Yesterday I finally conceded that our dog Jinx was in need of a good grooming.

“Her nose smells like poop,” Jack told me more than once.

“And her hair looks ugly,” Kit added, too.

Of course I knew the dog smelled bad, and since I couldn’t remember when Jinx had last been trimmed I picked up the phone and made an appointment to drop her off at the dog-grooming salon this morning. When I returned home after dropping Jinx off at the salon, I found John cleaning out the kitchen cabinets. He reported to me more than once that he’d found items with years’ old expiration dates, and he expressed amazement again and again that we’d had these things in the house this long.

While John was cleaning out the cabinets, while Archie, Kit and Jack were content playing some nameless game in the corner of one room of the house, I made myself busy vacuuming the rugs, mopping the floor, washing the baseboards. I clean our floors often, usually several times a week, but still I was surprised today by how much dust had collected in the corners, how much stuff had tucked itself up against the sides of our rugs.

In truth today’s cleaning effort began last weekend when John and I combed through the pantry, and then emptied the cabinets in the laundry room. From there John moved onto the cabinets and drawers here in our office, and I went upstairs to tackle the bathroom drawers, the medicine cabinet, the linen closets. I even cleaned out my half of the master closet, filling several black, plastic trash bags with clothing I don’t wear anymore, or can’t wear anymore, or won’t wear anymore.

On New Year’s Eve, while John was still at work, I loaded those plastic trash bags into the rear of the car, and Archie, Kit and Jack into their car seats in the backseat of the car, then we four set out to run errands. We went to the store first to return something I’d bought but didn’t need after all, and then we went to the bank. After we were finished there I took the kids to the grocery store for fresh fruit, milk, diapers. When we’d filled our cart, after Jack hugged his favorite bagger, David, a retiree who is now working at the grocery store, I loaded our bags and my children into the car and then made the trip from the supermarket parking lot over to Goodwill.

At Goodwill I maneuvered our car into the long line of vehicles cueing up to pull through the drop-off line. I was driving my mother’s car because John wrecked my station wagon the week before Christmas on Woodruff Road somewhere between the movie theater and Greenridge when he looked left and said, “Hey, look… that Waffle House went out of business, too,” before he plowed into the car in front of us, idling in an intersection rendered useless by the stop-and go-traffic. My mother’s car is a particularly nice one so when it was my turn to unload the stuff I’d brought into the Goodwill bins several employees came outside to help me. I assume those employees supposed that a nice car equated nice stuff.

With the employees’ assistance I emptied my plastic trash bags into the donation bins. After I’d finished one employee asked me if I’d like a receipt. I told her I would so she went inside to get me one. When the employee returned and handed me my receipt she thanked me. “We appreciate you supporting us,” she said.

In return I offered her the biggest smile I could manage then replied, “I’ll always support you.”

As I drove away I thought of my response. I’m certain that employee was disabled. I have no idea how or why, but I know she was. When I’m out in the world and interact with a person who is disabled I always try very hard to convey that I kinda sorta get how things must be for them. That’s probably presumptuous of me to say so, but suffice it to say that in these instances I always want to speak the correct thing, or speak a compassionate thing, but usually I only manage to stumble all over myself trying to line my words up just right.

To be honest, what I want to do most of all is tell this person I don’t know, this person whom I’ve just met, all about Archie, all about how awesome I think he is, all about how what I’d like to do most of all is give he or she, the person here who is working, a huge hug because their success in life can only enhance my child’s chance for success in life… Anyway, you get the idea, I’m sure.

So I was still thinking of all this when I got home, checked my e-mailed and discovered that beginning in February Medicaid in our state will cap all therapies, speech, occupational and physical, offered to children and adults who need them. I know the specific numbers of hours and visits, too, but for the purpose of this post all you need to know is that the allowed appointments aren’t many, and that I’m sure Archie and many other children like him will reach their allotted visits by, like, April if we were to move forward maintaining the therapy schedule we do now.

I walked away from my computer then to fold some laundry, to empty the dishwasher that hadn’t been emptied yet that morning, to call a friend. Then I made my way into this office again to write another friend. “It’s frustrating that the state, or even private insurance for that matter, won’t pay for necessary services for kids with disabilities that can ultimately only help those kids to become responsible adults who are able to hold down a job and contribute to their community,” I wrote without pause. “I hate this.”

I do hate it, but because it’s one of those “great big world” things that is what it is there isn’t much I can do to change it. What I can do, I guess, is make things nice here at home. Keep a clean pet who adores my children, all three of them; keep a clean house, one in which Archie, Kit and Jack feel at home and our friends and family feel welcomed. I can take my children to the supermarket where everyone knows our names, and I can continue supporting the organizations that benefit families like our own. And I can resolve to always, without fail, offer the biggest smile I’m able to manage to people whose lives overlap my own, no matter who they are. After all goodwill and grace are contagious, I believe.