Monday

 I'm cross legged in the corner of the couch, my dog taking up the other two thirds. The cat is lurking over my shoulder like a vulture on the back of the couch. Waiting for his breakfast. But he will have to wait a little bit longer because I can't get into the bathroom yet.

The water is running, running, running in the bathroom sink. My man child is zoning out as he obsessively washes his hands. This creature that came from me, now the size of a man, while inside lurks a volatile combination of teen angst and childlike wonder.

The obsessive hand washing is two parts germ phobia (born from the days of having to wipe down all our groceries with a Clorox wipe before putting them away for consumption) and one large part sensory grounding.

Meanwhile I am calling his name every three or four minutes to which he responds with a slightly irritated "Yes, I'm coming!" This is part of our Monday morning routine of trying to get him out the door to make it to his 9:00 a.m. Art Class. On time.

Adrenaline coursing through my veins by the time I watch him biking up the driveway, finally on his way. Unless I give him a ride, in which case there is an exchange of curt words as he gets out of the car and gathers his many "necessities" before getting buzzed in through the front door of the school.

These necessities include a spare pair of white cotton gloves (for eczema), a large tube of hand lotion, a roll of toilet paper (for drippy nose), a compact umbrella even on a sunny day just in case. His phone, sketchbook, mechanical pencil. All for a 45 minute class.

And then before I know it, class is over and there are requests for lunch, ice water, and when will I be going grocery shopping  again? I take a deep breath and relax a little bit. Because this I can handle. Already bracing myself for tomorrow morning's outing to physical therapy for his feet and legs.