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.