Upstairs, Downstairs

I grew up in California—-despite having lived more years elsewhere, I still have the trace of a West Coast accent (northern California version that is—never was, with all due respects to those who are, a Valley Girl; the first “Surfer Dude” I ever knew was my own boogie boardin’ boy)—and in a series of ranch houses. I always wanted to live in a house with the bedrooms on the second floor, and preferably an “older” house with a porch. So I suppose you could say that the house Jim and I bought and that we moved into with Charlie on the day after a snowy President’s Day in 2003 was my dream house. It was a pale yellow colonial, with hardwood floors, a stained-glass window with a Art Deco design, a small porch (more of a stoop; can’t have everything), and a big fenced-in backyard and a nice deck.

The bedrooms were indeed on the second floor, as was the single bathroom. On the first floor, a sun porch had been turned into an extension of the living room and Charlie spent many days, nights, and random moments running from that wall and across the way into the dining room, where I had my computer set up and Jim had put up several bookshelves. The previous owners had installed wooden cabinets, a skylight and a glass doors that took up most of the back kitchen wall, which took you out to the deck. Another door led down to the basement where Jim set up his old desk (a heavy plastic table that he had used since he was in eighth grade), more books, boxes with baby toys and baby clothes I still insisted on saving, and the washing machine and dryer. The winter after he had learned to ride his bike without the training wheels, Charlie attempted a few turns down there.

It has now been a year since we moved into the lower level five feet from the garage of my in-laws’ split level house, deep in the suburbs and big, overly green lawns, of New Jersey. Wall-to-wall carpeting, paneling painted white, a photograph of the Notre Dame University—”ND“—-football stadium in the room that became Charlie’s, and some cobwebs: My in-laws had long since ceased to use the downstairs of their house (and in fact, when we moved in, my mother-in-law was in the hospital). Charlie’s ABA consultant and I carefully set up his room with picture schedules and bins with toys and games; Jim took over his parents’ dining room table and scattered his books there and on the shelves in Charlie’s room and in our room—-our room being a family room with an old sofabed and my mother-in-law’s collection of cookie tins. These had to be put away and, in their place, the keyboard for Charlie to practice on; I write these posts a foot away from a fireplace set into the wall and the heavy glass sliding doors that look out onto the air conditioning unit and a lot of grass. The laundry room and a bathroom are seconds away.

Living here would not be my first choice—-and yet it could not be anything but that. This town’s school district has given Charlie his best year in school ever, in a sunny and cheerful and orderly classroom with well-trained teachers and therapists. Indeed, Charlie become so fond of school that the end of the school year was cause for a week of consternation and bouts of crying while calling out the name of his teachers—-topped off with, as of Sunday, the stomach flu.

Charlie usually gets this two or so times a year, and often at transitional times—at the start or end of vacations, or with the changes in the seasons. He came into our room at 1.30am, sat on my bed lookig very troubled, and went back to bed—and then we could tell that he was sick indeed.

At such times, when one’s child needs to head post-haste into the shower, and one’s child pajamas, one’s child’s favorite blankets, sheets, pillows, a stuffed animal or two, a squishy pillow, et alia are in imminent need of a rinse and the washing machine, our current living arrangements in what might be called an oversized dormitory room are exceedingly convenient. One hurries the child into the bathroom—somethings are easier to get off the tiles than the carpet—-and into the shower; balls up the various dripping items, runs through the garage and to the driveway and utilizes the garden hose, as needed, the brings everything back inside and, voilà! the washing machine is right there, and a full box of detergent. Meanwhile, one’s child is standing forlorn and big-eyed outside the shower, and one hastens to direct him over the paper towels and the cleaning fluids that one has begun to use, into a clean set of pajamas, and into a bed already remade with sheets and a substitute blanket.

A messy situation? Actually, quite efficient. (Or maybe after years of motherhood, this sort of things is nothing bad, just what needs to be done; seeing that my child is cozily settled in his bed, I go back to work on the floor.)

In our old house, it would have been much more complicated. The bundle of bedding had to be carried down two flights of stairs, dripping all the way; once hastily deposited, I had to run back up at top speed to make sure that my sick child was not again sick in the shower or elsewhere. The summer after we moved into our old house, Charlie had fallen asleep on the couch by the front window and woke up queasy; this clean-up effort required movement up and down the three levels of the house and the two sets of stairs with an upset boy. Up the stairs, down the stairs, and back and up and down again we went.

And up and down and then down, down, down—-that became the pattern when we lived in our old house, until things got really bad for Charlie and we pulled him from his classroom.

I used to be able to take those stairs in a few seconds, if I heard Charlie saying “Mom” or crying, or if I heard a thump and another thump (sometimes the whole house seemed to shake) and then very louds cries. But still, there were too many times when I could not run fast enough, and arrived at Charlie’s side only to see a dent in the wall and a red mark, that would turn to a dark bruise, already on his forehead. “Too much wood and angles,” Jim said about the old house and we both agree, wall-to-wall carpet makes a difference.

Living downstairs beside the fireplace (last used in the 70s) has made a difference: I have a boy so eager to get back in school that he stresses himself into sickness. “You gotta rest; the schoolbus comes Wednesday!” we have been saying to Charlie who, on day 2 of the stomach flu, was able to keep something in him besides Sprite. Charlie went through the litany of names of his teachers, aides, therapists, speaking clear, intent, and hopeful. “Yes, Wednesday,” I said. “Summer school starts on Wednesday. So we have to get you better!” “Schoolbus here,” said Charlie.

It is a cliché: It is simply true. Home is where the heart is.

(And easy access to the washing machine.)