This morning I was standing at the kitchen counter packing David's lunch before he left for school. One of his lunch staples is dry cereal, usually Quaker Oatmeal Squares, and I had poured them into a large bowl so that I could sort his cereal into a baggie. I take the extra step of sorting because cereal is expensive I have grown tired of wasting it.
Evidently, when cereal has a name like "Quaker Oatmeal Squares" David expects that the pieces will actually be, you guessed it, square. He will sift through the cereal, refusing the broken pieces, which, as you know, can be a large percentage of the box. Maybe if I told David we were trying a new cereal, something like "Shards of Oats" or "Quaker Oatmeal Rectangles" he might try it, but for now, David's discards get returned to the cereal box for Andrew's breakfast—sorry Andrew. Andrew must think those people at the cereal company are complete dolts because he rarely sees a square in his morning serving of oatmeal squares.
The same thing could be said of Lucky Charms. David must believe that his luck has run out each time we open a box because, while he does find the multi-colored marshmallow charms to be "magically delicious" he has little use for the frosted oats and most of them end up in a discard pile on our family room carpet. Ironically, the carpet happens to be from the Mohawk Carpet "toasted oats" color palate and I do not usually see the cast-off oats until after I feel the crunch underfoot as I walk through the family room.
So on Valentine's Day, my mother gave David a big red plastic heart filled with, the label promised, Gummi Savers, one of David's favorite candies. But, when we opened the heart, did we find the promised savers of the gummi variety? No, the heart was filled with Lifesavers Big Ring Gummies. They were like Gummi Savers on steroids—at least twice the size of the original candy and dipped in sugar. They are not the same things. You can ask any kid with autism. I opened one of the packages, handed it to David who, predictably, touched it briefly to his upper lip and wholeheartedly rejected it.
Maybe manufacturers will learn, as the large numbers of literal thinking kids with autism grow into literal thinking adults with autism, that they expect what is advertised on the outside of the box to actually be on the inside of the box.
Please note that no Gummi big rings were harmed during the writing of this post—unless you count the four that I consumed just to make sure they were not the promised Gummi Savers. I can call it research. Right?
After the most recent session at school of Human Growth and Development—5th grade boy edition--there has been a lot of puberty talk at our house. I think that the session is over for the year, but I plan to be on vacation next year so Michael can field all the questions, plus drive Andrew and any friends home from their after school activities. I really tried not to listen as they discussed the topics of the day, but my CRV is not that big. I needed a limousine style privacy panel, so that I couldn't hear the discussion which ended with Andrew's friend proclaiming his recap of the class, "That was GROSS."
Andrew has told me in no uncertain terms that he does not want to grow up. He is quite content as a kid and would really rather move to Neverland to live with Peter Pan. Okay, so maybe he didn't say it quite that way, but he is certainly not too happy about the recent addition of deodorant to the morning routine. Who knew that it could take a 10-year-old so long to deodorize? Who knew that there is such a thing as "in" deodorant? Do you think the suggestion that maybe he should actually wash his face with some type of soap would push him over the edge?
Andrew's school day begins about an hour before David's, so I tiptoed into his room a few days ago to wake him up, only to find David cuddled up next to him in the bed, both wearing the matching pajamas they had received for Christmas. (Where is the camera when you need it?) It is not unusual for David to wake up in the middle of the night, but it was the first time that he did not call for Michael or me, did not come into our room and climb into our bed. Instead, he made a detour to Andrew's room, climbed the ladder to the top bunk and wedged himself next to his brother.
Add that to the time that Andrew had to translate for David because he was not making himself clear, except that the person having trouble understanding was me. Or the time that I saw Andrew stroking David's hair to comfort him, and David was firmly holding onto Andrew's wrist to make sure that he didn't stop. Or the visit to Pump It Up, where I had tried every trick in the book in an attempt to coax David to try one of the inflatables, but when Andrew came over, held out his hand and said, "C'mon, let's go" David hopped right off the bench where we had been sitting and followed Andrew down the slide.
It is not surprising that Andrew is growing up whether he likes it or not. Andrew knows too, that despite his protests, it is going to happen. The surprising part? It seems David was the first to notice.
Flashback to 6th grade, Valentine's Day – It was the first time in my elementary school experience that we were not given a class list. There would be no compulsory distribution of valentines to every single member of the class—except, of course, for those kids whose religion made them morally opposed to commercial holidays popularized by florists and greeting card companies; they would be participating in an "alternate activity."
There would be no class party. No relay races run while balancing Sweethearts Conversation Hearts on a spoon—you know, the heart shapes candies bearing messages like "Be Mine" and "You're Sweet," the ones that no one actually likes to eat so you have to use them for things like relay races. Ours was to be an understated celebration of the holiday. I remember nothing else about the day except that one of my classmates, a BOY, handed a Valentine card to me. It was of the homemade variety, a big cut-out heart with a drawing of cupid, bow drawn about to release his arrow toward a heart. The caption read, "Your heart's hit in the right place."
Predictably, we both pretended that it hadn't happened and I don't think I showed it to anyone except my mother. I wasn't even sure what he had meant by the handwritten message except that he wanted me to be his Valentine, oh yes, and also Lisa T and Lisa B as I was later to discover that they had also received different versions of the same sentiment from Chris—talk about covering your bases.
On Friday, I was cleaning the papers out of David's backpack when I once again discovered a homemade Valentine. The message "To Mom" was pretty straightforward. When I showed it to David, he touched it and then smiled, but like Chris seemed to have very little more to say about it. This time, I don't need cupid's arrow to convince me of my love for all three of my boys, Michael included. Just please don't tell me if David also had Valentines for Lisa T or Lisa B.
Shortly after David was diagnosed my niece Katie, barely fifteen at the time, gave me one of the most thoughtful gifts that I have ever received. She was upgrading her iPod and, since I was probably the only person on earth who did not yet own one, she decided to give her old iPod to me.
Now, this gift would have been wonderful by itself, but knowing that I did not have either the time or the inclination to load it with music, she spent hours putting songs on it that she thought I would enjoy--even loading a few pictures of the boys, as well. Aside from the sometimes abrupt transitions, such as the leap from the Black Eyed Peas to Bach, she did a decent job of picking music that spans the generations.
But, if I had been choosing, what songs would have told the story? Not to make fun of what was a very trying time, but borrowing a few song titles from each of our iPods (Andrew's included) here are the months following David's diagnosis in a song (or ten).
At the time we received the diagnosis, we were certainly "Dazed and Confused" (Led Zeppelin). I tried to hold it together because "Big Girls Don't Cry" (Fergie), but I lost that battle. Of course, we would get David whatever help he needed, but I still believed that "Love Will Save the Day" (Des'ree) because "All You Need Is Love" (The Beatles).
Like so many autism Moms, I took the role of "The Warrior" (Scandal, featuring Patty Smyth) because, after all "I Am Woman" (Helen Reddy) and I was confident that we would "Whip It" (Devo). Many couples will tell you that men and women react very differently to this type of diagnosis, and while I could think of nothing but autism, for a time my husband shut it out of his mind, becoming "Comfortably Numb" (Pink Floyd).
I would like to think that Michael marveled at my handling of the situation, thinking "Isn't She Lovely" (Stevie Wonder), but if we are being perfectly honest he was probably thinking "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" (The Temptations), offering "Have a Drink on Me" (AC/DC), still saddened to realize that he "(Can't Get No) Satisfaction" (Rolling Stones).
Well, you can only be "Under Pressure" (Queen) for so long before you feel like you are "Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well" (Mike Doughty) making it "Harder to Breathe" (Maroon 5), but Michael encouraged me to "Keep Holding On" (Avril Lavigne) because we will "Beat It" (Michael Jackson). He gently reminded me to be "Thankful" (Kelly Clarkson) because "He's My Son" (Mark Schultz).
In retrospect, of course we were going to do everything we could for David, but we could have also tried to "Roll with the Changes" (REO Speedwagon). And David's advice to us probably would have been "Don't Worry, Be Happy" (Bobby McFerrin) and I am now ready to take that advice—well half of it, at least. These most certainly are "Better Days" (Goo Goo Dolls). And my message to David, what I can honestly tell him each and every day "I Love You Just the Way You Are" (Billy Joel).
