When Autistic Kids Elope and Other Living Nightmares

Recovering from the Adventures of Zeus and Louise. 

Mick has been too exhausted to post.  Ditto for moi.  We're still recovering from LAST Sunday morning.  Make that 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  Cruel, cruel child.

It is a very bad sign, but a very effective forewarning, when Sam gets up and closes our bedroom door in the morning.  Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.?  And Sunday?  Have I mentioned how much I cherish my weekends?  The need to catch up on sleep?  I get up at 5:15 a.m. Monday through Friday.  I really did, all this past week, and you know what else?  I EXERCISED!  So why is it that when Sam closed our bedroom door so early in the morning and we both knew it was a terrible sign, why was I the one to immediately jump out of bed to DEAL?  Because I didn't want to get into that same old argument about who is more tired, me or Mick, and then have him say with complete disdain that I could get more sleep, but I choose to read.  Because if I hear that one more time, something in my psyche will snap and then I'm either going to punch him or start to ruminate on truly horrible things I could do to him.  So, in order to save my marriage, I jumped out of bed to follow Sam and see what she was up to.

Bad sign number two:  Sam was wearing shoes.  She had her pajamas on, but she had shoes on, too.  And then she grabbed the car keys and things got interesting.

While life turned into a rated NC-17 real life drama ( not really, very little swearing and only mild violence and that was all perpetrated against me), I kept imagining Mick in bed, pretending to sleep.  Pretending, because Sam gave me the literal run-around and I was in and out our front door several times, each time heralded by the security recording that announces, "Front Door!"  In and out, in and out, with that voice sounding throughout the house each time.  Then I made a critical error and Sam gained entrance to our car.  With keys in hand and she was attempting to put them in the ignition.  I feel no confidence whatsoever, that this process would be beyond her.  In fact, I'm pretty certain that Sam is a smart enough cookie, and an observant one at that, and could quite easily start the car and probably get it to move.

I'm also pretty sure that she is unaware of what P, R, and D mean and chances are she'd jam it into D and drive straight into our porch.  Or worse.  Much worse.  And all possible, horrible scenarios played out in my mind while I tried to wrestle the keys away from her and she yelled at me and pushed.

I took a short commercial break to run to the, "Front Door!"  and poke my head in and yell, "MICK, I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP NOW!" 

I'm pleased to announce that he did not go take a hot tub first, yell, "I'll be there in a minute", or even take the time to get dressed.  His sister will be relieved to know that he did take the time to grab his robe first or it really would have been an NC-17 live drama.

As Mick approached, Sam gave me a final shove that sent me reeling backward like a drunk thrown out of a saloon in the old West.  And Mick came in like Black Bart.  His expression was thunderous.  They got into it, Mick won (the first round), Sam was severely scolded and told that uh-uh no way would she be driving, and then we hid the keys.

And Sam ran out the front door and started running up the street to the main road.  Mick looked at me and said, "Just let her go.  I'll go get dressed and get her in the car."  And I said, "Uh-uh, no way" and grabbed my coat and followed her up the road.

At 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  In my pajamas...and slippers...in the rain.

For a fat child, that kid can cover some ground fast.  No way was I going to let her go and have Mick try to catch up.  Remember, you remember, don't you?  It was just a couple of weeks ago that we'd called 911 and spent three hours searching for her only to find Sam lying in some lady's bed eating old Halloween candy.  I could just see her walking in on a family getting ready for early church service.  Scaring some elderly person into a fatal heart attack.  So I followed.  And prayed that Mick hadn't taken a hot tub before dressing.  Or had a fashion crisis where he couldn't decide if he should wear the blue plaid or the red plaid that day. 

She sure could walk fast.  I realized that my slippers had big cracks in the soles.  Also, no matter how carefully you step, gravel will find a way inside one's slipper.  And then it gets caught in the long, fake fur.  I also realized that there are quite a few people driving around at 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning and what the hell are they all doing?  I knew what I was doing.  I was tracking.  I was trying to prevent an elderly couple's fatal heart attacks.  But what were all these other people doing driving around that early on a weekend morning in the rain?  Get a life.  Sleep in.  That's what I would have been doing, given the chance.

I saw Mick speed past me and pull into a driveway in front of Samantha, who entered the car without further incident.  Yes, he turned and picked me up, too.  And we went home.  Sam stripped.  Threw off her shoes and we breathed a sigh of relief.  No shoes is a good sign.  Not a guarantee of staying home, but a good sign none the less.

And then I went to the back door and realized that the dogs were not on our porch, where I'd expected them to be.  They hadn't jumped all over us in a crazed frenzy from our twenty minute absence as we'd entered the house either.  I poked my head out the back door.  Uh-oh.

The porch door was open.  The door that led to freedom.  I walked back to Mick and said, "The dogs have escaped."  "Are you sure?" he asked, and he followed me out to the porch.  Then he walked around the yard, the whole acre of yard, the almost treeless, flat, bare acre and he called their names. 

Then Mick stalked back to the house shaking his head, grabbed the car keys, and said, "Why do these things always happen to me?"

It was about 45 minutes later that Mick returned.  I'd had horrible visions of one or both dogs getting hit by one of those crazy 6:30 a.m. sunday morning drivers.  But no, the two lunatics came charging in the door, wet, smelly, muddy and so excited to be home after their exciting adventure.  Mick told me the tale of driving and looking, driving and looking, and thank God that Louise is larger and white because he saw he out in between two fields ambling along.  He called her name and she came running.  Zeus, afraid that he'd miss out, came running from further up the road and the two idiots made it home.  Tired, panting, tongues fully extended, they collapsed on the love seat and slept.

I realized that I hadn't heard any noise out of Sam and went to look, just to make sure that she hadn't escaped again during the current dog drama.

Alas, she was exhausted, too.  And she slept, in OUR BED, until 12:30 in the afternoon.  And Mick and I just sat, limp and vacant eyed, waiting for the next crisis to strike.

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