What Lies Beneath

This is the year we lost three snow shovels during the winter. The boy would go "help shovel" and we'd loose a shovel until Spring. 6 years in Jackson Hole = 18 show shovels purchased. January 2008

Did I mention I live in Jackson Wyoming? And did I mention that the "Y" on my computer is sticking? I have to press down with such heavy authority I'm afraid I might break the keyboard....which is why I will probably have carpel tunnel by the time I am finished writing this post. The problem probably has something to do with Logan spilling yoplait yogurt on the keyboard...it would be much easier if I could just type oplait ogurt like the keyboard wants .... We've lived in Jackson for the last five years and it has been our favorite place to call home. The staggering beauty of the mountains and surrounding valley utterly feeds my soul (tastes like chicken). After living in Arizona for four years, I have enjoyed having four seasons again, although I would have to say my favorite time of year in Jackson is the summer. I savor the scent of fresh cut hay, love hiking and rafting or just roasting marshmallows with the boys at String Lake. Sadly, living in the mountains does mean that summer comes in small doses while conversely, winter dominates the pie chart. In fact, locals in Jackson joke there are two seasons here; winter and July. So, as a rule, you have to like snow or you'll never make it here, and I do like snow. In fact, the first time it snows, I look out my window, take in the quiet solitude, the soft blanket, and always I want to sigh, put on Christmas music, make cocoa and curl up in a thick quilt with a good book. (That never actually happens, usually I am out of cocoa, and the thick quilts are waiting to be washed at the bottom of the laundry basket, but the desire is there).  I want to sigh and sing jingle bells in the fall (although before Halloween sighing, even for me, is a stretch)  but by March, I confess, I sometimes look out my window at the gravely, gray, icy abyss, and want to scream! I long for spring in the same way I imagine a two pack a day smoker longs for a cigarette after an international flight. If I were a smoker (I'm not) and spring was nicotine, I would cover every last inch of my body with a nicotine patch, even, but not limited to, the backs of my knees, either side of my nostrils and my unshaven armpits.

A frosty, frigid day in Jackson, Wyoming January 2010

So you can imagine with such intense longing, I was thrilled when March arrived with bouts of unseasonably warm weather,  causing the snow to melt at a miraculous rate. Within a week the iceberg that was our front yard, had shrunk considerably, from waist deep to thigh deep to calf deep. Each day, more and more of the earth became exposed; the sidewalks and road, then the first few feet of grass peaked out as the snow line slowly pulled away from the concrete, receding like a hairline.

One day when I was out walking our dog Boo Bear (a little black creature, part Schnauzer, part chiwauwa, my boys call him a snauw-wa-wa)  I was studying the edge of the shocked grass exposed to the elements. It was the color of straw, still matted with mud and pressed down with cold. As Boo was sniffing at some intoxicating scent, I noticed a soggy glove had emerged from the iceberg, also, a wet flyer for a Christmas concert, the edge of our snow shovel, (missing since November) a happy meal toy, and torn, wet leaves spotted like an old banana, that didn't get raked up in the fall were resurfacing and littering the grass like confetti. While Boo Bear paused to scratch at a soggy tennis ball I couldn't help but wonder what else was hidden in the snow? The missing socks from my dryer? The homework Spencer insisted he did but we couldn't find? That Redbox DVD I was suppose to return in January? A corpse? I mean what if my  neighbor really made good on her threat to kill her husband if he didn't come home from work and help her with the kids? (She didn't get married to be a maid and a nanny she'd reminded him.....). After five years in Jackson, I can assure you, that if she did, in a fit of rage kill him, she could bury him in the snow, build a snow slide over his frozen body, and nobody would be the wiser. The whole time his kids where sledding over his remains, the police would be searching for him with no luck what-so-ever (It could happen.). I found it unsettling to think anything could be buried under the snow, which is why I don't think about what's hidden underneath. Why most mornings, especially when it had snowed during the night, I would look outside and see nothing but a glittering wonderland, something so beautiful and pure, that even if you weren't a song writer, the scene would inspire you to write lyrics about it. But, naturally, what's hidden underneath the sparkle is never considered in Christmasy song lyrics, because songs about Frosty, and Winter Wonderlands,  never contain the word corpse in their lyrics....(Outside the world is sparkly and bright/I wonder if a corpse will emerge in the night?).

Chrismas Eve 2009:  So cozy. So peaceful....... little boys sleeping, sugar plums dancing...
No need to raise the blinds & look outside! PS: The crooked angel is not symbolc in anyway!

I have become stuck on the idea of what lies beneath. So, this past month, I have been thinking about what elements in my own life, I've kept hidden underneath a Suzy snowflake layer of glitter. The list I'm afraid is long. Most, of the things that are hidden, frigid and shivering, are things that are un-fun. And a significant chunk of them include topics like, "How will Alex survive high school intact?" "Will he really, ever be able to get a job and function fully in society?" "What will happen if something happened to us? Would Spencer really have to take on the role of caretaker for his two autistic brothers?" "Will Logan ever catch up academically?" "How will I ever survive parenting autistic children intact?" But the sentences are so exhausting to say, the verbs lack any bounce, and the nouns are sad and pathetic which is why I'd rather just leave them stagnant and wet under the ice, and put on my boots and walk over the menacing, lingering letters, crunching the words under the weight of my feet.

I had three boys in three years. Which, consequently meant, I started my parenting years on survival mode (and now that my boys are 10, 11, and 13, I"m really hoping to make it off survival mode at some point in the near future). Oh, I can sympathize with young mothers. I used to be so overwhelmed with just the basic tasks of keeping my boys alive, making sure everyone had been fed, clothed, and wasn't eating cat food, or fishing binkys out of the toilet, that when I would think about the next layer of stuff. the deeper stuff of parenting, like am I teaching my children to be kind (this thought would come often as one child might clock the other child over the head with a light saber) and moral, and good and decent boys that would grow up to be good and decent men? I would feel hopelessly overwhelmed. Sometimes in the rare quiet of night, I would wonder if I was giving my children a good foundation? Were they eating healthy? Will they need braces? How will we pay for braces? (Back when we were in college, and young and idealistic, we thought it would be nice to do something good with a career, you know, change lives and all that, so my husband became a teacher. Turns out changing lives is overrated. Next time we'll just go for the cold, hard cash). In the pre-dawn darkness I would become terrified with future possibilities, and outcomes that seemed beyond my control. But, what I learned was, it wasn't productive to be overwhelmed by the future, when I was already overwhelmed by the present. I learned, in order to survive, and at least attempt to find joy in my role as a mother, I needed to be emotionally stable and hopeful for the future. I needed to believe that we just had to make it through the day, or maybe even just break it down into making it through moments (I just have to make it through this moment of Spencer spraying my neighbor's garden hose through her back sliding door and all over her new sued leather couch) to be OK. I had to believe that if I could made it through the moments that made up one day, then I could make it through the next day and the next, and we could move forward together. The future could be dealt with at another time.

Winter Boys! Spencer & Logan kickin it in the snow, Jackson 2009

Parenting autistic children (and honestly parenting any child)  has taught me to think in small sips. To never gulp or you'll choke and sputter and never get to the point of digestion. Sometimes I get ahead of myself, like the time I was so preoccupied with the fashion of what one of my boys was going to wear for picture day, that when the morning arrived I had his special shirt all laid out, and some new jeans, but sadly, no clean underwear, and his shoes were wet with dew from being left outside overnight.(Some autistic children, like mine with sensory issues, won't wear wet shoes). And then, predictably, because Alex hadn't tried on the shirt before picture day, we discovered it was too scratchy, and he wouldn't wear it anyway. He ended up in a old worn, but favorite t-shirt, and luckily nobody could see he was wearing sandals in December or underwear that, well, shouldn't have been worn at all,  let alone in school pictures. I've learned it's important to be thoroughly present, and not distracted with the temptation to get ahead of myself by making things unnecessarily complicated with unimportant details (gulp, gulp, sputter). I know now not to expect Alex to wear a button down shirt to school, no matter how cute it looks...or for that matter a striped shirt because stripes feel overwhelming. And I know that even on picture day, there is no way Logan is going to let me comb his hair to the side no matter how much better it looks (curse, mutter).

Logan: Making up his own Christmas song lyrics. 2009

I am getting better about worrying about tomorrow, tomorrow. I have learned that today is the day I worried about yesterday, and all is well. In thinking about what lies beneath, and all those problems I don't have solutions for,  I have decided to give myself a break. I will  continue to do the best that I can in the moment. I will work to be present, and emotionally stable. I will be hopeful that we can make it through another day intact. I will enjoy my children and savor the beautiful moments that make up so many of my days. I will remember, that even the snow melts inch by inch, and what lies beneath is exposed piece by piece. I will pick up what I can when it emerges, and not go digging unnecessarily for something I didn't even realize was missing.  And, if I so chose, in those rare times when I feel caught up, when the dishes are done, the laundry is folded, when the boys are happily playing together, and I'm not crying,  I will be brave enough to plunge my hand into the cold, and fish around until I find something hidden beneath the surface; a question I can contemplate, an idea I can implement, an item I can cross off my list. And who knows? Maybe in my searching it won't be a corpse that I find, but rather that book that's been missing since February. I could blow dry the pages and finally see how the story ends.