Glad to be wrong

Part II of this story is here.

The first game of Spencer's season was a scrimmage-- a practice to help acclimate the kids to basketball. Before each quarter, the coaches lined up the players and paired them with a member of the opposite team for defensive purposes.

At this scrimmage, I knelt next to Spencer and whispered a few reminders about staying with his man. Then I turned to look at who he was paired with-- and saw the embodiment of fear.

The poor child was distraught. His eyes were red and swollen. His lips trembled, and he clasped and unclasped his hands repeatedly. His breathing was irregular, and his legs shook. My first instinct was to reach out and hug him. Instead, I asked,

"Hi, sweetie. What's your name?"

"M-m-m-Michael." he gasped.

"Well Michael, this is Spencer. You two will be guarding each other. Spencer, can you say hi?"

"Hi."

"Hi." he sniffled.

It became obvious rather quickly that little Michael was way out of his comfort zone. He flinched away from the ball and avoided the crowd of players. He was mostly a non-participant, much like... much like Spencer! In fact, they were a perfect match.

Each time the ball changed possession, Michael and Spencer would run to the opposite end of the court, face each other, and fold their hands neatly in front of them. The rest of the game would swirl on around them.

Over the course of the regular season, we played Michael's team two more times. Every time they were on the court, Spencer and Michael were paired up by what was an unspoken agreement between the coaches.

When Spencer's defense would lapse (which was-- ahem-- quite frequently,) Michael was able to catch passes from his teammates and try to score. The spectators would go wild. I had a sense that he didn't get this chance very often.

Sometimes I wondered what Michael's parents thought about the situation. Did they find it insulting that their "normal" child was always paired with a child who had a disability? I knew it wasn't my problem, but I did think about it from time to time.

We ended up playing Michael's team for the fourth time, in the second round of the playoffs. I saw a different child then. Michael was confident and tried hard. He and Spencer were, yet again, a perfect match on the court.

We lost that game, and were out of the tournament. But as we lined up to give the other team high-fives, I saw a man standing at the side of the court. He was waiting for me.

It was Michael's dad.

He wanted to let me know that Michael used to hate basketball. But when he played our team, Spencer changed his mind. In fact, before every game, Michael would ask if he would be playing Spencer's team that day. That fact was the only thing that mattered to him. Then Michael's dad said,

"Spencer is the reason why Michael now enjoys basketball. Thank you so much."

I was speechless. Here, I had thought that Spencer's performance in the game was the highlight of the season. But I was, happily, so very wrong.

Winners

Part I of this story is here.

A few games into the basketball season, I realized just how confusing the sport must be to my special-needs child. His teachers and therapists (and parents!) had spent years teaching him proper social behaviors. Don't hit. Don't steal. Don't bump into people on purpose. Don't knock them down.

And here we were, nullifying all that.

You should have seen his face when I told him that all those "improper" behaviors were generally okay on the court. And when I emphasized that he was allowed to steal the ball,

"I can?" his voice went from incredulous to elated at light speed.

However, that still didn't translate to much when he was in the game. One time, his teammate was dribbling the ball down the court as Spencer stood next to the basket, wide open for a perfect pass. The moment that Spencer realized this opportunity, he whirled and fled off the court. There didn't seem to be much motivation for him to participate.

So I tried a different tactic. I bribed him.

"Stay next to your man during the game, and we'll go get a milkshake afterward." He seemed mildly interested in this idea, and he tried harder to guard his man. But it wasn't quite as motivating as I thought it would be. So at the next game, I tried something different. Our team was in the second round of the playoffs, and I hoped to at least keep him from being a liability on the court.

"What reward would you like to get if you play hard?" I asked him. He mulled it over.

"Umm... I want to eat some of my Valentine candy." I accepted his request and reviewed our goals: Stay with your man. Put your hands up if he tries to shoot. It's okay to steal the ball.

The game started, and nothing really happened with Spencer. But I began to realize just how far he had come this season: he no longer ditched his teammates and hid in my lap. He only rarely twirled pirouettes in the corner. And he was always in the midst of the action, even if it was just as an observer.

I marveled at the change. And during a time out, I reminded him of his Valentine candy waiting for him at home. He gave a little giggle and ran back out on the court. And then, something amazing happened. Maybe it was his choice of motivation, maybe it was something else. But something clicked.

Suddenly, he was on his man like glue. He sprinted up and down the court. He put his long arms up on defense and intimidated everyone around him. He jumped for rebounds and even stole the ball-- twice. I was floored. And so was everyone else in that gym.

Spencer's change was so astounding that I couldn't help but laugh hysterically. Where did this kid come from? It seemed that the hours of practice and nudging him back on the court again and again were finally paying off. And he knew he was doing well! He even pointed out his great moves to the referees. They were kind enough to congratulate him.

Granted, he was no Michael Jordan. He still couldn't dribble. But the referees let that go. And in one grand play, Spencer surprised us all. He grabbed the ball at the far end of the court and sprinted with it to mid-court (the ball didn't touch the ground once.) Then he heaved the ball over his head and chucked it at the basket from the half court line. Everyone cheered-- and laughed.

We lost that game, and we were out of the tournament. But did it really matter? I think everyone in that gym would have given the same answer.

Part III of this story is here.

Where everybody knows your name

Last year, I signed up our Spencer for a special-needs baseball team. He was thrilled to participate in an organized sport and had a wonderful experience.

This year, I took a chance and signed him up for a "typical" (a.k.a. regular kid) basketball team. I knew it was a risk, but I was willing to take it. I volunteered to be the assistant coach, since I know some stuff about basketball.

Before each game, I would pull the referees aside and explain that my son has Asperger's Syndrome and ADHD. Though the rules of the league dictated that he always play man defense, I wanted the refs to know that he might struggle with the concept. Thankfully, the refs were very accepting and would even instruct my son during the game with what he should be doing.

"Should be" doing was tough. The gap between a child knowing what they should do and what they can actually do is wide for a child on the spectrum. Each time I sent Spencer in to play the game, I wondered what would come of it. I could never tell.

Sometimes he would just stand in the middle of the fray, no facial expression, no movement.

Sometimes Spencer would leave his team and come plop down in my lap as I sat on the bench. He would curl up in the fetal position and start humming. I had to peel him off my lap and nudge him back out onto the court.

Sometimes Spencer would run in enormous circles that would encompass the entire court. The poor child who was assigned to guard him would get so confused. I could see it on the child's face, "Am I really supposed to follow him all the way over there?"

Other times Spencer would simply watch the person he was supposed to be guarding as they dribbled past him or made a basket.

I spent most of my energy calling his name. "Spencer, go find your man! Spencer, get the ball! Spencer, come back in the gym and play with your team!" It was exhausting.

Maybe I'll enroll him in track and field next year, I thought. We'll just finish out this season. No one will miss him next year.

But I yelled his name often and loud enough that everyone in the gym learned who he was. Some parents would even try to help me by calling out to him, too. It was both exasperating and entertaining.

Not everyone was positive. One game, I had to chase my son back onto the court multiple times. I saw the opposing coach roll his eyes, turn to his assistant, and wonder out loud why a kid like that was playing in this league. I had to bite my tongue. Hard.

However, most of our experience was great. As the season progressed, we played every team. Everyone heard me calling my son's name at one point or another.

During one game, my son had a chance to dribble down the court, all alone. As he struggled with the mechanics of it, every muscle in my body was tensed. I couldn't call out to him because I was so nervous for his sake. Then I heard a voice yell,

"You can do it, Spencer! Keep going!"

It was the opposing coach, who was clapping as Spencer struggled past his bench. That tiny act of kindness meant so much to me.

Go to Part II

Grab on

Dear "L",

Inexplicably, you turn four today. You are, and always will be, the baby of the family. I still remember the moment when I figured that out. I had been on the phone with my nurse-midwife, discussing a pregnancy-related problem. When I hung up, I knew that you would be my final child. It was bittersweet.

Three weeks before your due date, during a major snowstorm, I slipped and fell hard in the snow. Contractions started that evening, and we had to dodge black ice on the way to the hospital. The car clung to the pavement as my husband veered between the desire to move faster and the desire to be safe.

You were born a few hours later, and I wrapped my arms around your tiny body. I held on to every small experience, knowing that each would be the last of its kind for me. I tried so hard not to be sad, but to celebrate. Sometimes I was successful, others I was not.

For the first week of your life I slept with your little hospital cap under my pillow. I gripped it tightly in my hand and wept as I fell asleep (if only for a couple of hours!) No one knew of my sadness or the nature of it, for I was also joyful that my pregnancy was over.

You grew and I learned to accept the fact that the infant stages were falling behind me permanently. I found peace when I reminded myself that the pregnancy, labor, sleepless nights, billions of diapers, incredible loads of laundry, and all else would be over too. I was learning to let go.

Then you grew a lovely head of bright blond hair. It was a treasure to me; a signal that you were different from your brothers. I chose to trim your hair in a bowl-cut style; whimsical, like the overalls that I loved to dress you in.

That hair was a constant reminder that you were growing, because it started to darken. I was in denial that the color would ever change (though I knew you were, indeed, the son of dark-haired parents.) I would trim the tiniest bit possible from the front, just enough so you could see again. The day that I took you in for a real haircut and I allowed the barber to chop off the last bit of blond was so very hard.

You are wonderful at affection. You give the best hugs, holding on far past your peers. You kiss me all over my face and declare, "I wuff you so much, mommy!" You are such a part of my life.

And here you are, four years old. You started preschool last week. And although you were so ready to be a big boy and go to school, you had to double-check with me, one last time. As I prepared to leave you in your classroom, you turned and asked,

"And you'll be right back, mommy?"

Always.

Slinging slang

Vocabulary is boring.

At least, that's what many of my college test-prep students tell me. Those words make me sad, but I understand what they are saying. Difficult vocabulary, on the page, can be tricky. Students must ascertain the meaning of a word without the benefit of facial expression, tone of voice, or body language. For that reason, I enjoy expanding their vocabulary as much as possible.

On the flip side, they have a few things to teach me; namely, slang. There are times when I feel like Doc Brown in "Back to the Future":

_______

Marty McFly (upon finding out that his mom from the past has a crush on him:) "Whoa, this is heavy."

Doc: "There's that word again, heavy. Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the earth's gravitational pull?"

_______

I have to ask my students point-blank what a slang word means, which makes me, by definition, very un-cool. I see a lot of eye-rolling and hear giggles. But they are kind enough to humor me.

During a certain lesson of mine, the verbal section becomes quite dense with vocabulary. I can pinpoint it to the exact same question every time. I see their legs start to twitch, their eyes drift to the window, or their fingers itch to dig out their cell phones. That's when I pull out all the stops. I arrive at the word incendiary.

"Hey guys, has anyone heard of a Molotov cocktail?" I chirp.

They perk up. Maybe they think they'll get a funny drunken anecdote. If they only knew.

That's when I launch into a detailed description of how to make the world's first IED. My sign language interpreter alter-ego appears as I mime shoving a rag into the mouth of a glass bottle. By the time I throw my arms into the air to mimic the gas-fueled explosion, they are on the edge of their seats. Then, silence. And wicked smiles.

Once, a petite blond student declared in satisfied response,

"That's tight."

Ah, my Doc Brown moment! I knew that the usual meaning of the word didn't apply here. But unlike my students who have to grapple with just words on a page, I had the benefit of her tone of voice and her approving smile. She liked it.

Vocabulary can be exciting.

Up the down

Recently I needed to run to the sporting-goods store in our local mall. I had my 4- year-old son and my neighbor's 2- year-old twins with me, and I planned our trip so we would arrive right when the store opened. That way, the store would be empty except for us.

While we were there, my son begged for a ride on the escalator to the second floor. I figured it was fine; after all, the twins were small for their size and lightweights to boot. We approached the "up" escalator and my son hopped onto the step in front of me. Then I simply lifted the twins by their hands as we stepped onto the escalator. We had a thrilling ride up through the kayaks and golf clubs.

Apparently the ride was exciting enough for my son to warrant a trip to the restroom. After taking care of business, we returned to the down escalator. The twins were ready for another thrill ride, but my son showed apprehension for going down first. Where did my little daredevil go? I instructed him to follow directly behind. Then I turned and executed the "lift and step" with the twins again. I didn't see my son hesitate behind me.

"Mom!" he cried out.

I looked up to see him rooted at the top of the escalator. His face was a mask of desperation. I glanced down at the twins and then up again, startled at how fast I was descending. And I couldn't do anything about it. I called out something reassuring to him. Then,

"MOM! Come back!" he screamed. A teenage boy got onto the escalator and watched the drama unfold. I could tell that he was torn between amusement and the desire to help.

"MOM! DON'T LEAVE ME!" his poor little voice cracked and, despite the silly nature of the situation, I felt the fight-or-flight instinct stirring.

I had about five seconds before I hit the bottom of the escalator. I had to decide. Do I circle back around to the up escalator? I would risk leaving his line of sight and frightening him more. Plus, that screaming would probably escalate (ha, ha!)

I scanned the base of the escalator and saw a brightly colored display of sports equipment nearby. That might keep the twins occupied long enough. When we arrived on solid ground I led them to the display.

"MOM! I DON'T WANT TO LOSE YOU!" He was downright pitiful by now and his voice was echoing through both levels of the store.

I whirled and faced the down escalator. For the love of all that's mine, I thought. Here I go. When I jumped the first step my toe caught the lip of the stair and I stumbled. But I steadied myself on the railing and got into a proper rhythm.

I figured my progress would be slow, but the screaming made it agonizing. I fixated on the stairs in front of me and ran as fast as I could. One, two, one, two... as I approached the top, I looked up to see that I had an audience. Of course! People must have heard the drama and come running. So much for an empty store! I was mortified. Most of their faces registered amusement or concern; a few, disbelief.

My son jumped into my arms when I was close enough. And I couldn't bring myself to look at the spectators. I simply turned around and ran down the stairs to the twins. I'm sure the incident took less than thirty seconds, but to me, it was interminable.

I took them all by the hand and rushed out of the store. I couldn't bear to make eye contact with any of the store clerks as I bolted through the doors. After all, those employees would likely be watching the security camera footage later. For a laugh. During lunch break.

Belief

Many individuals with autism do not demonstrate autistic tendencies until after their second birthday. This is called "regressive autism." From a parent's point of view, it is heartbreaking. You feel that you have lost the child that you once knew, and you don't know if you'll ever get them back. Life normalizes after a while-- a different kind of normal. But you always wonder what "could have been."

____________________

We have a storm drain near our townhome. It makes the parents of the neighborhood nervous because it's wide enough for children to fit through. Many a neighborhood ball has been lost down this drain.

Thankfully, the storm drain empties out about 25 yards south, into a pseudo-creek. The water then travels to an actual creek. I haven't seen the path that the drain takes as it goes underground. But I do know that sometimes, months later, a missing ball will re-appear on the other side, a bit worse for the wear.

A while ago, our four-year-old was outside, playing with a snazzy little airplane toy. This plane makes a roaring noise that mimics the Doppler effect. It also has a light on top. He ran to and fro on the sidewalk with the plane until.... silence. He appeared at my elbow with a tragic look.

"Mommy, duh plane is gone. It falled." He pointed to the drain.

Our six-year-old Aspie was crushed. He loved that plane. His tears were especially devastating to me because he has difficulty forming attachments. I held him close and let him cry it out. Then I explained how the drain worked, and how the plane might not be gone forever.

"It will come out?" he sniffled.

"Maybe, if there's a big storm that comes all of a sudden. The rain might wash it out in a big burst," I speculated.

But I was uncertain. The dark route of the underground drain combined with the irregular shape of the plane gave me doubts. And the batteries? Corrosion was a certainty.

He recovered from his loss and, in perfect childlike fashion, went back to what he was doing. And I, in perfect mommy-brained fashion, promptly forgot the episode.

Fast-forward to months later. It was a cloudy fall day and the kids were out, ekeing the last bits of outside play from Mother Nature. It began to rain. We took shelter as it grew more intense and watched the pelting rain through the glass storm door for a while. Then I turned to load the dishwasher.

The storm subsided just as quickly as it began. And I hardly registered the click of the door closing behind our 6-year-old.

I was bent over, loading the dishwasher, when I heard the storm door click again. I turned to see our little guy: hair plastered to his face, droplets of rain on his eyelashes. He was standing in a rapidly-spreading puddle of rainwater. And in his hands was the toy airplane.

He had remembered what I had told him, and believed.

He offered the plane to me, and I took it. The plastic was discolored and there were deep gouges that marked its journey through the dark tunnel. I ran my fingers over it.

"And look, mommy!" he exclaimed. He pushed the button on top and the little light turned on. The roaring sound still worked, too. I cried. Over a toy, and so much more.

Because when he gets older, I can't wait to recount this story. I can't wait to tell him how he believed me. Then I'll tell him how I believe that we're going to make it through the sometimes dark tunnel of the autism spectrum. And how there will be storms that could leave scars. And that we'll never be the same.

But we'll make it.