There is a Season

Sometimes when David wants something, he will feed me the line, expecting me to repeat it back to him so that he can more easily make his wants known.

Actually, I have not determined what makes this method easier for David, but it has become a common occurrence in our house.

David, while handing the iPad to me: What do you want to type?
Me: David, what do you want ME to type?
David, with careful attention to his articulation: Lawn sp...sp...sprinklers!

Having been denied his recent request to watch the sprinklers water the front lawn as we are not yet out of freeze warning danger, David decided that he would just watch some sprinkler videos on YouTube.

Sounds fun, doesn't it? Come on over! I'll pop some popcorn.

As the trees begin to reveal the first hint of green, I realize that David has been anticipating longer days, warmer weather, time outside, well—spring—as much as the rest of us.

Earlier, I termed my own anticipation of the changing seasons, Kathy Spring, so for David, who always puts his own spin on things and certainly has his own way of welcoming the new season, I will call it David being David—I mean, David Spring.

For David, the six signs of spring are glaringly different from mine and look something like this.

1. Having watched my seedlings sprout, herbs and vegetables for the garden, and David decides to start a crop of his own.

2. David adopts an all or nothing mentality and insists that whatever garb he has worn TO school, winter coat/stocking cap, will also be worn home FROM school, zipped to the chin, even if the temperature has risen 30 degrees in the intervening hours. Sometimes he even strips off his outerwear on his way into the house from the bus, remarking with exasperation, "I SOOOO hot!" He will be reluctant to give up the winter gear until he never has to wear it again. Period. End of story.

3. Each day after school, he begs big brother Andrew to come outside with him and play basketball, or ride scooters. And Andrew tries not to complain that David rarely plays with him, but he usually expects Andrew to shoot baskets while he blows his gym teacher whistle, or watches the timer count down the minutes and seconds until it is time to come in, or exercises the automatic seat in my car, or even drags the four chairs from front porch onto the driveway and arranges them stadium style like he is waiting for the spectators.

4. Although no amount of advance preparation or noise cancelling ear gear can dull the agitation of the weather warning drill at school (please note that I did not utter the word tornado), David is quick to tell everyone he meets that there has been a drill. He also wants to conduct his own meteorological experiments each night using a tornado tube connecting two-liter bottles, allowing him to whip the entrapped water and glitter into a tornado-like vortex. And, he uses the same iPad script outlined above except when asked what he wants to search for on YouTube, his reply is now "school weather warning drill."

5. For David, there are no rules about what is and is not to be worn seasonally. There is no reason why red should be replaced by pretty pastels on Easter Sunday, as David made clear to us. The shirt, which I had deemed to be perfect as it was a more spring-like red plaid, did not meet David's high standards and garnered three strikes—not red enough, too many buttons (for the usually cotton t-shirt wearing, two button limit boy) and short sleeves (please see above item number 2, because David's rules for outwear also apply to seasonal changes of sleeve and pant length.)

6. David moves his life outdoors. If the weather is nice and David wants to be outside, he goes outside—thank goodness for an alarm system with a chime to indicate that a door has been opened. And, David has no limits about what can go outside with him. If, for instance, his current interest is a 40 X 40 inch tri-pod projection screen (don't even ask), then that screen will move inside and outside with David and be assembled each time he goes in or out.

So, spring has officially sprung and about the time I am finished getting David accustomed to the warm weather, the leaves will begin their descent from the trees, slowly at first, and we will need to reverse the process.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens"*
Ecclesiastes 3:1

*including, of course, fascination with a Da-Lite 40 X 40 inch tripod screen in matte white.

Spring has Sprung

The sun is shining.  The temperature finally hit 60 degrees, if even for an instant.  Easter was Sunday, which, of course marked the unofficial beginning of white shoe season.

Except that I do not like white shoes.  I do not own any white shoes.  I don’t think I have worn white shoes since they were paired with a bonnet and made of patent leather.

No wait.  I never had white patent leather shoes.  I did once long for a pair of white patent leather shoes that had long white ribbons that tied around the ankle, but I was informed by my mother that they were not nearly as practical as the standard black patent leather shoes with the buckle.

So, they stayed propped in the shoe store window.  No wonder I am not a fan.

And, thankfully, it has been years, decades since I wore a bonnet.

(And for those of you who are still wondering what I wear when sporting the white cropped pants, the answer is champagne.  I do own a pair of champagne colored sandals and yes, there is a difference.)

Spring is finally here, spring by my calendar.  I am not talking about meteorological spring, or the vernal equinox.  And my date is thankfully unrelated to prognostications from misguided Pennsylvanian rodents.

It shall heretofore be known as Kathy Spring.

I am not certain what causes the page to flip on the seasonal calendar of my psyche, but I am sure that the complex calculation involves the convergence of at least the following factors.

1. The number of hours of bright sunlight must be inversely proportionate to the percentage of land mass still covered in snow piles, dirty or otherwise, by a ratio of at least 40 to one.

2. The meteorologist must not utter the word “accumulation” any time during the seven day forecast even when preceded by the word “no.”

3. Daffodils and asparagus must be featured as loss leaders in every grocery store ad.

4. The deck furniture begins to call to me for rescue from the cocoon covers and retrieval from the huddle under the deck.

5. I have actually remembered to shave my legs without a somewhat pointed comment from my husband.  Evidently, the number of years of our marriage (almost 16) is inversely proportionate to the number of times I feel it necessary to shave my legs during the winter months.

6. I spend several minutes each morning in my closet, trancelike, frustrated at wardrobe that does not include bright spring outfits appropriate for a day with a wind chill in the teens.

Of course there are a number of other contributing elements including whether or not I have tomato seedlings under the grow lights in the basement, or have simply dreamt about it again until it was too late in the season.

But, to be honest, this year there was an extra catalyst.  Late last week I pulled into the driveway after work.  A neighbor had delivered a stunning Easter lily to the table on my front porch, which made me laugh because she positioned it strategically inside the artificial wreath that somehow did not make it back inside the storage bins with the Christmas lights and other decorations.

Spring is here and Kathy Spring has finally arrived as well.  It is time for walks in the park, pizza made on the grill, and long lingering conversations on the deck, huddled under a blanket against the evening chill.

An Idiom is Born

People with autism often have difficulty with idioms.

 

Although he has come a long way, David's language has not developed to the point where I had even given a thought to David's interpretation of idioms.

 

Until today, when I had a few familiar idioms pop into my mind after I rounded the corner into the kitchen and saw David.

 

Stop and smell the roses.

A watched pot never boils.

 

One of the traits about David that I absolutely love is that he notices things that other people do not.  He truly enjoys what he wants to enjoy, in his own way, and really does not care what anyone else has to say about it.  (Or, that we might be running late for an appointment, but that is another story.)

 

And, something that I may not notice can hold David's attention for what would seem to me to be a mind numbingly long time.

 

Over the course of several days.

 

That could actually stretch into weeks.

 

Ahem.  Anyway, I walked into the kitchen and David had decided to stop and smell the roses, so to speak.  He had pulled over an extremely heavy, Yugoslavian-made kitchen chair (yes, from when there was still a Yugoslavia, which tells you how old it is), then apparently went to the family room to move in an ottoman and grab a blanket, all to cozy up in comfort so that he could watch the coffee perk.

 

Let me repeat it.  He wanted to watch THE COFFEE PERK--the WHOLE pot.

 

And I will never know if he liked seeing the coffee drip, drip, drip, slowly at first, until a pool of fresh coffee started to collect in the pot.  Or, if he was intrigued by the foamy bubbles that gather around the edges of the glass carafe.  Or, if he simply finds it amusing to move as much extra furniture as possible into my kitchen work triangle in order to hear me mutter under my breath as I try to unload the dishwasher and begin breakfast.  I do a great deal of muttering under my breath.

 

If David even understood the two idioms that had immediately popped into my head, he certainly would not have found them appropriate.

 

Because, for David, the more appropriate and newly created idiom would be:

 

Stop, but don't smell the roses because it is infinitely more enjoyable to watch the coffee perk into the pot, but please do not expect it to boil, watched pot or not, because coffee in a coffeemaker never does reach a boiling temperature.

 

Catchy, isn't it?

Sick Day

I heard it for the first time early Saturday morning. David was coughing and not the shallow "let's see if I can get out of going to school today" cough, but a cough with some congestion behind it. Of course, next came the runny nose plus what my husband grossly but accurately terms "snot rockets" and it was official. David was sick.  

This week is Spring Break and David has the whole week off, plus the two bookended weekends, so my first thought was that there would be plenty of time to recuperate.  

And then I smiled, thinking David must have inherited his sense of timing from me. My grandfather used to tease me that I was not smart enough to get sick while school was in session, but always seemed to be ill around major holidays during what was already a break from school. I vividly remember one Christmas--I was about David's age and had a particularly virulent combination of bronchitis and an ear infection. My sister unwrapped presents for me and begged me just to get out of bed long enough to play with my new Walk-to-Me-Wendy doll. (And please don't go googling to see a picture of said doll, because I may have made that name up and it would seem that perhaps "Hobbling Stiff-Legged Holly" would have been a more appropriate moniker.)  

Anyway, David is nowhere near that sick, but still requires some special Mama-lovin' which is good because--quite predictably, when you combine a sick child, a long break from school and shake you get the recipe for Daddy to be away all week on a business trip. Did you see that one coming?  

Now, normally David likes to be tucked in on the sofa with his assortment of favorite pillows, blankets, stuffed animals and, of course, the requisite surge protector powering all of his assorted and numerous electronic devices.    

But not this time. When I went to tuck David in, I found him curled up in a different spot.  
 

 
Yes, he had crawled with a pillow on top of the washing machine, ready to watch the entire 45 minute regular cycle.   That is a new one. So what did I do? Why, I covered him with a blanket, of course.

Savoring the (not quite) Silence

Ideally, I would have stretched and been slow to open my eyes, savoring that last delicious moment, the one just between sleeping and waking, aware of having had a long, luxurious, late Sunday afternoon nap.

Instead, my eyes popped open the moment my consciousness registered the muffled phrase that I heard David calling,

Wait…Wait…Don’t Go!

That utterance woke me, combined with the vague realization that David had just flipped the deadbolt on the front door and was about to fling it wide open in hopes of having a chat with the city council candidate who was walking back toward the sidewalk, campaigning for the upcoming primary election.

I wonder what she might have said if I had not been successful in shooing David from the door and keeping clear of all front facing windows—a move taught to me at a young age by my mother, wanting the avoid the Jehovah’s Witnesses who frequently used to proselytize in our neighborhood, distributing copies of The Watchtower door-to-door.

I wonder if that candidate could have kept her train of thought when she caught sight of me, groggily heading towards the door, one hand trying to massage the kink in my neck which was stiff from having slept sitting up in a chair, while at the same time trying to decide whether to use the other hand to shake hers, which she had extended, or to remove the Peltor Noise Reduction Junior Earmuffs that I had borrowed from David.

Would she have stayed to deliver her campaign spiel?  Or backed slowly away from the door, having received David’s new standard salutation, a heartfelt “AHOY,” all the while wondering if I had donned the noise reducing gear because I had hastily returned from the shooting range, or was, in fact, having target practice in my backyard—a clear violation of city ordinances.

Whatever the scenario she might have imagined, I am sure that she could not have guessed that I was desperate to rest for a moment.

Yes, I wanted to sleep, but more importantly I needed a break from the noise of my sensory-seeking boy, who was playing some classical music on a continuous loop on his CD player, Brahms’ Sonata No. 1 for Cello and Piano in E minor—enjoyable enough, but when combined with the omnipresent episode of SpongeBob Squarepants on the portable DVD player, a YouTube video of an agitating washing machine on the iPad and David catching air on the trampoline, whipped into a hand flapping frenzy, the washing machine was not the only thing becoming agitated.

In Praise of Pepperoni

I was late for work this morning.

I was late for work this morning, because I was digging in the 18 gallon blue Rubbermaid bin marked "garage sale."

I was digging in the garage sale bin looking for the Pizza Pile-Up game because recently David asked for it, scaled the shelves in the basement looking for it, and then he cried about it last night when he realized it was missing.

The Pizza Pile-Up game was in the garage sale bin because David had not played with it for months, if he ever really did "play" with it and not just carry around the red (favorite color) circle (favorite shape) slices of plastic tomato.

David has a new found fascination with pepperoni, having recently decided that he likes pepperoni pizza—or, to be precise, Godfather's original crust pepperoni pizza.

The allure of the pepperoni was reinforced by the mention of pepperoni pizza on whatever episode of SpongeBob David had in his DVD player last night.

SpongeBob's reference to pepperoni pizza apparently made David long for the plastic pepperonis (or is it pepperonii) from the Pizza Pile-Up game, which was granted an early morning pardon from the garage sale bin and David and the Pizza Pile-Up game have been reunited.

So, what is the moral of the story?

Sometimes, Mom grasps ahold of a milestone too quickly. It became clear last night.

The picky boy's penchant for pepperoni pizza positively does not pertain to Pizza Hut personal pan pepperoni.

On school conferences and sunsets

Unable to concentrate on my book, I sat in the parking lot and watched as the sun dipped below the horizon with the utmost economy, saving its brilliant splendor for another day and a more mindful audience, leaving behind only a few faint streaks of orange in the haze.
 
My mind found comfort in the rhythm that came from the tires of passing cars crossing the seams in the street—thunkthunk, thunkthunk, thunkthunk—providing monotonous relief.

 

And I was vaguely aware of questioning which direction the late winter wind was blowing, which carried with it the faint sound of the church bells announcing the hour, 6:00 p.m.

 

The conference at school had gone well.

 

So I could not help but wonder what had caused the imperceptible shift of temperament, like the transition that I had just observed from day to night.

 

I had slipped.  The melancholy returned, if only for a moment.

 

But today is another day and the sun hangs high in the sky, dazzling and bright.

Variations on a Common Theme

I must confess that I was smiling as I watched. If it had been Andrew’s birthday, I would have scolded him for his behavior. I would have been apologetic.

But with David, everyone was amused as we watched him rip greedily into a package, tearing just enough of the wrapping paper to reveal whether or not it was the coveted Hot Wheels Color Shifters Car Wash playset and then casting it aside before moving on to another brightly wrapped package.

Until now, David has never really asked for anything for his birthday or Christmas. He has not shown much interest in new toys. He has been content to make do with what he already has.

I was the one who had suggested a new car wash for his birthday because, when I had asked him what he wanted for his birthday his response was almost always, “I want to drink milk on my birthday.”

And as I watched him, I couldn’t help but think of phrases like “indistinguishable from his peers” and “typical.”

David was being, well, normal and for the moment I was pleased.

But every so often I have to wonder if we all shouldn’t take a cue from David.

Why did it bother me that David was perfectly happy with all of the stuff he already had and didn’t really want—and certainly did not need—any new stuff?

There is so much talk in the world of autism about “the window” and pulling these kids through it, but sometimes I need to stop and look at the world from David’s vantage point because I have to admit that, at times, the view from where he is standing can be pretty spectacular.

There's a New Sheriff in Town

It is well documented that my soon to be 16-year-old nephew, Thomas, is a favorite jungle gym, tackling dummy, sparring partner and all around fun guy to soon to be 8-year old David.

 

You will please note that I did not mention authority figure on that list.

 

Saturday was Thomas' first night babysitting for us, a job normally reserved for his sister, Katie, who is almost halfway through her junior year of college at a school located approximately 500 miles from us which has left us, as of late, sitterless.

 

Until Saturday.

 

Michael and I decided to try a neighborhood restaurant.  I told David that we were going to dinner and would be back in time for bath and bedtime and that he was to stay with Thomas and Andrew.

 

"And ANNIE?" he inquired, wondering if my sister would be coming over, as well.  Thomas noted the somewhat anxious look on David's face.

 

I am happy to report that Michael and I had a wonderful, leisurely dinner and all survived the less than 90 minutes that we were gone.  Thomas has agreed to babysit again.  Andrew is pleased he made a few dollars for "helping" although the word on the street is that he mainly "helped" to wind David up.

 

And David, poor confused David learned a important lesson.  Sometimes Thomas is in charge and if he tells you that he will take away the SpongeBob ball if you throw it one more time AND you proceed to throw it one more time, you just may find yourself without the SpongeBob ball.

 

A valuable lesson, indeed.

 

 

Sympathetic Words

Just about the time that I begin to think I have one too many things on my plate, I do something really talented like fling myself out my front door and onto the concrete of the porch.

I am not even sure how it happened, but I was carrying a window screen that was dusty and needed to be cleaned.  The boys were playing basketball on the driveway, so I must have looked up at precisely the wrong time.

 

I do remember thinking SHE’S GOING DOWN and, just before I hit the concrete, I managed to do a quick scan to see how many neighbors were about to witness the spectacle. (Please do not even ask why I think of myself in the third person when I am about to do something really embarrassing, but I do.)

 

I landed right in the middle of the potted mum plants, and Andrew and David came running.

 

I tried to quickly survey the situation--a burnish on my right palm, a skinned knee, and a big goose egg had already formed on the outside of my twisted left ankle.

 

The boys came running and I started to cry when I realized that I wasn’t sure if I could get up without help.

 

Andrew said, “I’ll go get Dad.”

 

And David, after a moment of hesitation, announced “I go get a tissue.”

 

Have you ever heard such beautiful words?  I appreciate that Andrew ran quickly to get help, correctly surmising that Michael would be the best suited to hoist me up off of the front porch.

 

But, today I am thankful that David can be sympathetic when I am hurt.  He pays attention to how I am feeling and tries to help, in his own way.  Not all kids with autism can do that.

 

I will be fine.  The doctor said nothing is broken.

 

And then called back to say maybe something is just a little bit broken.

 

But it will heal with time.

 

I am sorry to report that the mums, however, did not survive the ordeal.

Getting my Exercise

Somehow, when I click the "publish" button, I never imagine that it will be days, weeks, or in some cases months before I publish another post.

 

For me, it seems that writing is like exercising or having a healthy diet. I feel better when I do it, but if I get out of the habit, it is easy to put it off just another day. I sometimes wonder what difference it really makes if I ever type another word to send out into cyberspace.

 

I have been doing a little bit of writing, just the old fashioned way with a pencil and paper.

 

I have been taking pictures--with my phone because I returned the beautiful Canon digital SLR camera that I had borrowed for a while, and when David doesn't erase my pictures to make room for his videos of assorted car washes and interstate overpasses, I sometimes even get a chance to download the pictures onto my computer.

 

And, although I may not have put it out there for all the world (or my seven faithful readers) to see, I have been trying to take some time each day to think of something for which I am thankful, a habit that I have tried to instill in the boys as I inquire about their day.

 

It is a practice that comes naturally to David. He continually finds things that make him happy and I simply need to take a lesson, to slow down and pay attention like he does and try not to be annoyed as I crunch a leaf into a million pieces reaching for my keys in my purse, the very same perfect red leaf that David retrieved and shoved into my purse just yesterday on the way into swimming lessons that had caught his attention as it scratched across the sidewalk in the wind.

 

I will be back tomorrow. And, I will try to spend the month of Thanksgiving, well, giving thanks and being content--waiting, watching, listening.

 

 

Published Again

I am, once again, a published author.
 
But this time, there will be no mention on the New York Times list of notable books.  There will be no royalty checks.
 
Oh wait; I didn’t have those things last time, either.
 
And since I actually served as ghostwriter, I will not even receive credit as the author, which is a shame really, because the prose is gripping—if I do say so myself—as evidenced by the following opening lines: 

Hi.  My name is David and I am so happy to be in class with you this year.  I know that we will have a lot of fun together.  I am looking forward to getting to know you.  I want to tell you a little bit about myself.

I know—it rivals opening lines like 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.

Obviously, I am being somewhat sarcastic, which I suppose is only to mask the fact that I somehow feel as if this book is one of the most important things I have written.

On Tuesday, all of David’s classmates received copies of my newest creation, All About David, to take home and read with their parents.

Here is the SparkNotes version.  All kids have things in common with each other and things that are different.  David likes to swim and play video games; he likes to watch SpongeBob and loves the color red, just like many of his classmates.  And, David has autism, which means that he had a difficult time learning to talk and can be hard to understand, that he sometimes thinks noises are too loud and may wear headphones, or that he might want to have a break for a minute on the playground.  But, like all kids, David wants to have friends.

I wrote the book from David’s perspective, which is somewhat amusing because David refuses to read it.  Or have it read to him.  Or really even to lay eyes on it to look at the eight pictures which were lovingly chosen, painstakingly inserted into the text before I even considered the fact that eight full color pictures would make printing this little masterpiece somewhat pricey.

That is why I hand-delivered the books to school on Monday afternoon rather than send them with David because I was afraid that they might end up in the restroom garbage can.

Next year, I hope to write a new and improved second grade version.  Maybe by then, David will actually be ready to read it. 

But if not, that is alright because, although I wrote this book about David, I did not actually write it for him.

A Beautiful Sunset

The next morning, the meteorologist tried to explain why it had been such a beautiful sunset.

And I guess I shouldn't say that he "tried" to explain, as I am sure he did explain it thoroughly.

But my enjoyment of that sunset had really nothing to do with the light reflecting off of the cirrus clouds and everything to do with the fact that we were driving home from the Open House at David's school and I was euphoric.

After David had such a difficult time at the Back to School Night, I almost skipped the Open House altogether.  It would have been easier.

But with David, as with most kids, easier often does not mean better.

So, I strategized.  I marked David’s monthly calendar, which hangs inside the front door.  We also changed tactics.

Instead of trying to be the first to arrive, or the “get it over with” method, we opted instead to try to arrive at the very last minute, the “don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out” approach.

I had hoped that by arriving later there would be fewer people.  Fewer people translates to less noise, which would be ever so nicely muffled by David’s favorite red JVC headphones, which he had requested to bring along.  He had also requested to bring along big brother, Andrew.

We arrived at school, nabbed a prime parking space (an added side benefit of waiting) and all collectively held our breath as we opened our car doors to see if David would open his and follow us into the school.

And then we watched in amazement as David led the way, headphones on, marching—no, strutting into the school like he owned the place.

I did not have to try to cajole him into the school.  There were no last minute bribes, which is good because having already promised a vanilla ice cream cone on the way home and a trip over the new favorite overpass—you know the one that crosses the water (creek) and the train tracks—I really had nothing else to offer.

First, he took us to his special ed classroom.  And then he took us to his First Grade classroom.  He showed Andrew his desk and his locker.  With prompting, he introduced all of us to his teacher, even if he did stumble a bit by introducing me as “Mrs. Mom-mom.”

He showed us the “Get to Know You” poster that he had made.  You know, favorite color—red.  Favorite movie—SpongeBob Squarepants.  What do I want to be when I grow up—a teacher.

Wait, that is a new one.  A teacher.

How appropriate.  Because for me, really for all of us, David already is.

Crying over Broken Dishes

When I opened the door to the upper cabinet, it took a split second for me to register the crash that followed.  I was startled, of course, and started examining my hands and arms to see if there were more than just a few teeny cuts from the resulting shards of glass.

Earlier this summer I had bought a large, low, white porcelain bowl to hold tomatoes from our garden on the counter until we had a chance use them.  (And please let me pause here for just a moment because I really like the sound of the words “tomatoes from our garden” and the implication that, yes, this year my vegetable garden was more than just a fleeting thought.)

I had been trying to find a place to store this new bowl, now a totally unnecessary task because the square Pyrex baking dish and oval serving dish that took the leap from the second shelf had landed on top of the new bowl, shattering everything.

Later, as I was relaying the story to my Mom on the phone, I started to cry.  The oval dish had been a wedding gift from some family friends.  It was hand-painted and they had carried it back from a trip to Wales.  I used it often, especially when I was entertaining as it was the perfect shape for serving roasted asparagus, one of Michael’s absolute favorites.

David happened to walk into the room and saw me crying, so I cut short the conversation with my mother.  “Mom-mom, why you cry?” he asked me almost immediately.

“Because I am sad, David,” I replied, not even attempting to explain my sentimental attachment to a serving dish.  “Are you ever sad?” I added.

And with that simple question, it was like watching the dark clouds roll in with a fast moving spring thunderstorm.  David’s whole countenance changed as he closed his eyes and big tears came rolling down his checks.  It was almost as if my sadness had passed through him.

Of course as David’s Mom, I never like to see him cry.

But I must admit, the fact that David has that capacity—to see me sad, to feel my sadness and take it as his own—that is something a therapist noticed in David at a very young age and apparently is a skill that is nearly impossible to teach a child with autism and for that, I am extremely grateful.

The Road to Recovery

I am finally getting over my illness.

 

I am not talking about the third week of school nastiness that the boys always bring home, this year appearing in the form of a fever/cough/cold combination that wipes you out for a couple of days.  I am still battling the tail end of that one.

 

Instead, I am happy to report that I have FINALLY recovered from what I will refer to as DDD, or diarrheal dialogue disorder.  I have not yet sought professional help for my disorder, which often goes undetected.  It was David who made me realize that I was suffering in the first place.

 

Strike that.  Actually, I felt fine and it was David who was suffering.

 

When David gets nervous as he was the first two weeks of school, he gets very quiet.

 

Apparently, I have the opposite problem.

 

All my maternal, protective instincts these first weeks of school have come spilling, pouring, tumbling out in the form of reassurances, questions, and then answers and then more questions about David's day as we wait each morning for the bus.

 

You are going to have a great day at school today.  Do you know what specials you have today?  You must not have PE because you had PE yesterday.  Could it be library day today? Is it check-out day?  Who do you sit next to in the lunch room? Doyoulikeridingthebus?Yourbusdriverisnice,isn'the?OhlookIseeabutterflydoyouseethebutterflytoowhatdoyouwanttodowhenyougethomefromschooldontforgettogiveyournotebookbacktotheteacher.

Keep in mind that not too long ago, David was a non-verbal child.  I wasn't even really expecting him to answer any of questions; I simply felt better having asked them.

But, I did not consider how my verbal assault was making David feel.

And David, poor David actually has that talent that so many of us grown people lack--the ability to be still.  He wanted to be still, to be quiet and just sit.

Unlike me, David does not always feel it necessary to fill time--talking, or reading, or checking e-mail and Facebook while sipping a cup of coffee or all of the above at the same time.  He was perfectly happy to wait and maybe listen to the bird in the oak tree in the front yard, but then there is this woman (yours truly) who simply would not shut up.

Toward the end of the first week of school, we were waiting for the bus.  I was standing at the screen door, and David was sitting on the staircase, head down.  And then, without lifting his head from the carpet of the stairs, his raised his eyes to meet mine, lifted his right hand, palm out and said to me in a barely audible whisper, "stop talking Mom-mom.”

I guess the first step is recognizing that you have a problem.

A Butterfly Moment

A few minutes ago, I watched as David stretched up onto his tiptoes and took a big slurpy drink straight from the faucet at the kitchen sink, a scene that is repeated countless times across the country on a hot, late summer day.

It was a first for David, a milestone--like so many others--that does not appear on the pediatrician's checklist. One that I did not even realize we had missed.

Until one day, from the corner of my eye, I notice. Hey, David just opened the package by himself. Or, asked how I was feeling. Or, took a drink straight from the tap.

All minuscule milestones to remind me that progress often comes in small packages.

School Discipline

Although I cannot specifically find the reference in the 2012-2013 Elementary Student Code of Conduct that prohibits a student from borrowing exactly three hash browns from another student’s lunch tray in order to line them up vertically in a perfect pretend stoplight, I am sure it is in there somewhere.

I almost feel bad making light of the situation, because when David came home from school on Monday, I knew immediately that something was wrong.  And, although David has made such great strides in communication the past few months that he eventually manages to tell us what is wrong, my mind can fill those intervening minutes—approximately 47 in this case—with horrible images of what might have happened to cause such distress, that when enough details of the Great Hash Brown Caper of 2012 began to emerge, I am sure I could not suppress my smile.

In fact, I may have even been gleeful.  Not that I am pleased my son had to be reminded that you should not take food from someone else’s plate (allegedly).  But to me the infraction seemed so minor—a first grade misstep that compares to Andrew learning the valuable lunchroom lesson that it does not matter who started the game of footsie under the table, if the Assistant Principal sees you “kick” the cute little girl sitting across from you, there will be consequences.

I know that we live in a world where we must take school discipline very seriously.  Gone are the days where you can bite the boy in front of you on the bottom because he is holding up the line at the slide and, rather than be suspended, actually be advanced a grade—another true first grade story taken from family lore.

These days, I know that I cannot send a pair of safety scissors to school in David’s lunch to facilitate opening the yogurt stick because it could be considered a weapon.  I understand that I cannot have someone run to pick him up who is not already listed on the approved emergency contact form submitted at the beginning of the year—both sad statements about our society, but I appreciate any efforts to keep students safe.

So, I will remind David that we do not take food off of someone else’s plate, even to make a beloved hash brown stoplight.

But please forgive me if I am smiling while I do it.

The Second Day

Charles Dickens published most of his novels as serial publications, in weekly or monthly installments.

When I selected the name for yesterday’s post, “The First Day,” I was being somewhat lazy and in no way intended to imply that I would write a post called "The Second Day.”  And when I hit the “publish” button at 4:07 p.m. I really had made the mistake of breathing an apparently premature sigh of relief a full two hours after the sigh of relief that I had breathed just the day before—previously referred to as “The First Day.”

Yesterday, the call did not come until 4:25 p.m. as I was sitting by the window of my office, waiting for what I naively believed to be the imminent arrival of the bus.

Well, David was still sitting in the office at school.  The bus was missing in action.  So, I made my second mad dash in as many days to rescue my now understandably nervous boy.

I do believe that this will be the final installment of David’s back to school story, but I cannot make any promises.  Dickens managed to stretch David Copperfield to last a year and a half.

The First Day

I need to remember to add saltine crackers to the school supply list.

Some families have really fun first day of school traditions—maybe they make a special breakfast or have an ice cream cone on the way home.  Some parents take photos of their kids holding a sign to commemorate the first day in each grade, or mark their child’s height inside a door frame.

But our family?  Well, we have vomit.

Andrew started the tradition by getting the stomach flu just in time for his first day of fourth grade.  Fortunately, that has been the only time he has felt it necessary to participate.

Apparently, David has recently decided to continue the tradition by throwing up on the first day of summer school and then he gave an encore performance yesterday, the first day of first grade.

Interestingly, he manages to make it almost the whole way through the day and just about the time that I am glancing at the clock, breathing a sigh of relief, thinking that we can put the first day behind us, I get the call—the fated call that always begins with the words, “Hello, is this David’s Mom?”

I have to give the kid credit, however, because he managed to perfect his technique to avoid his brand new, Stride Rite tennis shoes, the very same shoes we have worked so hard to get him to wear in the first place.

So yesterday, I made a mad dash to David’s school to pick up my not really sick child.  And instead of enjoying an after school popsicle on the front porch, we had an afternoon filled with reenactments of the disturbing event, punctuated with very few words because David really was too upset to talk about it.  Choke…sick…floor…tummy.

I have been looking forward to the first day of school since, if I am being honest, the last day of school last year.  But, when you take David’s nervous stomach and combine with one sulky seventh grader, then add a husband’s late work meeting, plus a missing SpongeBob lunch bag and shake, you get a recipe for an early happy hour at my house.

Hey, it’s always five o’clock somewhere, right?

Photographing Bridge Ten

David had been asking for a picture of “bridge ten,” his favorite interstate overpass.  Yes, he has a favorite interstate overpass.  Doesn’t everyone?

So last weekend, Michael grabbed the camera and decided to take David for a drive to try to get the desired photo.  David insisted on taking my iPhone so that he could videotape the whole drive in a 14 minute long video documentary that I like to call The Making of the Money Shot: Snapping Perfect Infrastructure Photos without Alerting Homeland Security.

I have posted my favorite portion of that video below.  It makes me laugh every time.  I do not intend to make you watch the entire 14 minutes, only 40 seconds.  In just over 200 posts, this is my first video link, so I must think it’s good.  Make sure your volume is turned up.

This clip is taken from that segment where Michael has just pulled off of the interstate to find the perfect vantage point to take the snapshot.  Please take note of the yellow sign that is almost out of the frame as the video begins.  David certainly did.

I like that way David’s speech comes slowly, haltingly at first as if he is really trying to trust Michael, to believe that he knows what he is doing, but then his better judgment intervenes.  “I…thinking…TURN AROUND!”

At least it is somewhat reassuring to know that David is not solely critical of my driving.

The infamous Bridge 10.