
I'm wondering how my household will survive if I don't. I'm not saying this seriously, in case you're worried. I'm just wondering.
I thought about this as I poured a tiny amount of soap into Sophie's sippee cup thingamajiggy -- the white plug thing that goes into the top so it doesn't spill. Sophie still drinks from a sippy cup because it's the only thing she can balance properly. The little white thing gets so dirty, and no one seems to ever notice it and clean it. Not her aide at school, not my husband, nor any of the helpers I have who have been working with us for at least ten years. I appear to be the only one who looks at the stuff and tries to get it out. As I worked on it today I wondered who would do it if I died.\
And then there's the coffee-maker and who would run a paper towel over the top edge inside, by the filter. That's always filthy.
I wonder who will pull the covers straight on Sophie's bed and adjust her head so that her neck isn't crammed up to the headboard. And who knows, really, how to brush her teeth, particularly the part on the top, under her lip. She hates it.
I wonder about these things and think that my husband will surely be f@#$%$#@@ if I die tomorrow.
And then I think, maybe not. Maybe everything will be just fine. Maybe the fermented juice on the edge of the sippee cup won't kill Sophie or even give her a bacterial infection. Maybe she'll learn to sleep with her head halfway up the headboard and it won't matter. Maybe the boys will let whoever takes care of them know when their shoes are too small. Maybe I'm just a rag, a fishwife, annoyed and embittered at the minutia of life as a mother. Not to mention the incessant mothering that one does for a child/teenager/adult with special needs.
I got this in the mail today, from my little sister.

Perfect, right?










