Drive-Through Dating

Andrew had a half day of school last Thursday because of report card conferences so I took him out to lunch, something I try to do several times a year.  Andrew has always enjoyed these dates, although I am no longer allowed to refer to it as a “date” in front of his friends.  He gets to choose the restaurant and we take the rare opportunity to spend some time—just the two of us.

I was thinking about it last week because it had been David’s turn for conferences and I would like to have the same tradition with him, but this type of “date” with David would not be fun for either of us.  David really does not enjoy restaurants.  He does not like the food, or the noise, or all of the other people.  He simply wants to amuse himself by opening and closing the doors—any doors—like the entry doors, the swinging doors going in and out of the kitchen or, in a pinch, even the doors on the big buffet that they use to hold extra silverware.

It has taken me a long time to realize that I cannot impose my idea of fun on David.  That fact still sometimes makes me melancholy.  I now understand, however, that I cannot be disappointed thinking that David is missing out.  He makes his own fun wherever he goes.  My grief is for the shared experiences that I wanted—places or activities that I used to like as a child that I will never enjoy with David, things that Andrew and I have done together that I wish David liked to do, too.

Well, I persevered and David and I did have our big “date.”   We started the day with breakfast in the Burger King parking lot, having driven through for Cini-Minis and hash browns--incidentally both items on the dollar menu.  When you add in the milk that David drank, I think I spent a whopping $3.52.  Talk about a cheap date.

We listened to music as we ate, and made sure that the car windows were adequately exercised.  There may have even been some unnecessary wiping of the windshield thrown in just for kicks.

Then, we made a trip to the bank, where David got to watch the pneumatic tubes travel in and out of the bank.  Our last stop was the gas station.  David watched as I pumped gas, we took a minute to inspect the car wash to make sure that it was sporting the favored blue brushes and even drove past the stop sign with numbers on the way home.

It really was a nice morning and I am already looking forward to our next date.  Having been married for 14 years, I have been out of the dating scene for quite some time.  I have heard of “speed dating,” but I think David may have just invented “drive-through dating.”

The Story of 73 Continues

I have never really seen more than a few minutes of the sitcom, The Big Bang Theory, because it airs when we are usually cleaning up the kitchen, finishing up homework, or hurrying boys off for baths. I am aware that one of the main characters, Sheldon, is described as a brilliant scientist, although socially awkward, extremely literal, and lacking empathy. Hmmm.

Two days after I wrote about David's affection for the number 73, my sister called me laughing. She and her husband had been watching The Big Bang Theory, and Sheldon was wearing a T-shirt with the number 73 in a circle printed on the front. They did a quick search and apparently Sheldon had worn this shirt on another episode of the show, at which time he had extolled the virtues of the number.

"What is the best number?" Sheldon asked on that episode. "By the way, there is only one correct answer. The best number is 73. You're probably wondering why. Seventy -three is the 21st prime number. It's mirror 37 is the 12^th. Its mirror 21 is the product of multiplying (hang on to your hats) 7 and 3. Heh, heh, did I lie?"

"Okay, so we get it. 73 is the Chuck Norris of numbers," Sheldon's roommate Leonard, also an accomplished physicist, replied.

At this comment, Sheldon countered, "Chuck Norris wishes. In binary 73 is a palindrome, 1-0-0-1-0-0-1, which backwards is 1-0-0-1-0-0-1--exactly the same. All Chuck Norris backwards gets you is sirron kcuhc."

So, there is more to the number 73 than I had originally uncovered. And, there are people out there who know what a twin prime pair is, including not surprisingly, my brother- in-law, my new friend over at www.aspieside.com and, I am confident a college friend of mine who was a physics major (you know who you are), although she didn't say anything. So, David chose an interesting number and the same favorite number as a talented physicist, if even a fictional one.

Did you know that there is also a website, on which you can order the shirts that Sheldon has worn on the show? They even have the 73 shirts, and they are available in RED no less. I actually was considering ordering matching shirts for our whole family. Maybe, we would take our Christmas pictures in them as a nod to David, acknowledgement that there is a great deal happening in that mind of his that I still long to understand.

And then, before I could take my cart and click "proceed to checkout" I saw this repeated down the sidewalk.

953! 953? Although he has not completely abandoned 73, the number 953 appears to be David's new favorite number. Any ideas?

There’s Always Next Year

I am not going to win the Mom of the Year award.

I know, it's shocking! Right? They always say that it was just a pleasure being nominated, but really I wanted to win. And I was feeling so good about my chances, especially when another autism Mom had complimented me after watching me coax David into the lobby for speech therapy. "You are SO patient," she told me.

I need to let you in on a little secret. I really am not a very patient person, but sometimes it is just easier. Sometimes I am being self-serving. If I spend a few minutes letting David FILL IN THE BLANK—pretend to put gas in the car, or press an imaginary elevator button and then wait until the elevator arrives at the appointed imaginary floor, my life so much easier. Plus, as I remind myself constantly, pretend play is good. Pretend play is our friend. Pretend play is—sometimes I am SOOO over pretend play.

Two weeks ago, we purchased some shelves from Costco for our garage, nice metal shelves with casters and a weight limit per shelf of 600 pounds—not that it matters. We have not been allowed to put anything on the shelves because David has been pushing them around the garage. Or out toward the street. Or up the sidewalk to the front porch. Did I mention that the shelves have wheels? And they make the perfect sweeper arm for a pretend car wash, or gas pump, or anything else David could possibly imagine.

Yesterday, in trying to have a successful "transition" from school, David and I played in the garage. Or, more accurately, I sat in the car reading a novel while David played. Then, David transformed the shower stall into an elevator, which I rode to every floor from one to ten. Then, we were back in the garage, pumping gas once again. I gave the ten minute warning. I set the timer and gave the five minute warning. I did the countdown and advised him that we needed to move the shelves from Dad's side of the garage before he arrived home, but David had other ideas.

After a brief wrestling match, it became apparent that I was not going to move the shelves when David had other ideas and I shifted my focus to getting David in the house. As I moved toward David to ever so tenderly grab his arm and provide gentle encouragement for him to proceed into the house, I tripped over the tire stop that we have positioned to tell my husband how far to pull into the garage without accidentally having the garage door scrape paint off of the rear bumper of his car. (What? I am not saying that has ever happened.)

I think I actually heard myself groan, followed by a loud SPLAT. I know it couldn't have been pretty—Mom-mom, dressed for work, rolling around on the garage floor and now in a not-so-patient mood. But then, without any regard to whether or not there were neighbors within earshot, I said it. I may have even yelled it.

"WHY CAN'T IT EVER BE EASY?"

And then David started to cry. And I started to cry. And since I am relatively sure that my tears were coming horizontally out of my tear ducts, I took off my glasses, which for some reason was even more upsetting to David.

And then he said it. A new question he has just begun to ask. "Why? Why? Why?"

I am not sure really what he means by that question, but it was quite appropriate. I had asked it, too, but I hadn't been thinking about David when I said it.

Why? Why does David have to work so hard to do what comes easily for most? Why does he still sometimes struggle even to call us by name? Why does he sometimes have to make things so difficult?

Why? Why does he take such joy in things that most people don't even notice? Why is he so easy to please? Why is he almost always happy? Why does he work so hard each and every day?

So, this year I have been disqualified. But there is always next year.

73

This post has been brought to you by the number 73.

Vaguely reminiscent of Sesame Street, right?  Well David certainly wouldn’t know because he has never watched that program—not even once.  Apparently, it is too educational and he immensely prefers more mind numbing shows such as SpongeBob Squarepants.

So, what is the significance of the number 73, you might ask?  The answer is that I have no earthly clue.  All of my considerable googling capabilities could not unearth any great Biblical significance.  It was not a number of great import for ancient cultures, either.  It is the 21st prime number and only vaguely interesting because, with 71, it forms a twin prime pair.  (Ha, if anyone knows what that means without also having to consult a search engine, you win a prize.)

Occasionally, David becomes fascinated with a certain number.  He still insists that, when we are cooking, the oven be set at 300 degrees—a demand that developed about a year ago.  Thankfully, we have two ovens so we can usually comply with his request at least until he loses interest in peering around the corner to check the oven temperature.

For the past several weeks, David has also been fascinated with the number 73 and certain variations of that number including 730 and 370, and sometimes throws in the letter “S” either preceding or following the number.

How does this fascination manifest itself?  Well, he can often be found carrying around the foam numbers, part of a bathtub toy.  He also insists on having the car temperature set at 73 degrees, which is a little toasty for my taste, but bearable.  He even asks to check the temperature when the car is safely tucked in the garage for the night, just to make sure that I didn’t surreptitiously adjust the dial to perhaps a more comfortable 68.

I guess I should be thankful that he requests the oven temperature be set at 300 degrees and the car temperature 73, and not the other way around.  I suppose he could try to set the television volume to either number and we would really be in trouble.

As always, I just wish David could explain.  I, too, would like to be seduced by the charm of the number 73, if only I could understand.  Is it a part of the next significant mathematical principal?  Did Mama Fibonacci complain in her personal journal that young Junior was always carrying around the numbers 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 and 8--in that order--and that she just couldn’t figure out why?  Have I, in fact, limited David by only providing him access to combinations of the numbers zero through nine without repetition?

Well, for now, I will resign myself to lifting David’s dust ruffle each morning, looking for the wayward number 7 that got lost during the night.  But just remember in about 15 years when you hear about the new breakthrough in number theory called the SpongeBob series, you heard it here, first.

In an Instant

David had been playing with a puzzle. Actually, he had been carrying around some of the pieces of a puzzle—his version of playing with it—when he sat down beside me to see what I was doing.

I had just opened my laptop and was waiting for it to boot, so I watched as David carefully arranged his four puzzle pieces on a book that I had been reading.

"Mom-mom's compicker," he said, his word for computer. I looked again at the pieces, trying to figure out how he would imagine that those four primary colored puzzle pieces could resemble my computer.

My mind wandered back to the e-mail that I needed to send, so I turned to my computer to see if it was finished loading. Then I saw it flash across my screen.

I made eye contact with David and was about to question him, to make sure I hadn't just imagined it, but I could tell by his smile that I was right. As the window faded from my screen, he swept the puzzle pieces into his hand and was off.

Splint Cessation

I am happy to report (and thank you to all who have inquired) that it has been almost a week since David surrendered his splint.  Okay, so perhaps “surrendered” is not the correct word, as he certainly did not give it up willingly but rather to abide by the terms of the treaty that had been delicately negotiated with his mother.  (As an aside, I am beginning to believe that if a career at Target does not work out, perhaps David can fall back on diplomatic work.)

So, here is the story.  Last Saturday morning, David wanted to go to the bank and ride the elevator, which he considers a treat and he is usually willing to work for it.  I told him that we could go, but as part of the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Financial Consumer Protection Act, he would not be allowed to wear the black splint into the bank.  (Yes, I am sure it is there in the fine print, plus why should I take the blame for something that I can so easily blame on someone else?)

Anyway, David agreed to relinquish the splint IF he could wear the striped washcloth, normally reserved for “protecting” his arm during his bath, held securely to his arm with a red hair band of mine—a widely recognized loophole of the Dodd-Frank act, David argued.  I told him that he could wear only the red hair band without the washcloth, which seemed to satisfy him.

Off we went to the bank, with the red hair band looped three times around his wrist like a young girl carries an extra scrunchie just in case she decides to pull her hair back into a pony tail.  It only looked slightly odd because David, of course, is not a girl and does not have anywhere near enough hair to pull back, with or without a scrunchie.  But, the band gave just enough pressure to remind David that it was there, eliminating the need for the splint.

Ladies and gentlemen, you have just witnessed phase one in the step down splint cessation program, which greatly decreases any withdrawal symptoms.

The fact that David tolerated the hair band and had not even asked about the splint sent me in search of something else, something a tad more socially acceptable for David to wear on his wrist.  The winning idea was submitted by Granny, and by Saturday afternoon the red hair band was replaced by a much more fashionable Wilson wristband, white with a red Wilson logo.

And there you have it, phase two--a Wilson wristband, the Nicorette of splint cessation.

David has worn the wristband all week and is happy with it.  Plus he always looks as if he has just stepped off the tennis courts.  It does not appear to hamper his writing at school and I see no reason to hurry to phase three.

Just as soon as I figure out what phase three is, I will let you know.

Does anyone know if Wilson wristbands are mentioned anywhere in the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act? 

Fall Dance

The cold front came in from the north, almost instantaneously.  As the dark clouds rolled in, we could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.  I tried to hurry David inside before the first drops of rain, but when I turned to call him he had closed his eyes and tipped his head to feel the wind on his face.

He watched as the crisp leaves rolled down the street, tip over stem, scraping the cement.  Brown.  Yellow.  Red.  And he joined their dance, prancing to the edge of the driveway, one-two, one-two until he would go back to usher some more on their way, waving his arms in big circles like they too had been caught in the wind.

They were dancing to the music--the leaves, the wind and David.  Music only they could hear or appreciate.  And I was a mere spectator.

Sideways

Just when I think I have it all figured out, David turns my world upside down. Or sideways, as the case may be.

He came home yesterday with this picture. I am always amazed when I recognize something that he has drawn because, as I have well documented, he does not like to color.

But this picture was clear. You see it, right? The open mouth filled with sharp teeth, scaly body, legs, a tail and even an eyeball. David's vocabulary is still pretty limited and I was not sure if he would call it an alligator or a crocodile. (Plus because he chose a side angle, it was difficult to see if the snout had more of a U-shape or a V-shape as I am certain David must know the distinction.)

I wanted David to show me his picture, so I held it up, praised him and initiated a conversation, "David, tell me about this great picture."

"A ROCKET SHIP!" he said with enthusiasm.

"It's a rocket ship?" I asked incredulously. "I thought it was an alligator."

"A rocket ship!" he confirmed.

Huh. Once again, David has turned things sideways and as always, this rocket ship may be in for a bumpy ride.

The Elevator to Heaven

Earlier this week, David asked me a question. Actually, it was more of a statement—something said in the hope that the mere utterance would make it come true. "Naybe Sunday…we go to church!"

It was not at all what I had expected him to say.

Please don't get the mistaken impression that David was feeling particularly pious. There is a brand new playground that was installed a few weeks ago at our church, and I would like to think that was the reason for David's statement, but that is not what David was interested in seeing. I am sorry to say that he spends more time opening and closing the gate of the fence that surrounds the playground than playing on the actual equipment.

David's real reason for mentioning church, his ulterior motive, was to go see the elevator.

It has only been fairly recently that David will sit through even part of a church service after we went to church on Ash Wednesday, about seven months ago. It sounds comical, but David is worried that someone is going to try to put something on his forehead, for him a very real fear. 

For months, we have been reassuring him and today, he will sit for most of a service. He will walk to the front of the church to receive a blessing, but he is still reticent. As we nudge him forward, he will turn to us, give a little wave and offer himself encouragement by telling us, "It's okay Mom-mom. It's okay Daddy."

Part of the reason that David has been willing to go back is because we have bribed him. Yes, we have bribed him with rides on the elevator. He is allowed to ride to the basement once before church starts and then if he sits still and is quiet he can ride it a few more times when the service is over.

I sometimes struggle to know how much David understands. Does he take anything else away from a trip to church aside from having had a fun elevator ride, or eaten a fresh glazed donut? I do not know for certain, because David cannot tell me. 

I want to believe that he does. I know that he has always enjoyed receiving a blessing. I know because he can frequently be found cutting in the communion line to position himself for a blessing from Father Tom, who has been particularly kind to him since we joined this Episcopal church shortly after David was diagnosed. I know because David gets excited, often flapping his hands as he is being blessed.

The last time we went to church, David waited in anticipation of his turn. Tom bent way down to David's level, leaned toward him, called him by name and began the blessing in his soft Southern accent. David leaned in like they were sharing a secret and for a moment I was afraid he was actually going to touch his forehead to Tom's. They looked like they were in a huddle, having a sort of prayer pow-wow. 

So, here is what I do know. Although David may not understand the full meaning of the words, he does find comfort in them.

As autism moms know, sometimes you do what it takes to get the job done. So for now we'll skip the stairway, because we are taking the elevator to heaven.

The Security Blanket

David’s red cast was removed almost six weeks ago.  It would not be an exaggeration to say that he loathed that cast, which the physician’s assistant left on the exam table just in case we wanted to take it home.  Nostalgia aside, David picked up the two pieces of the cast using only his fingertips like it was some sort of hazardous waste and then promptly threw it in the garbage.

A broken arm--another childhood rite of passage.  Another episode on which David has to put his own personal stamp.  There were no signatures or drawings on David’s cast.  In fact, many people did not even realize he was wearing a cast because he insisted on wearing a splint over it.  In his mind, I suppose, if he could not see it he could more easily deny its existence.

The splint or “black” as David refers to it was the ER issued stabilizing device given to David to protect his arm until the swelling went down and the cast could be applied.  Apparently, in addition to giving his arm stability, the splint also provided David comfort.  I am sure that it was a great relief physically as the pressure must have felt good, relieving the pain.  I underestimated the emotional support that it provided for him, however.  He was prescribed to wear it another four weeks after the cast was removed.

Over a week ago, the doctor proclaimed David’s arm healed, the range of motion good and said that he no longer needed to wear the splint--except that no one told David that last part.  Check that.  We have told David that last part, but he has chosen as he so often does, not to pay attention.  He insists on wearing the splint and only willingly removes it at bath time, during which time he keeps his arm wrapped in a striped washcloth.

Oh, to be able to simply pick it up and throw it into the garbage as David did with his cast, being careful to use only my fingertips because, by this time, it really is hazardous waste.  But with David, things are not always that simple.  Just talking about giving up the splint makes David begin to well up with tears.

So, I did what any good mother would do.  I started secretly cutting the straps while David was in the bath tub.  Sometimes when something gets broken, even if David was attached to it, he then willingly relinquishes it.  That is how we weaned him from the red allergy alert hospital band that he wore for a few weeks after this very same visit to the hospital.

But David is attached to his black splint like the Peanuts character, Linus was attached to his security blanket.   So, I have become more aggressive in my approach.  The past two nights I have completely cut through a strap rendering two of the three straps completely useless—or so I thought.

It really is reminiscent of Linus, who used his blanket to fashion, among other things, a whip, cape, necktie, kite or even a shepherd’s headdress for the Christmas pageant.  Although initially distraught, David scurried off to a corner, the pieces of his splint in hand.  I swear I could almost hear that sound effect, you know that one that sounds sort of like the whisper of “schoo, schoo, schoo, schoo, schoo” and David turned around, relieved that he had reworked those now unattached straps to somehow secure his splint around his arm.

Can I tell you how tiring it is always to be trying to out-think that kid?  That kid, who like Linus, is exceptionally smart, but probably frequently underestimated.  That kid, who like Linus, not only wears a red shirt every day, but really does not care what anyone else thinks—Linus, by carrying a blanket and David, dancing with abandon to a mariachi band in the hallway at school.  Linus acted as the resident philosopher, a theologian of sorts and each day David opens my eyes to see my life, to see the world in a new way.

I wish that there was some way to let David take the comfort of the splint with him, without wearing it, like a child may carry a corner of a blanket, a piece of the satin binding with him, tucked away out of sight.  In one of the Peanuts specials that I watched as a child, Snoopy whipped Linus’ blanket into a sport coat.  While I’m not expecting a sport coat, stay tuned to see what incarnation David’s splint may take as I cut the third and final strap.

The Countdown

Right now, David is obsessed with three things. (Incidentally, in the politically correct world, I am supposed to refer to these things as “special” or “intense interests.”)  I have already well documented David’s “intense interest” in elevators over our summer vacation, a fascination which continues to this day.  David is also currently fixated, whoops, “especially interested” in carwashes (more on that later) and stop signs with numbers.

By way of explanation, David refers to a certain type of walk/don’t walk sign as a “stop sign with numbers.”  They are the signs with the upraised orange hand that starts flashing and has a countdown to alert pedestrians how many seconds they have left to cross the street before impatient motorists start careening through the intersection.

David had noticed these signs as we were racing around town and he would always point them out to us, but then he began asking to go see them.  Originally, we used them as a reward when David had a particularly stressful day, but since the stop sign that we visit most frequently is less than a mile from our house it seems that our trips are becoming more numerous.

Almost every time we get in the car now, David begins his negotiation.  Can we go to the stop sign?  How many times can we go through the stop sign?  Can we stop on the way to our destination AND on the way home from our destination?  Like the UPS drivers who motor around town without making left turns, I plan my errands with convoluted routes through the stop signs to keep David happy—except that I do not have the benefit of sophisticated software to help me navigate.

As the creator of this fun game, David has developed rules for enhanced viewing pleasure.  Rule one—you must be positioned in time to see the countdown begin at 25.  Rule two—no counting out loud until the countdown has reached 10.  Rule three—no one but David is allowed to count.  Rule four—the countdown must conclude with clapping and (cue the driver of the car) an enthusiastic, “Good job counting!”

But, the fifth and perhaps most important rule—the car MUST be positioned to allow for optimal countdown viewing.  I know it sounds crazy, but following these rules, timing the lights, making sure there is not a car in front blocking the view, and strategizing for best visibility is stressful.  And, with my apologies to cars waiting behind me, sometimes I have to be in the right turn lane so that David can see the numbers and we do not have to go through the intersection, make a U-turn and start the whole process over again.

Now, here is where you are going to think perhaps I have finally lost it.  I realized the other day that I have developed a certain stop sign posture when there is a car behind us.  You know when you are driving and someone cuts you off and you have to swerve to avoid hitting them and then they smile and wave or some other simple gesture of apology that somehow makes it all okay?  Well, I realized that I subconsciously had developed a sort of posture that apparently I hoped would convey to the driver of the car behind me something along the lines of No, I am not an idiot for waiting through this whole light, passing up plenty of opportunities to turn right on red--I just now decided that I needed to turn right-- See how I didn’t put my blinker on until the very last minute?

I guess life presents many opportunities to make a turn, but David teaches me that sometimes it is simply better to stop and wait.  Let the countdown begin.

Are We a Target?

It is probably not a secret that I am a fan of my local SuperTarget. I worked there one summer break while I was in college and I still a love the store, which says something. One of my responsibilities that summer, oh so many years ago, was checking job applications against the list of people who had been caught shoplifting at the store. I tried not to roll my eyes when my supervisor gave me the assignment. Like anyone would be stupid enough to go to a store, try to shoplift something and get caught, only to return weeks or in some cases just days later to apply for employment. Well guess what? I learned at that tender young age that some people are that stupid.

The database (using the term liberally) that I used to check these applications was actually a black, plastic recipe box filled with 3x5 lined index cards listing last name, first name and date or offense or offenses, as the case may be. Of course, I am sure that Target now has a much more sophisticated database and many different ways to perform background checks, reference checks, even credit checks on potential employees that do not involve bored English Literature majors trying to pass the time until the beginning of the next semester.

I have often joked that a job at Target might be perfect for David as he grows older because of his insistence on wearing the color red; plus I secretly hoped he would be able to get us an employee discount. But, what if in addition to screening people who had already applied for employment, they also keep records of others that they hope never appear on the list of job seekers and would just move along already and start frequenting the Wal-Mart to the west.

First, we had the alleged shoplifting attempt involving the garden cart. Now, there is no way to link that little escapade back to us since Michael did what any good father would have done and pretended that he had never seen that child before as David went sprinting by in a red flash, heading for the exit with the coveted garden cart. If they had questioned David about the incident, his name would appear on that little 3x5 index card as Ginnie, his alias. So far, we're in the clear.

Well, then we have the problem of the red customer service telephones. Why, oh why do they need phones positioned throughout the store at exactly David's height? The fact that they are red must lead David to believe that they are certainly placed there solely for his amusement. It seems the minute I stop to look at something, David has one of the numerous phones off the hook and if I am not close enough to him to hang up immediately, he will answer the operator's inquiry with something clever like, "Hello, Krusty Krab. This is Ginnie." He just called himself "Ginnie." Now our cover is blown. And, now you can add prank phone calls to the shoplifting allegations.

Then, there is my well meaning husband. After Michael had returned two items, which required the customer service associate to run the scanner over no less than four bar codes, Michael momentarily forgot that he was not praising David for some major breakthrough and exploded with such an enthusiastic "GOOD JOB!" that the poor girl jumped a little and I am surprised she did not immediately report Michael to store security.

Do they have a three strike rule at the SuperTarget? I have not seen one of those signs that says, "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone," so maybe we are okay.

Just don't tell our friends at Target about the time we caught David streaking through the backyard. Public indecency certainly would not help our cause.