect Christmas, as much as could be possible I suppose, given our disabled, chronically ill child. Calvin did not wake to a seizure, and he had a good morning while we ate cinnamon toast, drank strong coffee and opened the gifts Michael's parents had sent. Michael surprised me by installing eight black-out shades in several of our southerly windows so that I no longer have to struggle with an oversized, floppy piece of cardboard trying to block Calvin's obsessive and incessant efforts to stare directly into the sun. Why we didn't do this ages ago, I don't know.

Calvin's new nurse Rita, who is a glowing gift of kindness, candor, reliability, sanity, humor, professionalism, compassion, punctuality and spunk, was able to take care of Calvin for a few hours which freed us up to walk the dog together—a rare occasion—albeit in driving winds and snow. On the way home from the fields we were ushered into Woody's home—three doors down—by his son Mark who, when he saw us walking past, flagged us in from the cold. Upon shedding our snowy hats, scarves, boots and coats, Woody's son-in-law whipped up a couple of Bloody Marys then, in the living room, we joined the extended family of ten who, at the last minute, had descended on Woody's home due to complications from the storm.

The cocktails and camaraderie warmed our souls, as did the fire in the wood stove back at home. Before Rita left I had just enough time to shovel the driveway and make a batch of chocolate chip cookies while Michael got to work on the crown roast, gravy, mashed celeriac and potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and another batch of bourbon eggnog. Outside, the snow continued to fall.

Shortly after night fell, surprisingly Calvin drifted off to sleep immediately after a semi-agitated afternoon; I sense him ramping up to his next seizure which I think is going to happen soon. Guests arrived—two old friends and two new ones. Eggnog was imbibed. Candles were lit. Music ensued. Pork chops and mashers were dribbled in gravy, sprouts were roasted and tossed in Parmesan. All, including a delightfully light salad, were happily noshed. Two Bouche de Noels—one vanilla, one chocolate—were debated on their merits then quickly, though not completely, devoured. Various artists, paintings, forthcoming photo projects, the #metoo movement, and the opioid crisis were rigorously explored. Russ and Susan's absence at this year's table was palpable and deeply mourned.

It was as decent of a Christmas as we, in our life of relative confinement, could hope for or expect, and Santa didn't deliver any lumps of coal.

a secular amen

Though long ago Michael and I both lost our religion, we still enjoy some of the secular traditions that seem to have been hard-wired into us from childhood. I still like stringing up lights, wrapping a gift or two (one being the exact number I have wrapped this year) listening to a tiny dose—though no more—of holiday music, watching holiday films, donating to several charities and other worthy causes, eating Michael's special meal on Christmas Eve and another one, with guests, on Christmas Day. What I haven't done in several years is to adorn a tree. The joy that decorating used to bring has been lost since it became clear, years ago, that Calvin would not grasp or delight in any of the secular Christmas traditions, including trimming a tree.

For a few years after his birth, every December I'd take boxes from the basement, opening egg cartons and smaller parcels filled with delicate ornaments wrapped in tissue and newspaper. I strung what I call Charlie Brown trees with tiny white lights. The twinkling trees were beautiful, but there was a sadness and hollowness in their making, due directly to the loss of what I had hoped would be a mentally, and therefore physically, healthy child who would help me light and trim the trees. The boxes have remained undisturbed under the stairs to the basement for years.

Today I read an opinion piece titled, When a Grieving Mother Talks, Listen. And though the piece deals with perinatal deaths—stillbirths and babies who die in their first week of life—I can begin to understand the loss while remembering several dear friends and loved ones who have suffered the grief of losing a child at birth. Perhaps in a slightly similar way to those who lose infants, since Calvin's difficult birth and life almost nothing that was familiar about celebrations like Christmas or birthdays feels familiar anymore, and nothing can really fill the void that lost joy carves out of a soul.

We don't get to delight in our child climbing into bed with us on Christmas morn, don't get to see his excitement over Santa's arrival, don't get to relish in making Christmas cookies with him, or witness him tasting eggnog for the first time, don't see him unpeel gifts, play with new toys, read holiday stories, make snowmen, trim the tree.

Though, like I've said before, we aren't Christian, and we don't buy into the commercialism of Christmas, we'd still likely participate in some of Christmas's pageant if not for our disabled, chronically ill child—I mean, Jesus's existence is still something worthy to celebrate seeing as though he was such a cool guy, someone who fed the hungry, helped the poor, healed the sick, didn't judge, loved the most vulnerable, including wayward souls. And though we enjoy receiving greeting cards in the mail from friends near and far, I still feel a pang of sorrow when I open them. Even so, something inside me wants to continue getting them; I find I live vicariously through my lovely friends whose kids are normal, and who delight in normal things. Please don't stop sending them.

And in case you are wondering, we just finished drinking a batch of Michael's great-grandmother's eggnog recipe that has just the right amount of bourbon topped with a cloud of whipped egg white. I'm having a hot flash right now, which somehow feels luxurious. Our friend Lauren just left after a nice visit having played with Calvin in a way no one else does. Calvin is hunkering down in his bed with Michael, squirming around, putting his hands down the neck of Michael's sweater, cooing like a happy baby as he sometimes does, fingering Michael's ear and mouth. Soon we'll be eating an herb-encrusted rack of lamb, a white bean puree, steamed asparagus and pecan pie. Tomorrow night we'll have a pork crown roast, celeriac and potato mash, roasted Brussels sprouts, salad and bouche de noel. To that I can be most grateful and say a secular amen.

maine street

By nearly every measure, Saturday was stellar. Calvin didn't suffer any seizures. He didn't wet his bed, soil his pants or jumper. He didn't leak or spray prune juice everywhere. He didn't try to stare at the sun very much. He ate well, smiled some, giggled a bunch, and was really very cooperative.

Though the sun was out, the mercury never climbed above freezing, but the unseasonably cold single digits we've had recently and the lack of bitter winds made it feel balmy, so we bundled up a little and drove downtown. By downtown, I mean our city's short main drag which, I guess, is aptly named Maine Street, with its small shops, salons and restaurants.

First, we visited Wilbur's chocolate shop where I bought six cordial cherries to give my neighbor and friend Woody for Christmas, about the extent of my holiday shopping. As we waited in line, I gave Calvin a couple of chocolate covered cranberries that he chewed well and seemed to relish. Next, we returned a DVD to our favorite movie rental store, Bart & Greg's DVD Explosion which, most regrettably, will be closing later this month. I'm not sure what we are going to do without the establishment that has served us so very well these past fifteen-plus years, with its 36,000-film inventory and its lovely owners and employees who nearly bat a thousand recommending films we wholeheartedly appreciate and couldn't get elsewhere—obscure films, independent ones, strange flicks and documentaries, foreign films and the occasional blockbuster. As the only folks I know without smart phones, Michael and I have also never streamed a film from Netflix, nor do we intend to. But how we are going to satisfy our desire for little-known films that expand our minds, sate our appetite for the peculiar, and challenge our notions of the world, I don't know. Thank you Bart and Co., for having met and exceeded that need for so long.

Next, I brought Calvin upstairs to Wild Oats Bakery and Cafe where the line was nearly trailing out the door with folks buying lunch and/or any number of other delectables including some of the most amazing cakes and pies I've tasted. It would have been almost impossible for us to wait in a line that long without Calvin sliming all of the glass cases in drool. So, instead, we stood and sampled some delicious spreads on tiny squares cut from freshly made loaves—salmon spread, herb spread, three veggie spreads plus a layered tomato-pesto one. Calvin gobbled them all up, then put a finger to his lips asking for more.

Our last stop was on the other side of the four-lane road shown below. Calvin has a habit of wanting to drop down in the middle of streets, but we managed to get across with no problem. Once inside a favorite Maine Street shop called Local Market, we made our way to the deli counter where I ordered a pound of Calvin's favorite wild rice and edamame salad with grated carrots, shaved almonds and cranberries. The shop is always tastefully assembled with scads of kitchen sundries, jars of chocolates, bottles of wine, racks of fancy snacks and crackers, country farm tables stacked with glasses, mugs, cups, plates and bowls, table linens and baskets brimming with fresh organic vegetables all grown local. Even so, I navigated my precarious boy through the narrow aisles without disturbing or destroying the attractive displays or turning over any tables. Thank you Sylvia and Sharon for always being so welcoming to me and my unwieldy son.

To top off the day, Mary, Calvin's former ed tech, came by to watch Calvin for the rest of the evening. I was able to take Nellie for a nice long walk through the woods, have a drink with Michael at our favorite watering hole, then join our friends for cocktails, appetizers, a scrumptious and well-worth-waiting-for leg of lamb dinner, and a much-needed dose of terribly bawdy humor at their house just up the road, something we don't get out and do as often as we'd like.

Today we've got just one or two errands on the docket, which is good since the temperature at noon still hasn't reached twenty. We've got a holiday party to attend this evening at our friends' restaurant, and though Calvin already seems primed for another seizure (with a very rashy butt, face and chin for starters) and though the party is not at one of the familiar places on Maine Street, he seems good enough to go.

Downtown Brunswick, Maine, Photo by Unknown

earth's elixirs

From yesterday:

We got a good soaking last night. As a result, the spruce bark is black, the cedar mulch coffee brown, and pine needles lay in a copper carpet skirting the lawn. The low sun has reddened up the small-leaf rhododendrons dotting the back yard. At the perimeter, maples and oaks and other deciduous trees are mostly naked save a few bronze leaves at the top too stubborn to surrender.

When it pours like it did last night, I feel as though the world has been bathed and renewed, as if the rain were some kind of elixir for the toxic political climate we find ourselves in this year. I woke this morning in the wake of the storm, fully cognizant that Calvin had made it without having any seizures during the recent phase of the last full moon. On Friday, if he makes it that far, it will be four full weeks since his last partial complex seizure—a longer stint than he has gone in over a year—and ten days since his last grand mal. If he continues without any hint of partial seizures, I'll be more convinced that the CBD cannabis oil we've been giving him—one that we halved a few weeks ago, though one that seems effective in lessening some kids' seizures—might be a trigger for Calvin; he rarely suffered partial complex seizures before starting CBD in November three years ago and, until now, I was certain the culprit was exclusively benzodiazepine withdrawal.

This morning I took Calvin to the pediatrician for his annual exam. These past few years, I've rarely had to take him to the doctor; he scarcely gets sick anymore. Gone, it seems, are the days when calendars were choked with appointments to see the neurologist, the neuro-ophthalmologist, the endocrinologist, the gastroenterologist, the nephrologist, the orthotist, the phlebotomist. Virtually gone are his daytime grand mal seizures. Gone, it seems, are his sleepless nights. At the office Calvin remained quiet and calm. He walked well and tall. He stood utterly motionless on the scale without any support while we checked his weight (he's little for a kid who in February will be fourteen, weighing in at 58 pounds unclothed and just 4'4" tall.) I updated his meds, proud to report that we have reduced his benzodiazepine from a daily high of 35 mgs down to just 0.6 mgs, most thankful to my homemade THCA elixir—and to Remedy dispensary for their cannabis flower—for its help in doing so.

After I dropped Calvin at school I took Nellie to the fields. There, a friend told me that a group being called The Silence Breakers—courageous women and a few men who have publicly denounced their sexual harassers and assaulters—were chosen collectively as TIME magazine's Person of the Year. I was happy to learn that TIME didn't name the current POTUS who has broken every precious tenet that Americans should treasure—truth, justice, honor, trust, respect, equity, decency, discretion, goodness, wisdom, sensibility, humility, humanity. As I strolled home, I held the image of The Silence Breakers close to me, and beamed.

In the past hour, the sun has begun peeking out from behind the clouds, bathing the greenery with its own elixir. I sit here at my desk in the quiet before Calvin comes home, silently citing my gratitude for the many things provided me:

lovely husband. wonderful pup. extraordinary child. the hope of his emerging. the village that helps us raise him. cozy home. marvelous garden. enough food. enough drink. enough clothes. enough heat. enough love. compassionate, humorous, generous, intelligent friends. a world full of righteous justice warriors daring to take on willful ignorance, liars, perverts, tyrants, phonies, narcissists, hypocrites, bullies, zealots, bigots, blowhards, gluttons, racists, white-supremacists, misogynists, sexists, homophobes, xenophobes, crooks and thieves, and bring them to their knees.

I also understand that fear and hate are bedfellows, and ignorance is often stubborn, which is why this earth needs repeated bathing—in truth and justice, not in deception, bigotry and greed. So I continue looking for earth's elixirs, for my child, my family, my community, and for what ails the world. Most of the time, I find it in speaking and communing with others. And, most gratefully, I find it in mere words.

thanksgivings

winter gardens with red-leaved rhododendrons. sunny days after rain. sweet angel thai food. eating home-roasted hazel nuts out of the shell. communion. the smell of onions sautéed in olive oil. running water. seizure-free days. brined turkeys. chef hubby. kinfolk. sweeney potatoes. warm rolls with butter. roasted brussels sprouts. chrysanthemums and peach-colored roses. folks gathering around a table. vino. chorizo dressing. new friends. cozy home. gas stoves. bourbon on the rocks. candlelight. pie. pie. pie a la mode. wood burning stoves. cranberry sauce and gravy. so many days with michael home. quiet streets. low light through the trees. neighborhood strolls. crazy dogs. in-laws. dollar store candle holders. okay kid. stereo.

ridiculous existence

As absurd as it sounds, on sunny autumn mornings when my kid is home from school—this time because the whole town's power went out in Sunday's storm bearing heavy rains and sixty-five-mile-an-hour winds—I follow him holding a large piece of cardboard as he crawls around, trying to thwart his incessant effort to stare at the sun. It is a ridiculous existence to be employed as his shadow, blocking the sun, stymieing his biting and banging, wiping his drool, spotting him up and down the stairs, catching him before he trips and falls. It is hard hanging out with a kid who can do almost nothing, especially when there is nothing to do.

Yesterday, we took a trip to the grocer. Once inside, Calvin had a mini tantrum, having not recognized the place since it was somewhat dark inside, the generators only able to run a few lights and a handful of registers. We couldn't buy dairy or meat or greens or anything frozen since the store was trying to preserve its resources. The lines were long, but two nice gentlemen, seeing me with my gimpy son peg-legging around in his boot splint and trying to bite every surface in sight, offered to let me cut in line. I gladly accepted their gesture.

As we left the store I told Calvin how proud and grateful I was for his compliance and patience. Hearing my praise, he gleefully stuck out his tongue and smiled. 

On the drive home I imagined there were plenty of folks complaining about their loss of power, about the roadblocks diverting traffic from downed trees and power lines, about damaged landscapes and houses. Standing in line in the darkened store had made me think of how goddamn lucky we are compared to people in places like Venezuela, Yemen, Puerto Rico, Iraq, Appalachia, Syria, Haiti and other places racked with war, genocide, disease, corruption, natural disasters and famine. We enjoy a ridiculous existence. We have a roof over our heads; the enormous spruce in our back yard, which had the top twenty-five feet of its three leaders ripped off in the storm, luckily missed our bedroom by mere feet. We have food in the pantry and running water. We have a neighbor who already chopped up the spruce and will soon be hauling it away. Michael has a studio up the road that has power. We have a wood stove for keeping us warm and a gas stove top for frying eggs and grilling bread and brewing coffee and warming milk and heating soup. We have cozy beds and pillows and comforters, and matches and candles and lanterns and flashlights and headlamps to see our way from room to room. We have medicine, wind-up clocks, dry shampoo, telephones, clean clothes, bourbon, and there's even some ice cubes left to pour it over. In addition to all we have, it is somehow luxurious to spend a day or two without email or social media or television news, and a quiet evening bathed in nothing but candlelight and warmth from a wood burning stove.

In other words, we have nothing to complain about, not even monotonous hours spent shadowing our kid as he makes countless loops around and around and around the house.

good fortune

Though I'm known to kvetch about this and that, I try to be mindful of my fortunes: dear friends, an amazing community, a loving husband, cook and provider, a cozy home, a sweet kid, and the ability to celebrate often without having to worry about where I'm going to sleep at night or where my next meal will come from. Aside from Calvin's poor health and disabilities, his seizures, the treatments and their side effects, and his active benzodiazepine withdrawal, one could characterize my other concerns as first-world problems.

So, perhaps the passing of the summer solstice, which I spent at my friend Lauren's house wearing a shared garland, drinking mojitos and eating popcorn aside a crackling fire, seeing old friends and meeting new ones, can be for me a kind of reboot. Perhaps I can emerge from a place of slight guardedness and cynicism to one more welcoming of my changing surroundings, which is not to say that I'll surrender my passions, political or otherwise.

And, as I remind myself to be grateful, I'm cognizant that Calvin has had only two grand mals thus far in June, which is notable considering he had as few in May—a record low since before starting cannabis and weaning his benzodiazepine over three years ago. In return for that gift of sorts, I knock on wood, clasp my hands and bow my head in recognition of my good fortune.

snafu

The acronym stands for situation normal: all fucked up, and it is an apt way to describe life with Calvin, my thirteen-year-old severely disabled, legally blind, non-verbal, incontinent, autistic boy who can't do much of anything by himself and who suffers from medically refractory epilepsy, which is to say that despite pumping him with loads of pharmaceutical drugs, he still endures seizures of various kinds at various times and with varying intensity. Oh, and he is also coping with a ridiculously protracted and brutal benzodiazepine withdrawal and its heinous side effects, which compounds any misery he already bears.

Thankfully, however, cannabis—three kinds of which we use to thwart those seizures—has seemed to help: a homemade THCA oil, a CBD oil, plus a homemade THC rescue tincture.

Today is day ten since Calvin's last grand mal seizure, which began as a partial complex seizure and evolved into a full-on convulsive tonic-clonic. Yesterday and today he has suffered similar complex partial seizures lasting upwards of three or four minutes during which he breathes so shallowly it appears as if he has stopped breathing altogether, which is common though still unsettling. But both seizures stopped within about thirty seconds of giving him a squirt of THC tincture inside his bottom lip and rubbing it into his gums.

This is a good time to mention that I'm ever grateful for Calvin's teacher and ed techs who know Calvin well enough to contact me when he doesn't seem well. They've made some very good calls and have saved Calvin from having any serious seizures while at school. So, too, are we lucky to have a nurse who rarely, if ever, misses work, who loves Calvin and with whom I can leave him when I must go out to do errands or walk the dog or when I want to garden or look in on Woody.

And I would be very remiss to neglect mentioning what an awesome husband I have who is easy on the eyes and does the grocery shopping on days like today and who cooks dinner every night—literally—and who affords me the ability to stay at home, because I'd never be able to hold down a job or a career out of the home even if I wanted to, what with a son who has missed at least seven weeks of school this year.

But even for all of the wonderful things we have at our fingertips including our cozy abode, our kind, loving and generous friends, Michael's steady and absurdly amazing job in this beautiful state of Maine, our situation—our normal—is still seriously fucked up.

out in the world again

For weeks, if not months on end, I’ve been losing myself, drowning in the mire of a disabled child's life, a human shadow traipsing around as Calvin makes endless loops around the house. I'm losing myself in the weariness of monotonous days, losing myself in loads of laundry, a sink full of dishes and bursting bags of dirty diapers. I’ve been losing myself in the whiteness outside, the prolonged cold, gritty streets and frigid wind. My circumference, as my friend Lauren said, is notably smaller in winter. 

When the mercury made it above freezing yesterday, Lauren rang asking if Calvin and I might like to join her for a trip to the Giant Steps. Calvin had had a good night and morning, and was in a rare mood, so I agreed. Within an hour I’d taken a shower, changed three diapers, drew up Calvin’s late afternoon cannabis oil, packed up some snacks, some juice, a bib, a rag, some diapers and some wipes. I loaded Calvin into the back seat of Lauren’s car—at thirteen, he’s just barely big enough now to ride without a car seat—for the scenic drive down Harpswell Neck to Bailey Island.

Halfway there I was able to look up from feeding Calvin to see the open ocean on one side of the peninsula and Mackerel Cove on the other. The scene was picturesque, like one you’d see on a postcard: a dozen or two boats hitched to their moorings floating in a sheltered cove, leafless grey trees, their diaphanous canopies like clouds resting on the horizon. My view reached scores of miles, far beyond the mere feet or yards I'm accustomed to seeing in town. I felt my chest expand and my spine straighten up like I do when I step off of a plane in the West. As we drove, I soaked in the view. Cedar shingle and painted red saltboxes and capes sprouted from snowy knolls against a backdrop of blue sky and sea. Clumps of sumac branched like frozen dancers along the side of the road. I felt as if I were in another world, and then I realized it was one I had simply forgotten existed so close to home.

Turning down a narrow lane, we saw the ocean splayed out before us. Lauren dropped me and Calvin at the trailhead while she parked her car up the road. In an act of defiance, Calvin planted his feet, wouldn't move, and began expressing his disapproval of the cold and/or his inability to transition to the strange, new place. His tantrum included a mix of laughter and shrieks. I struggled to prop him against my knee rather than letting him fall to the soggy ground. Finally, I had to hook my arms under his and carry him to a wooden guardrail where I thought he'd be willing to stand. On approach, I misjudged the height of the railing, he lunged and pitched forward over it. Had he more momentum behind him, he might have plummeted over the edge and down the rocky escarpment, a demise that, for an absurd second at that exasperating moment, I imagined might have been fitting.

When Lauren joined us she took one of Calvin's hands and helped me walk him down the narrow trail to our destination. I was surprised at how well he did. Several yards ahead we found a spot to stop and rest. Lauren sat with Calvin so I could peer over the ledge to view the Giant Steps, a glacial rock formation I had never seen. The mammoth cube-shaped rocks looked as if they'd been placed there by Hercules. As I squinted out over the Atlantic I began to weep, realizing how confined I've been for so long, and grateful to Lauren for having lead me beyond my comfort zone.

On the way back, we had to wrestle with Calvin who, several times, struggled to stop and drop in the mud. All in all, though, he was very compliant and even walked the extra distance up the hill to the car.

Today, it's raining, revealing the green of things, and though I'm stuck indoors once more, I've been reminded that sometimes with a little help it's not too difficult, yet enormously vital, to get out in the world.

Photo by Lauren Catlett

thanksgivings

hubby. food. shelter. water. heat. peace. the kid. sisterhood. grace in the face of loss. kindness. wood stove fires. calvin's smiles and hugs. gatherings. nellie. community. pink sunrise. love. brothers. good night's sleep. my peeps. civil rights. dry-brined birds. philanthropy. neighbors who rake our leaves. rain. bourbon. handsome hats that girlfriends knit. charity. quiet streets. good reads. humor. pie galore. forgiveness. sky. gma and gpa and the rest of the gang. reflection. compassion. cannabis oil. hope. rhododendrons. free speech. diversity. twilight. candlelight. stars. goose down. brussels spouts. art. beauty. hmong stuffing. writing. empathy. wine. music. justice. rivers. sisters. trees.

Photo by Michael Kolster

staycation

Michael returned yesterday after ten days gone photographing in Hawaii, thanks to a generous faculty grant from the college. He spent his days on the Big Island taking uber-cool photos of lava flows, plastic beaches and jungle. If you are one of the few adults who can cross your eyes, you can view his twin images in three dimensions on his photo blog, The Daily Post. And if your mind is open, they'll perhaps transport you to a place you may not be able to reach on foot.

For me, back at home, it was a kind of staycation, hanging out with a bunch of my besties, not cooking for myself and leaving the dishes for later.

The day that Michael left, a Thursday, I spent the evening with Lauren. The two of us bellied up to the bar at our favorite Asian restaurant for a twilight glass of wine. On Friday, I had a very informal, long overdue, parent conference with Calvin's life-skills teacher, whom I absolutely adore. Over gorgeous cocktails at a favorite watering hole, we talked about Calvin's progress. We went on to discuss candidates, presidents and first ladies. She told me her daughter was doing a report about Eleanor Roosevelt, and I mentioned I'd heard somewhere that the feminist icon was a lesbian. In response, my companion said something like, Isn't everyone? and we chuckled. And while I'm not exactly sure what that might mean, I like the idea; perhaps the world would be a better place if we were all at least a little bit gay.

Saturday, I ducked in to visit Woody, who I haven't seen as much of these past six months, what with spotty nursing help and all. I brought him some homemade chocolate chip cookies in exchange for two fingers of bourbon and a couple of cubes. We shot the shit for a spell while Nellie tried lovingly to lick the ears off of his cat, Trixie, who happens to be a male.

On Sunday, Matt and Connie arrived with their children in tow. The kids played ball with Nellie and Matt played bartender, mixing three strong gin and tonics, then mashing up some guacamole right on the spot to go with the homemade hummus they'd brought. In one brief moment, when I had my back turned on Calvin, he crawled up to the table and grabbed my cocktail, which was filled nearly to the brim. Before I had a chance to catch the glass which he was about to toss aside, he'd taken a major gulp. I've heard of far worse things happening to kids like mine, and though alcohol can be a seizure trigger, I shrugged it off as best I could and laughed at my boozin' child—something I couldn't have imagined doing several years ago. I guess I'd call that progress.

Monday's date du jour was with my neighbor, Barbara. I made it another early night since Calvin wakes around five and needs repositioning once or twice on most nights, plus it seemed to me he was due for a seizure that thankfully never occurred. Between sips of spirits and bites of arancini, fresh mozarella and chicken Parmesan, Barbara and I spoke of politics and The Peroxide Demagogue: the narcissist bully candidate who is threatening nearly every virtue of our country. At just thirty-six, and besides being a total hottie, Ms. Barbara is a college professor and an expert in world government. So while we had a good laugh about Trump the ReallyHate developer, the clown who could easily pass for a villain in the city of Gotham, we also bristled at his hateful rhetoric, his incitement of violence, and his alarming following of racist xenophobes, some eager, even emboldened, to do his bidding and "beat the crap" out of their fellow Americans. Sigh.

The next day, Akiko arrived from Jacksonville via Detroit to spend a couple of nights. It has been three years since last we saw each other, so we had a nice time catching up, nibbling on yummy dumplings and Asian slaw, talking more about politics and walking the dog. Like all of my gals, she's a gem of a young woman who I'm most honored to call my friend.

Barbara dropped in again on Thursday, her son and husband also gone for the week. At ten o'clock, we stepped outside and into a misty cold where we shivered some and pondered the world's divisions under a common moon. We covered nearly every topic staying up until almost eleven—a recent record for me. Thankfully, Calvin slept soundly again that night and, thusly, so did I.

On the last stretch, three gals made a home invasion on Friday; Lauren brought over a large mason jar full of her famous pomegranate cosmopolitan plus a spinach artichoke dip. Natasha made a tasty salad dressed with wild mushroom vinaigrette, which was so much like eating dessert that I could have licked the plate. Mary arrived with a tray of one of my favorites: deviled eggs—yum!—their fluffy yolks oddly alike the Republican frontrunner's coif. We talked kids and jobs and illicit drugs, presidential candidates and, of course, all bad things—because, to be honest, we find nothing redeeming—about Trump.

Saturday night I spent alone catching up on some much needed rest. Calvin had taken it easy on me the entire week; during Michael's absence our boy suffered no seizures to speak of and today is day twenty since his last grand mal! I promise to elaborate on that later this week.

Regrettably, on this staycation, I didn't get to see all of my lovelies. But the time has made me grateful for so many things: the ability to celebrate the good in each day and the beauty, love and compassion in others, the gift of long, seizure-free stints, the aid of an amazing nurse, and the knowledge that Michael was getting some satisfying work done in the field while not having to worry too much about me.

I love this photo of my friend Lauren and me taken spring 2014

about time

We've been talking about it for years. This was going to be a first. All this time we've been reluctant—afraid we might disrupt the other diners. Nervous there might be spilled drinks. Doubtful we'd be able to stay seated long enough to finish our meals, and so we've never taken Calvin, who is eleven, out to dinner at a restaurant. Not once. We figured it was about time.

Yesterday, our boy was in relatively good spirits at the cafe and, later, enjoyed a decent stint at the agricultural fair where he walked without balking, sat without shrieking and even pet a few of the beasts. I'd brought enough of his pre-diced food plus his late afternoon cannabis oil dose so we didn't have to go straight home after the fair. In all of those things we saw opportunity, so we nabbed it.

For the most part, Sundays at four o'clock are quiet at our local watering hole. Instead of bellying up to the bar, though, we camped at a four-top near the windows overlooking the river. By all accounts it appeared that Calvin, who is now big and stable enough to sit relatively safely in his own chair, was having a good time. You can see for yourself, here—a little crazy, but not too out of the ordinary considering the antiepileptic drugs he's on, not to mention the active benzodiazepine withdrawal.

After we ordered and were served, then had a chance to put a good dent into a tasty heap of greasy fries, Calvin decided he was finished, so he pushed back his chair almost tipping the table over. I got up and led him around by the hand, carefully guiding him between obstacles. Eventually, he settled into a nice bright spot next to our table where the painted brick was rough and cool on his tongue and fun to pat. I stood with one eyeball on my precarious kid, the other on the disappearing mound of crispy goodness. From there, I simultaneously ate the fries, stole sips from Michael's beer and watched Calvin, and without causing some sort of ruckus—something we've been dreaming about for years.