Good

I decided to punish myself yesterday by agreeing to take Isaac to IKEA so he could pick out a new desk for his room. Within 5 minutes of arriving, I knew it was a bad idea. Once you enter the maze, panic will set in immediately as you realize it’s a death trap of shoppers who meander more mindlessly and slowly than any other humans on the planet. They should give you a beer or, at the very least, some lingonberry liqueur as a reward for enduring it. But no, they make you stand in a long line to check out only to then have to load your car and then go home to build your new furniture. What an absolute rip. Sweden, I have to hand it to you for duping us for this long. No más. I’ll go have panic attacks in Jordan’s Furniture from now on.

The beauty of this purchase was that it was made solely by Isaac and then he built it too. Parents with little ones in tote: kids’ fine motor skills do improve over time. Before you know it, little Johnny will be building his own Mitzon desk in the quest of achieving a streamlined, modern look for his room. It’s a nice change and you will revel in it. You will go through about 19 layers of fresh hell to get there but, when you do arrive, you can glimpse a sliver of heaven. I have to admit, even though I hated every second of our trip there, I am impressed by my son for doing this all by himself. When properly motivated, Isaac gets things accomplished. Although the desk will probably be outside with a “Free” sign someday, for now it works. Go Isaac.

The non-Swedish half of this weekend has been decidedly enjoyable. Mom and I watched the movie Here together which, though criticized, was delightful and very applicable to our intertwined lives in this home. I found it interesting and clever, very emotional too. We both cried in the end and I can’t remember the last time that happened. Then we watched Wicked, another delightful experience brought to us by the magic of Apple TV. She has a cold this weekend, something that’s always worrisome at her age and oxygenation status. So far, so good. O2 stats are staying in the 90s. “I’m fine. I’ll live to see another day.” she told me with as much enthusiasm as you’d imagine a 90-year-old with a cold would have. Tonight I made Coq au Vin thinking it would be good for a cold day. “Coq au Vin?? That’s stoup.” She was complaining about the menu…again. Listen, Mary, I don’t know what’s on the menu at Shady Pines but it sure isn’t a Julia Child recipe made with cognac and half a bottle of burgundy. Am I wrong?

Over the years and over the past couple days, I have come to one very shocking yet simple conclusion that I arrived to when talking with Thomas in the chilled sunroom this morning: we humans are a ginormous pack of flawed skin bags with curious habits, customs, and proclivities yet we are also decidedly “good” as a whole. From the neon-lit and human-filled shelter of IKEA to our dinner table tonight (where I decided that Coq au Vin really is stew, or “stoup” as my Mom called it), we humans are…good. I sure did get annoyed when Mom complained about the dinner; I took about 7 deep breaths. Deep breathing is required here for all involved but I do believe I take the deepest ones. Do I wish that things were different or better? Many times, yes. I wish I were different. However, this is what we are, what we have, and who I am right now. It is, for the most part, good. I have a 14-year-old son, diagnosed with autism at 3, who bought and built his own desk, a Mom who stares any obstacle directly in the eye and says “boo” followed by “what’s for dinner?”, a boyfriend who makes me laugh everyday and fills my bucket to the brim, best friends who are always there to lift one another up, and a family I call mine that is just as flawed, and beautiful, as yours. It truly doesn’t get much better than that kind of good. Next on the menu? Cassoulet.