When I first saw a comment pop up from “Big Daddy” in my inbox, I immediately thought: “Hooray! My husband is finally reading my blog!”
I did a little happy dance.
And then I realized that the bloggy version of Big Daddy is not, in fact, the same one I had at home. It made me a little sad. Until I clicked over to the blog of Big Daddy Autism, and was quickly drawn in by his wit, sarcasm and insights into raising his 13 year-old autistic son, Griffin.
And now? I relish every time I see a message or blog post from Big Daddy pop up. Because he’s one funny guy. Just don’t tell my husband that there’s another Bid Daddy in the house… okay?
Our Little GPS
When Booyah’s Momma asked me to guest post I knew I couldn’t refuse. My guest post assignment – travel related. Perfect! I travel a lot – to Burger King, McDonalds, Taco Bell, etc. However, I figured this guest post needed a more exotic locale, like my parents’ house.
Neither of our vehicles is equipped with a navigation system, and we rarely use MapQuest. Once we bring Griffin someplace, he remembers precisely how to get there (and home again). On a recent visit to my parent’s home in one of the typical Florida gated communities – where every home looks exactly like the other – Griffin’s talent came in handy.
Despite the claims of some builders in Florida, naming your home models the Roma, Firenze, and Milano do not make them individual masterpieces in the timeless style of Italy. Flipping the floor plan, adding a palm tree or moving a half bath does not make a three bedroom split plan, cookie cutter house unique or classic.
Thanks to this overwhelming conformity, when visiting my folks, the only way I determine which driveway to pull into is by the vehicles parked out front. On this trip my dad’s new car was sitting in the spacious two-car driveway, so I pulled in beside it, careful to only get a few inches of the right tires on the grass. This was quite a feat since it appears “two-car driveway” must lose something in translation from Italian. After taking a moment to gloat about my driving prowess, and fix the patch of grass I dug up pulling in, we all piled out of the car and headed towards the house. Except for Griffin. Griffin refused to get out and was repeatedly muttering,
“This is not right. This is not right. This is not right.”
In hindsight, he should have been yelling,
“You idiots! You idiots! You idiots!”
It seems that, since our last visit, my parent’s neighbor, two houses up on Torino Terrace (or Sicily Street or Arezzo Avenue – take your pick) admired my father’s new car so much, he bought one just like it. Same color too. However, since muttering is one of Griffin’s favorite past times, we didn’t pay much attention to him and just figured he would get over it and follow us in. As we rounded the corner and approached the front door, my daughter, seeing unfamiliar garden gnomes, lawn jockeys and insect figurines, recognized our folly and stopped just short of the entranceway. She innocently shrieked,
“This isn’t Grammy and Poppy’s house!”
Like cockroaches avoiding nuclear Armageddon, the three of us scampered back in the car and backed down the street to Grammy and Poppy’s place as if nothing had happened.
I had completely forgotten that my dad’s car was in the body shop for repairs. A few days earlier he “accidentally” ran over my mom and crashed into their laundry room door a while trying to pull into the garage. He claims it was a gear shift mix up that caused the incident. I have my doubts. If Griffin knew how to gloat, he would have. If my dad was a better driver, the whole episode could have been avoided. Why my mom was guiding him into the garage like a runway flag man in the first place is still unclear.