Saturday, July 7
Paul and P and H are away visiting relatives in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. Someplace so far away and hard to get to (and inaccessible to cell phone) that we didn't feel comfortable bringing Henry (a.k.a. Mr. Unpredictable), especially after our recent failed family vacation. So, I volunteered to stay home with him. Paul needed a break, and I had gotten to go last year so it was really his turn. I also thought it might be a good chance to get some things done, while the house was quieter than usual.
But you know, it has turned out to be too quiet. Paul and company will have been gone nine days tomorrow, and that is just a few days too many. To be home alone with a non-verbal thirteen-year-old low-functioning autistic boy is to be very alone indeed. I feel the weight of the isolation like a physical presence, a cloud hanging in my chest. We have no family anywhere nearby, and several of my close friends, including my one local autism mom pal, are away this week too, by sad coincidence. Yeah, and it is a holiday week and extended weekend for many. So people are busy. Everyone except Henry and me.
You hear a lot about "It takes a village" to raise a child. Sometimes, though, things turn out so that you are standing there alone saying "Where'd my village go to?" (Hear those violins throbbing? What a pity party I am having! Thanks for listening.)