Squishy
My oldest son and I were sitting on the couch last night just after the other boys had gone to bed. J was waiting to get in the bathroom. This is a ritual of his. Every night, he comes up from his bedroom, usually after the bedtime music is over and asks to go to the bathroom. So, while we were sitting there on the couch — and I must say that I was really, really slouching more than sitting — he looked over at me and observed, “Mom, you look all squishy.” Lovely. I’m assuming that he was referring to my slouching mid-section, but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t really qualify with him where my squishiness was occurring because I didn’t want to know. And, of course, I didn’t blame him for saying it. He is a boy with autism and they are truth-tellers. Telling lies is difficult or impossible for him. And that is, most of the time, a good thing.

Later, Jon asked me if I wanted some ice cream and I said no because J had deemed me squishy. And Jon laughed and laughed. I did, too.

Now I’m thinking that I must fight the battle of the squish before it gets out of hand. So I’m coming up with a war plan and I’m thinking that eliminating eating while standing up in my kitchen will be the first plan of attack.

I’ll keep you posted.