I keep getting Manic Monday stuck in my head, which really pisses me off. I hate that song.
Anyway, it's not very manic around here. J just woke up and he seems to be in a decent mood. I am, too, and the weather is clear, so signs say it's going to stay mellow around here, at least for the next few hours.
P-Mag is short on articles this week, and I'd really like to get something written up. Only problem is I've been stuck, trying to figure out what to say next when it comes to parenting. I covered the basics as I know them, the things I credit most with successfully raising kids to adulthood. There's not much else to say about the big ones at this point, not without laying bare their lives — lives that are no longer entwined with mine.
There's plenty to say about the little one, though, and therein lies the roadblock. More than one. I don't want to end up writing about autism instead of writing about him. I don't want him to come back to me later, furious that I shared about him without his permission.
But I can't write about parenting him without talking about him and what's specific to raising him. Being autistic no more defines him than his red hair, but it is a factor in raising him. It's a slightly different ballgame than raising neurotypical kids, even though I approach it the same way.
Maybe I'll just write up a review of In Absentia. Or go buy The Raven Who Refused to Sing and review it.
But right now I have to untangle some beads. Whee!
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