I do not own Captain America anything.
Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)
I Am Machine
Daily Schedules and Not-Carl Based Deviations From
Amelia Watson got up every morning at five, a full hour before Simon.
Washed and groomed, dressed, had a sip or two of coffee.
Mentally built herself up to be supportive and patient.
And woke up her boy at six.
Gently. Quietly.
With soft lamplight.
A solid, firm hand on his upper back, chest, or shoulder, depending on how he was positioned.
And a warm glow coloring her voice.
"Good morning, Simon."
Sometimes it took a few minutes. Sometimes he opened his eyes right away.
Sometimes the awakening process caused him discontent and he started out the day oversensitized and, for lack of a better term, grumpy.
Once she had him out of his bed, she would review with him the day's picture schedule that she had made.
Pointing to each hand drawn picture and reading the simple phrase written under it. Lightly discussing what they were going to be doing.
Whether or not he appeared to pay attention, she knew it helped.
Had seen it help.
And experienced the compounded struggles of the day early on in their invention when she had gotten lazy and tried to skip it.
Afterward, she made a fed him a simple Paleo breakfast and helped him wash.
Gently combing his hair.
Guiding the toothbrush around his mouth and the washcloth over his often crusty little face.
The brush carefully through his mousy brown hair.
It was alot for him to deal with, so much directed stimulation, so after that he usually swung in the living area while she did a quick clean up.
The thirty minute Metro ride to the school was made mostly tolerable with the right set of headphones and a carefully selected episode of Charlie and Lola.
And the times when it wasn't, well, she did her best. Everyone had problems and people could just suck it up for all she allowed herself to care.
Simon came first.
He went into his eight o'clock class relatively easily thanks to his highly supportive and understanding teacher and her assistant.
Amelia took the trip time as she could to work on her blog, respond to emails.
Sometimes she just sat and observed her precious, special little boy.
Studying him, learning him better.
Loving him.
And when he was off for a morning of learning, if she didnt feel like going home, she completed her essentials shopping. Edited her blog or worked on an upcoming project in some quiet, tucked away coffeeshop.
She had already had been a blogger and freelance web designer before Simon.
Needing income, not wanting to be military herself, she had cast about for something easily portable and self-sufficient.
Army wives needed fluid jobs that could follow them. Instead of them trying to track down something in every new place.
Thus, her career choice.
Jack had been, as always, supportive.
"Cool! You can go to work naked, babe!"
"Don't you wish!"
"Yeah, I do! I just said!"
"Well . . . 'I'm a genie in a bottle, baby' . . ."
"No! Not that song!"
Her mother had held a slightly different perspective.
"That's nice, dear. When are you going to get a real job?"
Oh good lord, I'm gonna need some of her nerve pills if she doesn't stop.
All of which had collected unimportance and dust following Jack's death and her subsequent nosedive into depression.
She had tried to pick it up a bit at a time in the months afterward but everything had seemed hollow and vapid to her then.
Until Simon's diagnosis.
And she'd had something worthy with which to devote her spare, so very spare, time.
Slowly evolving her blog topic from Army widow/single mom to all of the above plus autism. And finding an entire community of people banding together to understand and love and support their spectrumed children.
Which was a breath of fresh air to her.
It also helped to allow her the freedom she needed to take care of Simon properly, reducing her stress.
Thereby reducing his.
Now, once her work was sufficiently completed for the time being, she gave herself the rest.
Sometimes she just walked around the city, taking in all the sights, the sounds.
Breathing deeply, walking at her own pace.
Perhaps treating herself to a bite in a cafe or some vendor-purchased non-Paleo morsel.
Giving herself all the time she could, in the rain, the sun, the bitter cold, so she could give the rest to him when the time came.
Breathing in the good, breathing out the bad.
Letting herself be, for the moment, free.
And after his school was over at one, the routine began again.
Home for decompression and a nap.
Up again for reading time, a puzzle. A math match game or a word association.
He really loved homemade playdough.
Sometimes Simon played. Sometimes he did not.
She did what she could with him.
And remembered she didn't always want to be directed all the time either when he became disassociated.
They often went for a walk before the evening meal, her sincere belief that always being cooped up inside easily led to depression and despondency.
Taking them short, mostly comfortable . . .
"Hey, hey, hey, baby . . ."
Can you please find another hobby, jerk-
. . . distances from the red doorstoop of their aging apartment building.
And then home again.
Where a quick and easy Paleo dinner signaled the beginnings of their evenings.
Followed by a shower cleansing that sometimes went well . . .
"Very good, Simon. No soap in the eyes that time, huh?"
. . . and sometimes . . .
Maybe I can drip dry the entire apartment?
. . . not.
More decompression time for both of them.
With Simon back in the swing and her still on the couch for awhile.
Before the bedtime routine . . .
Please go to sleep, please go to sleep, please go to sleep-
. . . the ending of which signified another day successfully traversed.
Wow, eight-thirty. Excellent.
Weekends and Thursdays were free days.
Days for them to paint. Cut paper.
Go to a museum or an outdoor concert.
And of course, the Cismigiu.
So he had brought them delicious surprise plums.
And she had given her little Simon speech, one she gave only to a select few people she felt might be worth the time to bother with.
And he . . .
"Aren't you hot in that jacket, Carl?"
"I'm okay."
Uh-huh.
. . . was still pretending to be Carl.
It had been several weeks, several Thursdays.
But she considered the fact that she had used to be an Amy.
A scared, depressed, frustrated little Amy.
Whose mom obviously loved her . . .
"I'm just thinking about what's best for you, honey."
"But it's not about me, Mom! It's about Simon!"
"I'm not sure how much he is aware of, Amy."
"I don't care!"
. . . but was slowly killing her soul.
But she was here now, in her space and her own life.
And it was going pretty well.
And it had occurred to her that the handsome, seemingly gentle and kind and obviously severely high strung Not-Carl might feel more comfortable in a smaller place than the wide open world.
A cozier environment.
A safer setting.
Like her quirky little . . .
Thanks, Uncle Nicolae. And Dad.
. . . Bucharest apartment.
It also occurred to her that he could freak out and attack her more easily in her cozy, wonderful, little apartment.
"Thank you for the grapes."
"Sure! Thank you for plums!"
But she really rather doubted it.
Plus, I can take him down if I have to.
If.
So, as casually as she could, she invited him to come home with them as they were leaving the park that day.
He seemed at a loss for words and she oddly thought . . .
It's just coffee, Not-Carl. I'm not offering an orgy invite.
. . . she might have offended him.
But he accepted somewhat awkwardly and they went.
"It's just a few blocks away. You're not afraid of stairs, are you?"
Like most common Bucharest dwellings, there was never even a thought of elevators.
And she had developed . . .
Fourth floor, beam me up, Scotty!
. . . great glutes as a direct result.
All that gym membership in the States, all I needed was stairs in Romania.
Little more understanding into Amelia's life as she juggles sanity, Simon, and Not-Carl. I admire her, that's for sure.
Thanks to vajbff, eileanskye, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, brynerose, and brigid1318 for your encouraging reviews.
Next up, more Bucky!