Thanks

One recent, rainy morning, our before-school routine was not going well.  Everyone was moving slowly despite my best efforts.  Sure enough, the school bus came and went.  So I herded my boys into the car and set off through the rain-soaked streets of suburbia.
     As we approached the elementary school, I groaned at the sight of the extensive line of cars waiting to deposit children on the school's doorstep.  I maneuvered the car into the line and dropped my head back against the headrest with a sigh.  My 6-year-old pulled out a large plastic card and started reading it aloud.  Apparently, it contained pictures and descriptions of notable African-Americans in U.S. history.  As we inched toward the school drop-off zone, he peppered me with questions.

"Mom, what's a playwright?"

"What's this? E-n-t-r-e-p-r-e-n-e-u-r."

"How do you say this name? M-u-h-a-m-m-e-d.  He is a boxer."

Not all of them were easily answered, though.  As we inched forward through the rain:

"Harriet Tubman drove a train?  That's why she's famous???" Well...

"Mom, what's a Black Nationalist?"  Oh, boy.

Then came the kicker.  It was early, it was raining, and I still wasn't fully awake.  Until now.

"Mom?  Why did they put Rosa Parks in jail for doing something right?"

We had turned the corner and were nearly at the drop-off zone.  I figured I had about 90 seconds, tops, to explain nonviolent resistance to my 6-year-old.  I don't remember exactly what I said, but whatever it was seemed to sit well with my little historian.  As he scrambled out of the car, I realized that in my haste, I had single-handedly given Rosa Parks full credit for the entire civil rights movement.  Ah, well.  There will be time to remedy that later.  But my little guy had the last word.  With one hand on the open car door, he paused and turned to look at me in earnest.

"Well, I would like to thank her."

And he stomped off through the rain, past an African-American teacher who gave him a big smile and a wave.

Fortune Teller

Recently I helped to set up my son's school for the Fall Festival (or, as my little Aspie puts it, "feshtible.") As I chatted up the volunteer coordinator, she mentioned the father of one of the students. He is a geneticist, working at the nearby biomedical research center. She described him as, "So smart, but lacking in social skills." That piqued my interest -- he sounded a lot like my family members. Apparently he was helping to prepare one of the game booths, so I set off to track him down.

Sure enough, I found him wobbling on top of a ladder with a thick swag of purple velvet slung over his shoulder. He was trying to hang the velvet from the ceiling tiles with a slim piece of twine. His wife was going to play a fortune teller. I offered to help when I saw that she was sitting wearily in a chair.

I introduced myself and tried to help him anchor the twine with bent paper clips. I could tell he felt no need for the usual social graces, so we simply worked together without conversation. His wife, however, was perfectly willing to chat. Her gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail and the strands that escaped formed a frizzled halo around her face. The halo waved gently in the breeze created by the busy passers-by.

The volunteer coordinator had mentioned this couple's son, whom the mother suspected of having Asperger's syndrome. So I turned the conversation to the topic of my child. We immediately bonded over the many challenges we had in common. As I listed behaviors and mannerisms, the geneticist's wife would nod in an exaggerated manner. She would widen her eyes and point repeatedly at her husband, who had his back turned to us. It was amusing and comforting at the same time.

The irony that a hard-core scientist was helping to set up a fortune-teller booth was not lost on me.

He came back down the ladder. As I worked with him, I noticed many tell-tale signs. Our interactions were brief. He couldn't maintain eye contact for very long. He would laugh at inopportune times. And I could tell that I was a little boring to him. With the briefest of adieus, he left to track down more paper clips.

I saw a pile of golden tassels waiting to be hung, so I offered to do so. The fortune teller thanked me and informed me that she was suffering from fibromyalgia. As I hung the tassels, this woman proceeded to tell me about her efforts to find her birth mother (apparently she died an alcoholic, and young,) her dismay at finding herself expecting at age 46 (with the son we were now discussing,) and her husband's reluctance to have their son evaluated for an autism spectrum disorder. We bonded. She and I were very different, yet had so much in common.

After the booth was set up, I left to help others, promising to bring my son to her booth later. My husband brought our children to meet me at the fair and we proceeded to enjoy the games and activities.

Later, I took my son by the hand and led him to the fortune-teller's booth. The golden tassels were falling off and the poor geneticist's wife looked nearly as droopy as the purple velvet swag. But she brightened as we approached. I introduced my son and he sat in the chair next to her.

She took his little pink hand in her wrinkled one and opened his palm. Then she traced one of the lines on his palm and declared, "This is called your lifeline. It is very long, which means you will live a long time!" Then she traced another, and winked at me. "This means you are very... energetic." She traced a third line and said, "This is your love line. See how deep it is?"

She paused, and locked eyes with me for a moment. The she looked back at him. "This line means that you have a lot of people who love and care for you. You are a lucky boy!" My eyes misted over for a moment and then she was done. She handed him one of those heat-sensitive red translucent fishes as a parting gift. As we walked away, I smiled back at her in gratitude. I didn't need to say anything, for that was enough.

Heart

Each morning, I wake my special-needs son a little earlier than the others. Each morning, we trek to the bus stop and he boards the bus that takes him to a separate school from that of his neighborhood peers. It's been a long journey, but we've made so much progress.
________________

A couple of years ago, as I loaded my son onto his special-needs bus, I noticed a new face peering at me. The bus driver told me that this was Connor, an itty bitty three year old. I leaned onto the head rest in front of him and smiled.

"Hello, Connor." I said.

He wriggled and thrust his backpack at me, but all he could verbalize was a mumble that approximated, "Bah-pah." He seemed thrilled to be riding on the bus.

I hopped down the bus stairs and turned to peer through the windows, hoping to see my son's waving hand. Instead I saw a wriggly Connor. As I shifted my gaze in order to spot my son, I noticed a film of dust that coated the windows. And on Connor's window, drawn in the dust, I saw a heart.

My breath caught in my throat. Likely just minutes before, his mother stood right where I was standing. She probably was a wreck with all those warring emotions -- guilt, fear, sadness, worry, exhaustion, love, and hope. All those washed over me as the wind from the departing bus whipped up my hair and I waved goodbye.

I should have left her a note in the dust, myself. Wisdom that I could impart from my experience as a special-needs mom. Something that would make her feel better, and let her know that things would be all right: That Connor will get off the bus again and be back in her arms. And each day will be a little brighter and a little better. But the window was small and surely would not hold everything I'd like to say about the long road ahead. Maybe, for now, I would simply write,

"Hold on tight."

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.

Joke

There are numerous conditions related to autism-- this is why it's called the "autism spectrum." Some disorders are severe and others are mild. Very rarely does someone simply have autism. There is usually a crossover with autism and other condition(s). This is called "co-morbidity."

Our sweet little Aspie also struggles with ADHD. And mild sensory integration dysfunction. And other things, too. One of these is auditory processing. This means that it takes longer for spoken language to go from his ears to his brain. We have to repeat what we say to him. A lot. And sometimes the language gets scrambled in the process.

He has come up with his own coping mechanism for this. And we, his parents, think it's cute. No, not just cute. Absolutely adorable. His teachers find it endearing as well. As he processes the statement or request he's just heard, he'll whisper it back to himself. For example:

"Mom, where's daddy?" he'll ask.

"Daddy's at work. He'll be home soon." I'll say.

A pause. Then comes the whisper: "Daddy's at work." He'll hold still for a moment longer (quite a feat!) And then he'll proceed with what he was doing (usually, jumping off the furniture,) satisfied that he understands what I just said. This type of exchange always makes me giggle.

Spring has come, somewhat grudgingly, to our area. Our little guy was outside with daddy, working in the garden. He noticed a multitude of ants crawling across the hose reel and pointed them out to his father, who asked:

"Do you see ants? Do we have ANTS in our PANTS that make us DANCE?" joked daddy.

Our little guy froze. The wheels turned in his head. Then came his whisper:

"Ants... pants... dance................ JOKE." He processed it quite well.

And with the tiniest of giggles, he dug into the garden again.

Leprechauns and lectures

We have a "tot lot" at the head of our street. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it's a mini-playground, usually with just one structure and meant for small kids. The ground is covered with wood chips to cushion the inevitable fall. It's a great place for our kids to let off steam, except... not just the little kids use it. The big kids do, too, namely teenagers. Except they use it as an ashtray.

You can imagine how delightful that is: teaching your child to be careful as they climb, slide, and dodge cigarette butts. I overheard one of my neighbors say, "It would be nice if we could actually talk to the people who leave the cigarettes here. They're probably teenagers. You think it would make a difference?" We all laughed at the absurdity.

Today I was parked near the tot lot as I waited for my little guy with Asperger's syndrome to arrive on the school bus. A car pulled up next to me and three large teenage boys got out. They sauntered over to the lot. In my rearview mirror, I watched them light up. I sighed. Wouldn't it be funny if I confronted them, I thought. What would they do? Laugh at me and mock me? Roll their eyes? What exactly would I say, and how would I say it? I pondered. Then the bus arrived.

As my son ran down the bus stairs, I decided. I grabbed his hand and marched over to the tot lot. As we approached, I watched the teens' body language. They stiffened as we drew closer. Finally, realizing that we were there to talk to them, they turned to face me. I thought I might appeal to their adult side. I hoped.

"Hey guys, the parents who bring their small children here think it's pretty gross that you leave your butts on the ground."

They were startled. I suppose they expected a harangue about their health. I continued.

"When you're done here, could you please throw your cigarettes in the trash?" Of course, I didn't think about the fire hazard, but it's been raining for days here.

They were speechless for a moment. They looked at each other and, likely realizing that my request was entirely reasonable, they nodded. "Yeah, okay."

No derision. In fact, they seemed to hang their heads. That threw me, and I could do nothing but stand there, lost for what to do next.

Thank goodness for my little Aspie, who can't read facial expressions or voice intonation, or in this case, be aware of an awkward situation. He yelped,

"Hey guys! Wanna know how to catch a leprechaun? You get a box with a trap door..."

He then proceeded to lecture them about trapping those elusive little green men. He was quite entertaining. We all laughed as we walked away.

I'm pretty sure that's not the lecture they were expecting.

Count on it

My older two sons are a tough bunch with their special needs. So, having a third son whose challenges are mild has been a nice break. We were at his four year checkup while the pediatrician quizzed me on his milestones.

"Stands on one foot? Jumps up and down? Climbs stairs without using the banister?"

Check, check, check. He was on target and I was relieved. We went through a long list of questions. Then,

"Knows what it means to count, beyond rote recitation?"

The fact is, he's pretty good at counting. And he knows his alphabet, and can read some short words. Problem is, I am not used to "typical," so I don't know if he's ahead of the game. In our family, he is. I'm just.. you guessed it... relieved.

We got to the end of the checkup and she announced that he would need five shots. I cringed. I am not in the "no immunizations" camp, for that is too extreme for me. But my mothering instinct tells me that there is some weight to a few of the claims that the extremists have made. I am near the middle, in the "space them out over time" camp. The doctor was very irritated at me for holding my ground, but I held her to just two shots at this visit. She warned,

"You'll have to pay another co-pay at the nurse visit for his next shots."

"I know." I can count. Bring it on, lady! Like additional co-pays would dissuade me when we have autism in our family history. She stopped short of rolling her eyes but respected my position as the mother.

The nurse came in with the syringes and I performed the oh-so-horrible job of pinning my son's arms to his sides as I allowed her to stick him twice. Nine years of this and it still pains me. He cried more than usual so I held and rocked him for a while.

Usually I reward my kids with candy from the grocery check-out line. Having an immunization is the only time that they get such a treat. Today, though, I was hungry, too, so I whispered,

"Would you like to go get a doughnut?"

His crying subsided, though the sniffles remained. His head was buried in my chest and he nodded. Sniffle, snort. Whimper. He paused, then asked meekly,

"Can I have two doughnuts?"

Yes, doctor, he can count.

Watch your language

Freshman year in high school was as painful for me as it is for most people on earth. Add a big growth spurt on top of everything else, and, wow. Just wow. I wonder how so many billions of people make it through pubescence alive.

One bright spot was starting Spanish class. I discovered that I really liked learning another language. Seeing a person's face light up when I attempted their native tongue thrilled me. I even learned more about my own language (gerunds and dipthongs anyone?)

Other languages followed. I taught myself several hundred ASL signs. When I went on to college, I continued studying Spanish and began formal ASL classes. I bought myself a learn-to-speak French software program (but discovered I'd had enough of Romance languages.) While overseas, I studied a bit of modern Hebrew. Upon arrival back in the States, I took three semesters of Arabic. Hindsight is 20/20, of course, but why didn't I major in linguistics???

I married a man who is a born linguist. He speaks Portuguese and Arabic (but would claim that he is rusty at both.) What would naturally follow, but children who are linguistically gifted?

Our firstborn was diagnosed with a speech delay. Then our second-born was diagnosed with many things, the least of which was a speech delay. I've kept an eagle eye (ear?) on our third. It can't be called paranoia when there's a rock-solid reason to worry, right?

But, hey, who better to raise children with language problems than parents who have a knack for language, right? Turns out, the sign language I studied came in pretty handy with those kiddos. With hearing children, the use of sign flows pretty smoothly into spoken language.

Now I play language games with my third son. He gets me all to himself during the day. We were in the car and I was working on beginning consonant sounds. I asked,

"What letter makes the 's' sound? Like 's', 's', 'snow'?"

Silence.

"That's 'esssss.'" I prompted.

We worked on other words we saw along the road, then I tried to mix it up.

"What letter makes the 'm', 'm', 'muh' sound, like 'milk'?"

He was quiet for a moment, then he called out,

"That starts with the letter 'cow'!"

He was so proud of himself.

Scarry question

One of our kids' favorite books to flip through and spend time with is Richard Scarry's What Do People Do All Day? The first time I saw the title it really tickled me. After all, a child's world can be pretty small. Who knows what they're thinking in those little heads? When adults disappear for the day, what do these kids think they're doing?

The book is chock-full of people (or rather, furry animals) involved in every type of occupation. Most of the jobs can be identified by the clothing worn by the workers. And in fine Scarry form, these creatures are often caught up in some type of mishap as well.

I am a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of gal, mostly due to the messy hazards that come with raising boys. In fact, I classify my clothing by whether I will be in contact with my kids or not. So there's the "will survive tackling, ink stains, and repeated washings" and there's the "stay far away so that I can look presentable in front of professional people" clothes.

This second group consists of what I would wear teaching and tutoring. And lately it has also consisted of what I would wear while giving speeches in front of our county's School Board. I've stood in front of them numerous times now, trying to influence the Board to make correct decisions concerning local education.

Now, I've tried to explain to my kids what I do as an SAT/ACT teacher and tutor. But the whole concept of college test prep is outside of their world. At least they know what a teacher is. However, when it came to explaining why I was giving speeches in front of the School Board (not to mention what exactly is a School Board,) it was tough. Conveniently, the local cable channel would broadcast the meeting, so my husband would record the portion with my speech.

Our kids were thrilled and a little confused about seeing mom on t.v. Our oldest understood but I wondered what our middle child with Asperger's thought about the whole thing. Did he think I went far away? Did he think I was teaching? Who did he think I was talking to?

A few nights ago, I was getting into the car in order to drive to a tutoring student's house. My little Aspie flew across the front yard and planted himself inside my open car door, preventing me from closing it.

"Mom! Mom, Mom. Where are you going?"

"I'm off to tutor a student at his house."

He gave me a brief hug and then pulled back, carefully evaluating my outfit. Then, with a very serious face, he asked,

"Will we see you on t.v.?"

I guess I still have some explaining to do.

Life coach

As the mother of all boys, I cherish the moments I get to spend with girls. Mind you, I am also bugged by little girls. They tend to drive me crazy. I do not have any sisters, so the whole female dynamic is rather mysterious to me. When I step outside and watch the neighborhood girls, I am completely flabbergasted by how catty and downright cruel they can be. So I'll keep my boys.

I'm sure those girls' moms feel the same way about my living, breathing, destructive ping-pong balls I have for children. To each his (and her!) own.

So being a basketball coach means that I get the best of both worlds. My first year, I had one girl on my team who didn't make it through the season. The second year, I had two, and feisty ones at that. It was great.

This year, I have three. Bonus!

I tend to spend a little more energy coaching and refereeing girls. I adhere to the theory that in order to improve the world, we need to improve the lives of women. And what better time to start than when they are little women! That one high five, that one word of encouragement, could start them on the path of self-worth, belief in self, and leadership.

Of course, that doesn't mean I don't coach the boys, and just as hard. But having a woman bust their butt down the court is good for the world, too.

So before our first game of this season I was jazzing my players up. I was pumped and ready to yell for the next hour. I turned to one of the girls and asked, "Are you ready?" It was going to be her first basketball game, ever. And her face was green. Literally. She looked as though she would vomit at any moment. She shook her head.

"I'm so nervous!"

I smiled and assured her, "You're going to be great! I know you can do it."

She did not look assured as she turned to watch the game. I patted her shoulder and hopped down off the bleachers.

Partway through the game, I turned to her and gave her an assignment. She would be point guard. (For those of you unfamiliar, this means she would be dribbling the ball down the court and initiating play with her team.) After I reviewed what her job would be, her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. Again, I reassured her. Be tough, I said.

The referee handed her the ball and she worked her way down the court. She was unsure at first but gained some confidence throughout the quarter. I hoped that I hadn't scarred her by giving her such a responsibility at her first game. The buzzer sounded, and we gathered by the bench.

I was short a couple of players so I had to choose someone to stay in the game. I scanned their faces, trying to make my decision. My gaze settled on this neophyte, her hair sweaty and matted to her bright red cheeks. Her eyes pleaded with me as she huffed,

"Please, please can I stay in? I want to dribble!"

How could I say no? It was moments like these, after all, that define the reason why I coach in the first place.

One size fits tall

At the school bus stop one morning, we heard sirens roaring down a nearby cross street. I turned to the other parents and declared, "They found me!" I pretended to turn and run, then I looked down at my son. He didn't seem too amused with the idea that his mom might be on the lam. So I laughed and rubbed his shoulder, hoping he would catch the joke. His smile looked a little shaky. Just what did he think I would be on the run for, anyway?

Recently, I was informed that my one clothing store was closing down. This was the only place where I could shop for and actually try on clothes that were meant to fit me. In other stores, it's just a fluke if I find something that fits properly. A sign of the times? Apparently tall people don't need to wear clothing when the economy is cruddy.

So now it's back to strictly shopping online. Which means that instead of shopping like a regular person, I get to deal with shipping and handling, returning clothing that isn't sized correctly, waiting for the new one to come back, and finding out that even that size doesn't work. Add on top of that the finicky leanings of female style, and I am NEVER going to find new clothes again.

So when a package with two blouses arrived for me recently, I was already feeling churly. Just because the description said "tall" didn't mean it was actually going to be for a truly tall woman...

My oldest son caught sight of the package and said he hoped it was for him. I explained that it was "just clothes" and it wouldn't be very exciting. He became agitated.

"How come I never get any packages?" he whined.

"That's not true!" I said. "What about Christmas time or your birthday, when you get presents from your relatives?"

"That's not what I mean. Other times, too."

In hindsight, I'm sure my frustration with the closing of Tall Girl and the need for online shopping seeped through in my tone of voice. But as I explained,

"Mommy can't buy clothes in stores like regular people. I have to order the clothes on the computer and then have them mailed to our house," he reacted in a bizarre manner.

His bottom lip stuck out and he burst into tears. That snapped me out of my self-pitying mode right quick. He quavered,

"Is there a law?"

I froze for a moment, completely lost. Then I realized that my choice of words: mommy can't... have to order... made him think that it was illegal for me to shop in stores! I threw my arms around him and we had a good laugh. I guess we still need to work on the idea that it's okay-- and legal-- to be taller than other people.

Overcome

My eight-year-old son deals with a lot of extra challenges. He was speech-delayed when he was younger. He copes with symptoms of sensory integration dysfunction, which make his world a frightening place. He has a tough time with impulse control and emotional regulation. And I'm pretty certain a psychologist will be calling me soon to say that he has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Top that off with having a younger brother who has autism, and that's a full plate.

At times I worry that his self-esteem is taking serious hits from all these challenges. So I tell him that he's great. It's a fine line to walk. You don't want to create entitlement in your child. But you also need your child to know, as deeply as humanly possible, that you think he or she is terrific.

Last year, when I met with his second grade teacher, I listened to the long list of what he struggles with. Group interaction. Friend-making. Finishing a project later when time has run out. I walk in to a parent/teacher meeting with thick skin, but it gets thinned pretty quickly. Thankfully, his teacher understood my little man well. She pulled out his most recent test scores and said,

"It's pretty evident that academics will never be a problem for him."

I hadn't realized that I was holding my breath until that moment. What a relief. And what admiration I felt! He could hold himself together, with all those challenges, and perform beautifully.

Last weekend we attended his Cub Scout pack meeting. The leaders had planned a Newlywed Game-type of activity. The parents left the room while the boys (who had never seen the show before) answered a few questions. Then the parents were brought back in.

I got the first question right, spot-on. Then I missed all the others. My poor little guy had a hard time controlling his frustration at me and at the game in general. I could just imagine what he was thinking-- doesn't mom know all about me? Then it was the scouts' turn to leave the room.

The questions were tough for me to answer. One of them was, "Who do you (the scout) think is your parent's hero?" I didn't know who to choose, so I wrote down, "Grandma Sue." Susan is the name of both of my son's grandmothers, so I increased my odds a bit.

As we played and missed question after question (okay, we got one more right) he grew more and more frustrated. I had to talk him down after each wrong answer. He was tired, it was the first week of school, and everyone was staring at him. I couldn't blame him. He was just barely hanging in there by his fingernails. Then came the parent's hero question.

He looked at me and wrinkled his brow. Bit his lip. Hemmed and hawed, then said quietly, "I'm not sure that this is right..." I encouraged him to answer anyway. Who did he think was my hero? He answered,

"Is it... me?"

All the parents in the room melted and I threw my arms around him. He was still upset that he had answered incorrectly, but in my world, he was the winner.

Rainbow

When you have a special needs child, I think you worry more than typical parents about your child's future. You hope that he or she will be happy and will find a place in society. But you also hope-- really hope-- that they will end up self-sufficient. Some day. Hopefully, before you yourself end up toothless and cranky.

So I try to foster the idea that some day my little guy will have a job and a family. But I want to stay realistic. I don't want to go too far and say, "You can be anything you want to be..." when, frankly, even typical kids can't expect that. But there is always hope for bigger and better things.

And like all parents, I wonder if anything gets past the ears and into the brains of my kids. I try. And today, I received a confirmation. I think.

My little guy came home from his second day of school and was seeking sensory input. Sometimes he runs into walls, sometimes he jumps off the furniture, sometimes he pummels his siblings. Today, it was,

"Can I have a folded up, soft blanket?"

A much less destructive choice!

"Which one do you want?" I asked.

"A snuggly one." Hmm. Need more detective work.

"Can you tell me what color it is?" I asked.

"Any color it wants to be."

He thrills when he sees me crack up. It didn't help me choose the right blanket, but it sure made my day.

Doppelganger

Last weekend I helped out a friend's wedding. We've known each other since 1997, when we studied overseas in the Middle East. We both developed a passion for things Middle Eastern, leading us both to related studies. I settled down sooner rather than later and started my family, while she continued her studies in Africa and elsewhere.

We both ended up in the Washington, D.C. area and have been able to see each other periodically. While here, she fell in love with a Samoan gentleman. I was excited to be a part of the wedding festivities, as a gopher or simply the grease in the wheels of a big event (a role I enjoy immensely.) Friends and family spent the days leading up to the event running around in preparation. We decorated the hall of the church on Friday evening, where I got to meet many of her friends.

The bride and I have some physical characteristics in common. We are both tall, with long dark hair. I thought the similarities stopped there, but not so. According to her mother, we both walk with the same gait and mannerisms. Someone even said our voices sound similar. Our commonalities turned out to be disconcerting; not for me, but for everyone else.

I lost track of how many times I was mistaken for the bride. People would see me out of the corner of their eye, turn and ask a question, then freeze, startled. A woman came up to me from behind and patted me on the back. As she asked how I was doing, I turned and smiled, already amused. She stopped midsentence and apologized. Friends mistook me. Her brothers mistook me. Her mother did, twice.

Even the groom. Not once. FOUR times. One of those times was on the actual wedding day, when she was in her white gown and I was in bright yellow. He was so embarrassed, but I was flattered.

After all, she is a great woman. She is beautiful. She carries her height proudly. She is accomplished, optimistic, and happy. She waited patiently to marry her husband and is now a step-mom to an energetic seven year old boy with extra challenges. For the complications that dealing with an ex-spouse entail, I admire her. She is awesome.

I'll gladly be mistaken for her, any day.