Hobo Carts and Other Real Life Tales of Trauma

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Hobo Carts and Other Real-Life Tales of Trauma

Our family loves the library. Every single one of us is an avid reader (now that Apollo has joined the ranks of Independent Reader). And since the library is just a block from the autism center I drive to twice a day, Monday-Friday, we are frequent visitors. In fact, the librarians know Apollo by name.

So.

Getting a late autism diagnosis.

Imagine Apollo and I walking along the library sidewalk on a beautiful summer day. The flowers surrounding the building are letting off a sweet aroma. Strong enough to enjoy while walking by, but not headache inducing. Apollo has a pile of freshly chosen books in his little hands and is walking with a skip in his step (honestly, is there any better feeling than leaving the library with a stack of never-read books?)

I find few things as exciting as perusing the shelves for my new favorite book...and my children feel the same way.

And then he shouts, with joy, “Look Mom! A Hobo Cart!”

Like in many cities around the country our public library attracts many homeless people who utilize the warmth on cold days and the bathroom facilities. On this warm day, many were gathered outside, sitting in groups. Some talking, some sleeping, many with shopping carts or other receptacles filled with their belongings.

Now, I have never used the term “Hobo Cart”. Nor had I ever heard it before that day. Also, I do not refer to homeless people as “hobos” but my kids do, thanks to the American Girl Kit books.

Rest assured, Apollo had nothing but pure delight in his voice. He thought the Hobo Cart was pretty much the coolest thing he’d ever seen. Especially since just a few short years ago his goal in life was to be poor with a car.

I can only hope the people nearby heard his admiration and took it as a compliment…

My children are learning some hard lessons this summer. One of the hardest is probably best summed up in this graphic I made.

One of the hard lessons my children are learning this summer.

In this case cool being defined as skin-tight jeans that are full of holes.

So, yeah.

Also, I did something unimaginable. Something so horrible I hesitate to mention it here on this blog…I bought nectarines.

Nectarines happen to be my favorite fruit. I think we can all agree, if coffee was a fruit it would be a ripe, juicy, nectarine.

But the thing is, where I live, nectarines don’t grow on trees. Here they grow in the grocery store produce aisle. This means that rather than walking out into my nectarine orchard and picky a plump, juicy, ripe nectarine to savor as the juice runs down my chin, I have to drive to the grocery store and purchase unripe nectarines to ripen on my kitchen counter.

I rarely buy them. Why, you ask, if they are my favorite fruit? Are they too expensive? Too hard to find?

Nope.

I can’t handle the stress of unripe nectarines in my house. Now, I am more than willing to wait until they ripen to perfection just as I am willing to grind my¬†coffee beans fresh for optimal flavor. But my kids? The sight of those unripe nectarines on the counter will drive them into a feeding frenzy like a vampire at a Red Cross blood drive.Nothing makes my children more miserable than being allowed to eat unripe produceIf we have unripe nectarines I will be asked no less than 428 times, per day, by various children if they can have a nectarine. Every single, “no, they’re not ripe yet” is met with wailing and gnashing of teeth. My children seem to think by not allowing them to eat a rock hard unripe nectarine I am denying them some forbidden pleasure. Some secret knowledge. The holy grail.

*sigh*

If you too like to torture your children by buying the Fruit of the Gods and letting them ripen on your counter you may also be interested in reading my post on How to Make Your Children Miserable in 7 Easy Steps.

How are you making your children miserable today?

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