I’ve been dreading today for a while. I know that as a mom, it’s my responsibility to be the adult and suck it up. But I just didn’t want the sun to come up today.

I felt my bed start moving around 4am. Justin climbed up into bed, shook me awake, and announced that he’d had “a dream.” Ever since he was a little bitty thing, he’d refer to nightmares as “dreams.” I suppose that if it woke him during the night, that was good enough for him.

I’ve told him that when he has a “dream” he can always come into my room. He never cries or yells for me. (He knows he can do that too.) He always just pads into my room and climbs up in bed.

This morning he was pretty shaken up. Unfortunately, I was pretty much sound asleep and I don’t remember much of the description of the dream. All I remember was telling him he was okay now, and to snuggle with me and get some sleep. Because he was leaving soon.

That’s the thing. Justin left today. He’ll be gone for seven days. He and his dad are camping their way to Galveston, Texas. Galveston by way of Memphis, that is. (I still can’t find the logic in driving due south to arrive southwest of your original location, but…)

To say I’m unhappy about this trip is a hearty understatement. I hate camping. I mean, I hate it. I was born to sit behind a desk, not galavant with insects and snakes and critters. I find no joy in sleeping inside an oversized tarp, or swishing flies away from my food (which I’ve just cooked to God-only-knows doneness over an open fire). I have no love for campground toilets, and even less love for squatting in between trees. (That’s called desperate survival, not summer vacation.)

That doesn’t come close to my issues with this trip, though. They are much more deep-rooted than that.

First of all, this is Justin’s first camping trip. Why, oh why, would Dan choose to introduce him to camping with a seven-day extravaganza? How stupid. Justin’s a different kind of kid. When he doesn’t like something, he’s just done. If it’s bad enough, it will either frighten him or make him sick. He frets and stresses about every little thing. Unlike me, however, he generally doesn’t make his fears and stresses known. I’ve learned to watch for the signs - like an onslaught of irritable bowel syndrome.

Poor kid. He’ll stress and stress and make himself sick, but never mention it to me. He just lets it eat at him until the stress comes out in some sort of physical form. This is pretty typical of Asperger’s. Mommy asks about how he’s feeling. Dad is lucky to know how he’s feeling himself. Welcome to the joy of having an Asperger-y ex-husband.

Then we have the absolute terror of Dan and Justin travelling by themselves. I feel just slightly better that they have both memorized my toll free number, and will be calling in daily. At least then we’ll know to call the police when they’re only about twenty-four hours dead. Better than not knowing for a week, right?

I was just standing in the kitchen, microwaving some broccoli/cheese/rice thing, when I realized that I’d been crabby all evening because it’s hot. It’s nasty, sticky hot. And then, much to my dismay, I realized my baby is having to sleep out in this nasty, miserable, humid, hot, horrible weather. What was he thinking? It’s disgusting outside. It’s August, for God’s sake!

I pray that Justin has more of a tolerance for this sort of thing than me. The only reason I didn’t raise more of a stink about the trip in its entirety is that Justin’s cousin lives in Galveston, and they will be staying there for a couple days. The cousin’s house = unspoiled food, a real bed, and a way to get Justin home by airplane if he’s super-fucking miserable.

Justin called around lunchtime today. He was standing next to the “Welcome to Arkansas” sign, and seemed pretty enthused about the whole thing. Of course, they’d only been travelling for about four hours at that point.

Who knows? Maybe the worst thing that will happen is my baby is away from me for seven straight days ::sob:: and he’ll come home full of stories for me. Oh, and pralines from Aunt Sally’s, too. (Last stop for them is New Orleans.)

Trying not to think about it,

michelle