Thursday – Oh, no. Hello?
Sep. 16th, 2010 11:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
I don't have the same relationship with my cell phone that most people do. Most people seem to be seriously committed to their cell phone and go through withdrawal if it goes on the blink or goes missing. For years, my relationship with my cell was casual to non-existent. For starters, I didn't consider it so much a tool for other people to reach me as I considered it a tool to reach other people, and only if I felt like it. Some days it would stay in my car plugged into the battery charger, and I wouldn't miss it at all. I didn't even look at it every day. I might notice the blinking light telling me I had a voice mail message two days after one had been left for me.
That has changed since my son started school. Now I keep my cell phone next to my heart. Literally. It is tucked into my bra at this moment. The clip to wear it on my waistband is lost, because I never cared to wear it on my waistband, anyway, so I tossed the clip into a drawer a long time ago and have since forgotten which drawer that was. It's uncomfortable in my pocket and, besides, things fall out of pockets. My purse, its traditional home, is not close enough to me at all time. I might get up for a cup of coffee or to go to the bathroom and not hear it when it rings. Even when my purse is close, it muffles the ring. I can't risk that; I must hear the ring and respond immediately, because it might be urgent. God only knows what is happening at my son's school.
When it rings, my heart beats faster and I stop breathing. I have come to loath this thing I keep right next to my heart. How can something so small weigh me down like a ball and chain?
It only rang once yesterday morning, and it was my husband. Even after I saw that it wasn't my son's school, it still took a few moments for my heart to start beating normally again.
"Hello?" My voice sounded like I had been running because I was struggling to resume breathing.
"Hi. You all right? You sound like something's wrong."
"I'm all right now that I know it's you. I kind of have a mini heart attack when the phone rings between 8 and 4 these days."
"Oh. Yeah, I understand that. On my days off I can't get anything done because I'm waiting for the phone to ring."
He was calling to tell me that the morning had gone okay. After the incident the day before at the YMCA Before School program, he drove Sweet Pea there and sat with him during it to observe the environment and see how Sweet Pea responded to it. The major conflicts have happened primarily when Sweet Pea was asked to stop playing and have breakfast. Transitions are not Sweet Pea's thing. Our solution is going to be for me to wake him up earlier and feed him at home. I had thought that, since it sometimes takes him hours to fall asleep at night, that letting him sleep as long as possible in the mornings would work best. Then he could buy breakfast at the school. That's what I get for thinking. It is not my strong point and I really need to give it up.
It turns out that breakfast is served when the school busses start showing up, and the cafeteria where the Before School program then fills with children and noise. Suddenly Sweet Pea, who is not good at transitions anyway, is asked to deal with not only a hated transition, but loud noises and a crowd on top of it. Take these 3 ingredients, stir together, bake at 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit for about 1.5 seconds, and you have on your hands a perfect loaf of sensory overload, hot and ready to serve up to whomever is within kicking range. On Tuesday, that was 2 YMCA employees and the school counselor.
I'm not bothering to hope that breakfast at home will keep him from having meltdowns in the morning. I'm hoping it will reduce the chance of one. By a little. Maybe.
In the meanwhile, ignore the strange lump in my shirt, over my left breast. It's just my cell phone. And kindly don't comment when I reach down my blouse to pull something out; I'll try to be as modest as possible when I do it, but I will do it. I'd rather not, but I must.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
I don't have the same relationship with my cell phone that most people do. Most people seem to be seriously committed to their cell phone and go through withdrawal if it goes on the blink or goes missing. For years, my relationship with my cell was casual to non-existent. For starters, I didn't consider it so much a tool for other people to reach me as I considered it a tool to reach other people, and only if I felt like it. Some days it would stay in my car plugged into the battery charger, and I wouldn't miss it at all. I didn't even look at it every day. I might notice the blinking light telling me I had a voice mail message two days after one had been left for me.
That has changed since my son started school. Now I keep my cell phone next to my heart. Literally. It is tucked into my bra at this moment. The clip to wear it on my waistband is lost, because I never cared to wear it on my waistband, anyway, so I tossed the clip into a drawer a long time ago and have since forgotten which drawer that was. It's uncomfortable in my pocket and, besides, things fall out of pockets. My purse, its traditional home, is not close enough to me at all time. I might get up for a cup of coffee or to go to the bathroom and not hear it when it rings. Even when my purse is close, it muffles the ring. I can't risk that; I must hear the ring and respond immediately, because it might be urgent. God only knows what is happening at my son's school.
When it rings, my heart beats faster and I stop breathing. I have come to loath this thing I keep right next to my heart. How can something so small weigh me down like a ball and chain?
It only rang once yesterday morning, and it was my husband. Even after I saw that it wasn't my son's school, it still took a few moments for my heart to start beating normally again.
"Hello?" My voice sounded like I had been running because I was struggling to resume breathing.
"Hi. You all right? You sound like something's wrong."
"I'm all right now that I know it's you. I kind of have a mini heart attack when the phone rings between 8 and 4 these days."
"Oh. Yeah, I understand that. On my days off I can't get anything done because I'm waiting for the phone to ring."
He was calling to tell me that the morning had gone okay. After the incident the day before at the YMCA Before School program, he drove Sweet Pea there and sat with him during it to observe the environment and see how Sweet Pea responded to it. The major conflicts have happened primarily when Sweet Pea was asked to stop playing and have breakfast. Transitions are not Sweet Pea's thing. Our solution is going to be for me to wake him up earlier and feed him at home. I had thought that, since it sometimes takes him hours to fall asleep at night, that letting him sleep as long as possible in the mornings would work best. Then he could buy breakfast at the school. That's what I get for thinking. It is not my strong point and I really need to give it up.
It turns out that breakfast is served when the school busses start showing up, and the cafeteria where the Before School program then fills with children and noise. Suddenly Sweet Pea, who is not good at transitions anyway, is asked to deal with not only a hated transition, but loud noises and a crowd on top of it. Take these 3 ingredients, stir together, bake at 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit for about 1.5 seconds, and you have on your hands a perfect loaf of sensory overload, hot and ready to serve up to whomever is within kicking range. On Tuesday, that was 2 YMCA employees and the school counselor.
I'm not bothering to hope that breakfast at home will keep him from having meltdowns in the morning. I'm hoping it will reduce the chance of one. By a little. Maybe.
In the meanwhile, ignore the strange lump in my shirt, over my left breast. It's just my cell phone. And kindly don't comment when I reach down my blouse to pull something out; I'll try to be as modest as possible when I do it, but I will do it. I'd rather not, but I must.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 06:03 pm (UTC)In other news I feel your pain on the before/care stuff. I am in this long miserable conversation with my before care (care I desperately need) because of my [deleted] It's too tedious to report, I'll spare you.
In other other news isn't it so hard when your best most carefully laid plans come to nothing? I remember letting my youngest sleep in one day after she'd had a rough night. Someone she loved and trusted was going to be there. So I went to work and let her sleep. She became hysterical because she had not had a hug good-bye from me. I had MEANT so well. And it was a disaster. I hate that.
I love your journal entries btw. Pure gold =)
no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 02:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 04:21 am (UTC)