London Calling

I had to shake my head tonight.  Unbelievable.  My son is unbelievable.

It’s been six days since Conor was admitted into Kennedy Krieger’s InPatient NeuroBehavioral Unit.  Six days in, and Conor is already starting his demands, hoping to get his obsessive itches scratched.

My husband came home today with a list of songs to download onto Conor’s iTouch. (The Clash’s London Calling and some song I’ve never heard of).  

He also would like to see the mountain puzzle with 1000 pieces tomorrow. 

For dinner, Conor wants Chinese rice, spaghetti sauce, cranberry juice, and a large lemon Italian Ice from Tropicool.  

Oh, and the puzzle catalog too… please. 

And when, exactly, is he going to get to watch the fireworks, he wants to know?

It’s better, of course, than the begging to come home. (I'm sorry buddy.)  But as the days progress, I feel the controlling and the manipulation beginning from afar, ensnaring us again despite the distance.

The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in

Engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin

A nuclear error, but I have no fear

London is drowning-and I live by the river

Chorus of London Calling, by The Clash