I take the cold coffee pot out of the refrigerator, pour it in my cup, managing to keep most of the dregs out. Look around -like someone is going to be secretly watching me in my own kitchen, then go for the kid’s Ovaltine that’s sitting out on the counter still. Mmmm… iced mocha.
This is what it’s like to live with someone with a communication disorder:
Child comes and snuggles in my lap. “I love you, ” I say.
“Aw, thank you. You’re my favorite person.”
She nods in agreement. “And- I smell.”
“Ah,” I say, knowingly. We’ve had this conversation before. “You want some orange juice. ”
She smiles and hugs me, and I get up to get her some orange juice.