Chapter: 3  The Pterodactyl and the Pineapple

  As Jane pulled away from the curb, watching the school bus carry her son, Atticus, away, she allowed herself a brief, glorious moment of solitude. The kind of quiet that felt like a thick, comforting blanket after a night spent wrestling a live octopus. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, a familiar cocktail of sadness, relief, and the sheer disbelief that she’d survived another morning. First order of business: the pineapple. A pilgrimage across town before 7 AM to the supermarket on Monday was a non-negotiable ritual, a quiet act of devotion to Atticus's peculiar comfort object. Who knew life would revolve around a pet ripe tropical fruit? Certainly not her forty-something self, still building elegant data models in her head. Only after securing the perfect, firm fruit did she head back home, bracing herself for "work."

"Work" was a generous term for what Jane did now. By nature, she was a coder, a connoisseur of clean algorithms and elegant visual dashboards. Her brain hummed with satisfaction when data flowed logically, when complex systems yielded to her structured commands. Now, she was a remote tech support agent for a giant internet carrier, a job that felt less like coding and more like being a human punching bag for frustrated bandwidth. At least the data here was consistently frustrating. There was a certain perverse comfort in that. Like a really bad, but predictable, sitcom. She logged into the support website, the familiar drone of her headphone/microphone headset a grim reminder of the day's upcoming symphony of complaints. A symphony she was forced to conduct, one irate customer at a time, mostly about why their Wi-Fi wasn't magically faster.

Only two short hours later, her respite was violently short-lived, interrupted by the shrill, persistent ring of her cell phone. It was the elementary school principal, her voice firm but sympathetic, delivering the kind of news that made Jane’s stomach clench. "Is this Atticus's mother?..." the principal began, "Atticus has... had a rather eventful morning." Eventful, Jane translated, meant "catastrophic." Turns out, Atticus, in a fit of determined mischief, had decided the classroom water fountain was actually a personal carwash for himself and his entire wardrobe. All eight of his meticulously packed backup outfits had been systematically drenched, one after the other, each emerging from the fountain like a soggy, colorful protest. Eight. Eight whole outfits. She'd packed each of them with such meticulous, optimistic hope. Now, they were just tiny, wet monuments to his creative chaos. The laundry pile would be epic. "And turning off the fountains isn't feasible due to legal regulations," the principal added, a hint of weariness in her tone that Jane deeply, painfully understood. Jane listened, her cheeks flushing red, picturing the scene, a small, web-slinging force of nature against institutional plumbing. Was it a protest? A sensory exploration? Or just a five-year-old's unbridled joy at a gushing tap? With Atticus, it was always a delightful, baffling mystery.

She hung up, a sigh escaping her lips that felt like it had been held captive for weeks. Resigned, knowing her day had already taken a hard left turn into the absurd, she ended her work session. A quick email to her managers, explaining the situation once again. "Atticus... water fountain... all outfits... will return to work once dry." Translation: "My child weaponized the school's hydration system, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to spontaneously combust. Also, don't ask about the costumes." She hoped they could empathize. Mostly, she just hoped they wouldn't fire her.

Scooping up Atticus, who seemed entirely unbothered by his aquatic exploits, she headed to his favorite fast-food drive-thru. "Okay, buddy, time for some nuggie-nuggies," she chirped, pulling up to the glowing neon menu. She leaned towards the speaker, a polite smile ready, when Atticus, with the impeccable timing of a seasoned comedian, unleashed his worst pterodactyl shriek. It was a sound designed to shatter glass and parental patience, perfectly timed to drown out her every attempt to order. Jane’s ears buzzed with the high-pitched, insistent squawk, an almost physical wall of sound that vibrated through the small car. Each time she opened her mouth to speak, the primal noise seemed to absorb her words, twisting them into silent, unheard pleas. She could almost see her voice dissolving into the vibrating air around them. Was this what it felt like to be a ghost? Utterly unheard? Or just a very tired mom trying to get chicken nuggets? Probably both. "Hello, can I get a... RRRRRRAAAAWK! ...large fries with that... SKREEEEE!" Great, now the poor drive-thru worker probably thought they were being held hostage by a dinosaur. Or worse, she was just really, really bad at ordering. The silence on the other end of the speaker was deafening, thicker than molasses, a testament to the pure, unadulterated noise emanating from her backseat. She eventually gave up and drove off in frustration as people were honking at her in irritation.

Next stop: ABA Therapy. The journey across town was probably just a twenty-minute walk, but was a grueling hour-plus battle through traffic, each red light a personal insult. Jane's internal landscape was a cacophony of impatient honks and vibrating frustration, each surge of anger from the cars around her registering as a sharp, unpleasant hum in her own chest. The driver behind her radiated a pulsating orange of pure irritation; the delivery truck driver beside them glowed with a dull, irritable brown, the color of burnt coffee and simmering resentment. Just breathe, Jane. Don't absorb the road rage. It's not yours. Even though it feels like it's burrowing into your very soul, trying to set up permanent residence in your spleen. She closed her eyes and pushed the hum away with practiced apathy. "Not my monkeys and not my circus," she repeated to herself, a mantra against the encroaching emotional chaos. When she finally pulled up to the front of the building, the ABA therapist, clipboard in hand, greeted them with a somber expression. He reached into the window with a forehead thermometer, and after several fruitless attempts to get a reading from a wiggly, web-slinging hero, he apologized. "Jane, I'm so sorry, but Atticus has a low-grade fever. We can't allow him in for 24 hours after the fever is gone, and we'll need a doctor's note for him to return." Her heart sank. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he? We're a walking petri dish, a magnet for every stray germ. Other kids get a sniffle; Atticus hosts a viral convention. It’s like his immune system sends out engraved invitations. Another virus. It seemed like the universe had a personal vendetta against their immune systems; they caught every single one, while other families glided through flu season unscathed. She checked her wallet, a quick inventory of her rapidly dwindling cash to cover a pediatrician's co-pay, then quickly pulled out of the front entrance, making another U-turn towards her son's doctor's office.

At the doctor's office, Atticus's restless energy tested the patience of everyone within a fifty-foot radius. He was a small, red-and-blue blur, darting through the waiting room, narrowly avoiding potted plants and other patients. Jane probably picked up eleven new viruses herself just from chasing him through the lobby, a frantic ballet of "Atticus, no!" and apologetic smiles. When the doctor finally entered the examination room, Jane felt a distinct, prickly wave of professional exasperation emanating from her. It was a dull, thrumming grey that seeped into the air, a silent sigh of a long, hard day. Jane could almost taste the doctor's hurried thoughts: "Another challenging case, late on a Monday, just want to go home, why can't this child sit still?" Oh, believe me, Doc, the feeling is mutual. Just give me the swab, the diagnosis, and enough Tylenol to sedate a small elephant. And maybe a very large gin and tonic. For me. Eventually, the exasperated doctor, a woman clearly at the end of her shift, gave up on an in-office examination and administered the nasal swab test following Jane's advice, from the dubious comfort of the family car seat.

Afterward, another desperate trip to the same fast-food restaurant ended in predictable disaster. Atticus once again screamed his defiance whenever Jane attempted to order. And in a final, dramatic act of rebellion, he flung his meal—the precious nuggies and the accompanying toy—out the window as soon as he received it, leaving Jane to drive home in silence, tears streaming down her face. Five dollars. Gone. Just like her will to live. Who needed food anyway? She could subsist on sheer, unadulterated despair and the lingering scent of abandoned french fries. That was her last five dollars for two weeks. And she was out of Tylenol.

The evening drew to a close with Jane typing out emails, excusing Atticus's absence from school and ABA due to fever, only to receive stern, automated replies from both programs, citing "excessive absences" and "insurance requirements." The algorithms of bureaucracy, it seemed, had less empathy than a traffic cone. Figures. Machines just don't get the nuance of a child turning a water fountain into a personal splash pad nor do they empathize with the common cold. And they definitely don't care about your rapidly dwindling bank account. As bedtime approached, Atticus, ever specific, demanded his cotton-stuffed fish toy accompany him into the tub, causing the bathroom floor to become slick with water, a miniature, soapy crime scene.

Later, as Atticus finally drifted off to sleep, Jane crept silently into his bedroom, a silent night ninja. She exchanged the sodden fish for a fresh, dry counterpart, and with practiced ease, swapped the soon to be rotting pineapple on his nightstand for a newly acquired, firm one. She plugged his iPad into the charger, and replaced his empty sippy cup with a full one. No one knew of her nightly career: the clandestine rotation of fruit, the surveillance of liquid levels. Her secret life. More demanding than any secret agent, with higher stakes, and definitely less glamour. James Bond never had to wrestle a toddler for a soggy fish. This, she thought, was just another Monday. Jane glanced at her clock, the glowing numbers mocking her exhaustion. She hoped she wasn't fired tomorrow. After all, she wouldn't be able to take tech support calls with a pterodactyl occupying the next room.

ApathyJane.fitconsulting.fit