At one point you were talking about writing romance novels, what ever happened with that?
Well, I’ve been slowly writing, but not submitting anything; my top secret plan is to submit the night before we move so that I won’t be able to freak out about it. Too much else to freak out about at that point! But yeah, working on two manuscripts, very different in tone and hopefully readable. Time will tell. Thanks for asking.
Joey got out of the house on Saturday and was attempting to cross a busy street when someone stopped him; I noticed he was gone before fifteen minutes were up, and then Kit and I searched the neighbors’ yards while my mother got in her car and drove around the neighborhood. We’d been bringing in groceries, my mother and I, and we both saw Joey go inside—neither of us saw him slip back out again. I was putting groceries away when I realized that I hadn’t seen him in ten minutes, didn’t find him, told my mom, and we went into full-on freak out. The people who stopped him called the police after finding that Joey couldn’t answer any of their questions, and the officer followed my mother home, asked me what had happened, and seemed satisfied by my explanation. Joey spent the whole afternoon being mad at me for ruining his adventure.
Joey is probably never going to really understand why he shouldn’t just leave the house and go adventuring whenever he likes; he knows that he isn’t supposed to, but that isn’t something he really cares about right now. He also isn’t supposed to lick the furniture, and let me tell you how that one is working out these days. -_- I ordered a medical alert bracelet for him, one made for kids that says “I HAVE AUTISM. MY MOM’S #” and then, you know, the number; a friend of mine says that she has dog tags laced into her kid’s shoelaces, and while Joey doesn’t have any shoes with laces, as soon as he goes up a size I am putting that into place. When we have our own place, we’re putting deadbolts at the tops of outside doors. It scares the crap out of me to worry that I might always always have to worry about Joey getting out—as a twenty-year-old whom no one will know needs help, for example. And I know that I can’t look at four-year-old Joey and guess what he’ll be doing as an adult. But I get scared for him, and for my own future ways of failing him.