Going to IHOP With Steve
There were these two enormous guys at the Grand Junction IHOP this morning who had sleeve tattoos, those tattoos that cover your arms. They were facinating, and best of all, people were staring at them. Like my husband's Uncle Ivan used to say: "Marry a fat woman and you can be warm in the winter, have shade in the summer, and if she has tattoos, you can see the movin' pictures."
I was grateful they were there because I was with my handicapped son, Stephen, and we are usually the first thing that people stare at. Stephen's looks a little funny: one eye is a lot smaller than the other and he sort of gimps along because it gives him a firmer grip on the road to have one leg bent if he falls.
He recognizes me because I have "the smell." Our family smells like caramel sauce that's been in the fridge for a while. I also wear the same perfume, White Shoulders, that I wore when he was little and lived at home.
He moved to Grand Junction in 1972 to live at the Regional Center , a place like the American Fork Training School . He was part of a rubella epidemic that happened just before the vaccine became available. He was our oldest and I was 19 when he was born.
Yes, I know, tragic.
Not so much really. We've had good lives and, hey, everybody has something. (I dismiss this only because I'm done with the feeling sorry for us part.) He's 44 next week.
So, back to the staring. It's interesting to watch people watching us. As we come down the aisle between the tables, I'm usually looking down watching Steve's feet, but occasionally I look up to see where we are going, and suddenly find that everyone's eyes have just shifted to look down. It's an extraordinarily personal connection with others to be noticible in this way.
There are very few people we pass who don't connect with us either by eye contact or by moving their body away from or towards you. You're still anonymous, but it's a little like when I first moved west from Mississippi and had learned to say hi to everyone, and suddenly that wasn't what people did in Denver .
Now no one ever just passes us by without noticing. I feel this tremendous obligation to reassure them that we're okay and happy.
Once in awhile, a parent pulls their child away and scolds them for looking; children never hesitate to settle in and give a good gawk. I wish I could take them aside and say it's okay, we know we look different.
And then there's the issue of pregnant mothers: are they going to feel bad looking at us?
Are they thinking we might shoot them the hex-eye just by being in the mall at the same time?
Like all difficult things that happen to people, having Stephen has been a blessing for us. I hope it's a blessing for him. I've seen all the nice drawings and heard all the nice poems about him being held in heavenly hands, and I believe them.
However, I've also seen his hand severely infected when he was bitten by another resident at the training school. It didn't heal for six months. If I think too long about what he's missing, what I've missed, what I'd like to have happen, I get a little mental.
He lives in a wonderful host home now with a family who after nine years are close friends. I sleep on their couch when I come to visit and I eat their food, rummaging through their fridge like it was my own. I love their children and grandchildren and they love and care for my Stevie.
Because of Stephen, I'm open with others in ways that I would have missed had my life been more conventional. And I continually that everyone has something, and many people have problems much worse than Steve and I will ever have.
I don't mind people watching us. Once in awhile I chicken out and go through the drive-thru at Kentucky Fried, a fav meal. But our favorite is Mexican food, and Steve likes it hot. And Taco Bell just doesn't cut it.
This morning at IHOP, we had just the sweetest waitress. She suggested hot cocoa which was something I hadn't thought of. I have a tendency to think that because he's handicapped, Stephen will only like mild, room temperature foods. The first time we had hot wings, he almost licked the bucket clean he was so excited by them. It finally occurred to me a few years ago that I should think about what his brothers liked and see if he liked those things too. They like spicy hot food and tart lemonade. Things have really looked up culinarily speaking since then.
We sat for a long time this morning while he sorted through the ice cubes in his water glasses and I stared at the tattooed guys.
The waitress was so kind and sympathetic, I kinda hoped she might give us our food for free.
But no.
I was grateful they were there because I was with my handicapped son, Stephen, and we are usually the first thing that people stare at. Stephen's looks a little funny: one eye is a lot smaller than the other and he sort of gimps along because it gives him a firmer grip on the road to have one leg bent if he falls.
He recognizes me because I have "the smell." Our family smells like caramel sauce that's been in the fridge for a while. I also wear the same perfume, White Shoulders, that I wore when he was little and lived at home.
He moved to Grand Junction in 1972 to live at the Regional Center , a place like the American Fork Training School . He was part of a rubella epidemic that happened just before the vaccine became available. He was our oldest and I was 19 when he was born.
Yes, I know, tragic.
Not so much really. We've had good lives and, hey, everybody has something. (I dismiss this only because I'm done with the feeling sorry for us part.) He's 44 next week.
So, back to the staring. It's interesting to watch people watching us. As we come down the aisle between the tables, I'm usually looking down watching Steve's feet, but occasionally I look up to see where we are going, and suddenly find that everyone's eyes have just shifted to look down. It's an extraordinarily personal connection with others to be noticible in this way.
There are very few people we pass who don't connect with us either by eye contact or by moving their body away from or towards you. You're still anonymous, but it's a little like when I first moved west from Mississippi and had learned to say hi to everyone, and suddenly that wasn't what people did in Denver .
Now no one ever just passes us by without noticing. I feel this tremendous obligation to reassure them that we're okay and happy.
Once in awhile, a parent pulls their child away and scolds them for looking; children never hesitate to settle in and give a good gawk. I wish I could take them aside and say it's okay, we know we look different.
And then there's the issue of pregnant mothers: are they going to feel bad looking at us?
Are they thinking we might shoot them the hex-eye just by being in the mall at the same time?
Like all difficult things that happen to people, having Stephen has been a blessing for us. I hope it's a blessing for him. I've seen all the nice drawings and heard all the nice poems about him being held in heavenly hands, and I believe them.
However, I've also seen his hand severely infected when he was bitten by another resident at the training school. It didn't heal for six months. If I think too long about what he's missing, what I've missed, what I'd like to have happen, I get a little mental.
He lives in a wonderful host home now with a family who after nine years are close friends. I sleep on their couch when I come to visit and I eat their food, rummaging through their fridge like it was my own. I love their children and grandchildren and they love and care for my Stevie.
Because of Stephen, I'm open with others in ways that I would have missed had my life been more conventional. And I continually that everyone has something, and many people have problems much worse than Steve and I will ever have.
I don't mind people watching us. Once in awhile I chicken out and go through the drive-thru at Kentucky Fried, a fav meal. But our favorite is Mexican food, and Steve likes it hot. And Taco Bell just doesn't cut it.
This morning at IHOP, we had just the sweetest waitress. She suggested hot cocoa which was something I hadn't thought of. I have a tendency to think that because he's handicapped, Stephen will only like mild, room temperature foods. The first time we had hot wings, he almost licked the bucket clean he was so excited by them. It finally occurred to me a few years ago that I should think about what his brothers liked and see if he liked those things too. They like spicy hot food and tart lemonade. Things have really looked up culinarily speaking since then.
We sat for a long time this morning while he sorted through the ice cubes in his water glasses and I stared at the tattooed guys.
The waitress was so kind and sympathetic, I kinda hoped she might give us our food for free.
But no.
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