Telling stories

"Tell me a story about yourself, Mommy, tell me about you, Varda," Jacob asks at dinner the other night.

And although he only listens to the first three words of my answer before he's on to his next question, it's a start.

A big start.

He's been talking a lot about family lately.

"Mom and Dad, you're my family." He says, with an intonation halfway between statement and question.

"Yes we are!" I confirm.

"And Ethan is my brother." He ads.

"That's right, Jakey."

"We're a family!" I reinforce.

"Daddy was a boy? Now he's a man? I will be a man?" (Right on all counts.)

"Daddy and Mommy get married?" (Yes we did.)

"Get married you can kiss the bride?" (smooching sound effect included) (Yes, we did.)

"I will grow up and be a man and get married." (Dear God I hope so)

"Yes, Jakey."

And now, lately: "Mommy I'm going to marry you!"

And while I smile and explain that I'm already married to someone - Daddy - and he will have to find his own special person to marry when he grows up, I'm secretly glad he's said it while we're home. When he makes statements like this when we're out and about, I can see people doing a double take.

Unless Jake's been especially flappy or grimacey, they probably haven't expected him to be anything out of the ordinary, "passing" as it were, until the oddness of our conversation begins to become evident.

Also I'm mentally ticking off that box in my mind on the page of developmental milestones: Oedipal age - check!

In a "typically developing" boy that comes on about age four, and I seem to recall Ethan having similar romantic notions about me 'round about that time. And it also fits with where Jacob is in a lot of other ways, "socially/emotionally," as they say.

I kind of forgot how completely exhausting four year-olds can be...  the thousand questions, the need for constant attention, the wanting to do complicated things themselves, and then the tantrums when it doesn't work out as planned.

That all this four-year-oldness comes wrapped in the body of a 120 pound, 5 foot tall, near eleven year-old makes it all the more unsettling for strangers to witness. Though of course that's just normal for our family, things being other than they would appear to be at quick glance.

"Blue Bear needs his family to go to bed with him!" Jake firmly asserts at bedtime tonight. And so I round up the white, turquoise and sky blue bears that we have long ago designated to be his mother, father and brother (although sometimes it's a sister, depending on Jake's mood), tuck them in beside him, sing them all to sleep.

"Mommy, sleep with me!" says Jake. And though I know I can't stay, that my presence will be too exciting, will keep him awake, I lie beside him for a few minutes as he recounts his day to me, telling the stories as he remembers them:

"Mommy and Jacob went to the movies and saw Turbo. We saw the credits and the music and it was 20th Century Fox."

"And Jake and mommy went to the grocery store and bought three things." (More like 20, but who's counting.)

"And then I laughed too much and said the stupid bad words and Mommy got cross. I caused confusion and delay. Mommy is going to fire me."

"No Jakey sweetie, you needed to calm down because it was bedtime, and I'm not cross, not mad, you are NOT a bad engine, just a bouncy one. And you can't be fired."

I stroke his head, drop another kiss upon it. "And even when I do get mad, Jakey? I never, ever stop loving you, not even for an instant."

"Know this: I will always be your mom, you will always be my son, and I will always love you, forever and ever. Nothing can ever change that."

And we lie quietly for a moment.

One moment's silence.

And then I kiss him again and ease my way out of the room.

"Goodnight, Mother" he lofts at my back as I slip away.

"Goodnight Jake, I'll see you in the morning."

And I will.

SOC Sunday: Spelling Lessons

Thank goodness for SOC Sundays, because just when I was about to get things done yesterday, I had a wee stomach bug that sidelined me for the day.  And once again, between school vacation full-time momming and LTYM (which I adore, but is a bigger job than I had bargained for) taking over my life, my poor blog is suffering. But with SOC Sunday I can take a snippet out of my brain and call it a post. Wheeeee!

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Jacob is getting really crafty. He's always got something going on... some phrase or word or sound that he repeats over and over.  When he was little it was word-for-word scripting from his favorite TV shows. But he's become much more creative now.

His language is growing by leaps and bounds, and I'm not complaining about that in the least.  OK, I;m lying, I DO complain about it sometimes when he talks all the time. We are a family of talkers, and often there is precious little peace in the house.

There is a lot that is frustrating for Jacob in life, and he needs to vent his frustration like we all do.  And these days, his favorite word to do that with? Is "Stupid" - which happens to be one of my least favorite words in the English language (of course).

The first time he used it, I was thrilled with his being "age-appropriate" (I even wrote a post about it!) but now I'm getting really tired of it.

Because, of course, once he realized it annoys me? Its value has risen sky high. So it's not just being used to express his feelings ("Stupid Batman!" when he can't get the guy to fit in the Batmobile in a way that lets the top close) but instead, it's become his beloved catchphrase.

He inserts it into EVERYTHING... asking to watch "Sponge Bob Stupid Pants," asking for his "stupid" dinner and singing "Twinkle Twinkle Stupid Star" along with me at night.

And then, when I have had enough and start threatening loss of privileges - like his beloved TV - if he says it again? He is changes over to... spelling it out: S - T - U - P - I - D.  And I have to laugh, as he is being so clever.

I still don't like it, but as he is being so S-M-A-R-T about it, I let it slide when he spells it.

The other thing Jake's taken up lately is mewoing like Gary the pet snail in Sponge Bob. This isn't a frustration release, he just enjoys the sound, in a delightful stimmy sort of way. And I know that stimming calms autists and makes them happy, so I'm not trying to completely squash him when he makes the sounds that bring him such joy.

But I really don't want them being bellowed 3 inches from my face, either.  So I am asking him at times to stop meowing. And you know what he's doing, then?

Yup.

M - E - O - W.

Smart-ass kid.

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New to SOCS?  It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump.  Want to try it?  Here are the rules…

• Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
• Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spell-checking. This is writing in the raw.

You can do it, too!  Click on the picture link and let's hear your 5 minutes of brilliance...

Daylight

One short week of school vacation - time off the clock - and the days have gotten noticeably longer at the fringes. When I took Jacob down to wait for his bus this morning, we were watching the early-walking dogs and their people stroll by in daylight, not darkness.

The yellow of the school bus rounding the corner popped against a truly blue sky. And my dour wintry spirits lifted, too, sniffing hopefully towards spring.

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Tonight, walking home from picking up Ethan at Hebrew School, for the first time in forever it was not completely pitch black night at 6 pm.  Ethan and his friend, our next door neighbor whose mom I “foot-pool” with, were busy talking their 9 year-old-boy-talk of video games interspersed with mock battles that threatened to engulf the sidewalk-sharing passersby.

I just didn’t have the energy to scold, hoped no bodily harm was being done, walked three paces ahead with Jacob on my arm, ever chivalrous.

Jake and I had one of our typical conversations the whole way home, he repeating the same three or four questions over and over, never ceasing in his delight at the correct-to-his-mind answers I doggedly offer back. 

And while the topics often skew to the obvious, they also occasionally delight and surprise.

Jake was talking a lot about the earth and the sky tonight, impressed, as was I, by the moon playing peekaboo with us between the tall buildings. It was in between phases, not quite crescent yet shy of half full, and fuzzy about the edges, giving it a soft, somewhat unearthly glow, as if we'd slipped into a Maxfield Parrish painting. 

"Where is the planet, Mom, where is the earth?" Jake asked. And I assured him we were walking upon it, each and every time.

"When you were dead, before you were a baby, did you live in the sky, Mommy?"

OK, didn't expect THAT one.

A complex and somewhat... unusual cosmological concept going on here. A moment's reflection upon his current Japanimation obsession, though, solved the mystery of its origin. 

In the DragonBall-Z-Kai universe, people are always dying and being brought back to life, and hanging out on a platform in the sky while waiting for that to happen. 

Explaining the improbability of all that to my autistic son was quite beyond my ken tonight, so I just waived my hand in the air and proclaimed it to be a bunch of "made-up TV story nonsense" and not the stuff of real life.

He smiled indulgently, knowing how much more real his beloved Goku and Piccolo are than I will ever know, and, as we were on our block, no more streets to cross, ran the rest of the way home, West toward the fast-fading, last pink echo at the horizon.

I trudged behind, watching the evening's first stars emerge, casting their fuzzy glow about the sky; setting down, one in front of the other, my feet upon this planet, following my boy home.

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What He Needs

Today was the last official day of public school here in NYC. Ridiculously late by any standards.

Ethan was already gone, his camp having started yesterday. I gave him a free pass to miss the final day and a half of what is essentially babysitting, because, as he put it: "Everybody makes friends the first day at camp, Mom, I don't want to miss that." Socially astute, this son of mine.

So today I was at his school even though he wasn't. I dropped Ethan off at camp then u-turned and headed back down, passed my street and kept going. Rebounding many blocks in the opposite direction to take care of some final paperwork and say some goodbye-for-summers.

New York City is a landscape of micro-neighborhoods, and so I was also saying goodbye to this comfortable one around Ethan's school. It's close enough to home and filled with useful stores and services, so that we will probably be by there at times this summer; but it will no longer be part of my daily mind-space.

I therefore have my summer & school-year routines, each different, each looked forward to and/or missed when in the opposite mode.

Ethan's camp is in the same uptown neighborhood as his preschool had been, so there is a lovely quality of familiarity and return each summer. I catch nostalgic glimpses of 3 and 4 year old Ethan around every bend.

Sweet memories wafting up, helping to ease the pain of Ethan's new-found "Just leave me at the entrance and don't let the gate hit your ass too hard on the way out, Mom." attitude he has suddenly adopted at drop-off this summer.

Where once there was clinging & kisses, there is now quick dismissal. I knew this was coming, was even looking forward to it in some ways, but it's hard to reconcile with the boy who still climbs into my lap each evening at bedtime, fiercely demanding his talk & cuddle time.

Outside Ethan's school this morning, I ran into my friend Sandra. She is all excited about (and exhausted preparing for) a big European vacation she has coming up.

Alone with her husband.

Unfathomable to me.

Though we have kids the same age, she is more than ten years younger than me. Her daughters will be having a blast at their Grandparents home, her parents being more than 20 years younger than mine, making all this possible.

But I also realize that it's not all of the unfathom. Even were we all so much younger, even had we the financial resources to pull such a trip off, it would not be on the table for us, just not in the cards.

Jacob needs me just too damn much.

He could not tolerate that large a block of separation. And frankly, truth be told, neither could I.

It feels like another life, the one in which I traveled for work and pleasure, hopped on and off of planes, packed with precision and ease for days, weeks, or months, and just set off.

It WAS another life, and I was another me.

A not-mother me. A not-yet-autism-mom me, for certain.
 
This summer we are looking into the possibility of sending Jacob to a special needs sleepaway camp for one week. It will be in a town near where my in-laws have their vacation home. A place comfortable & familiar to Jake.

I / we could really use the break. And yet I'm filled with trepidation.

We have never been separated for this long before. One night twice, two nights once. That's pretty much all.

I am his ambassador to the world, his interpreter. I know his thoughts, needs, moods like none other. I am what he wants, needs; always.

And yet... and yet... he is nearly 9. He does go to school every day and they seem to have figured him out just fine. He is getting older, and he needs to grow more independent, not just stranger.

Jacob is awesome these days. He is expanding his repertoire, telling stories, constantly, that begin with "Once upon a time..."

And even though they are all variations on a few basic themes? They are VARIATIONS, not rote repetitions. Yes, he is making things up, combining elements in novel ways, inventing characters. AWESOME!

But the talking all the time is getting exhausting. His week off school (that comes to an end TOMORROW, YES!) has been quite a challenge for me.

(Yes, I've seen every kids movie out now. Cars 2? Twice.)

And his full month off, after summer school ends, will likely be likewise challenging. This camp could really be a godsend. For all of us.

We are probably going to try it, if they'll have him (application is in and we are awaiting) and if we can scrounge up the cash to cover it.

But still, I am afraid. I fear he will be too sad, too lonely, too alone without anyone who understands what he is thinking/feeling/needing.

And I know, even though I desperately need the break, I will spend much of our time apart thinking about him, worrying about him, wondering how he is doing.

The camp number on speed-dial, my fingers hovering, constantly, inches from the phone.

He needs me.



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Q is for Quietude

Q is for Quietude

Something we know precious little about around here.

I live in the house of noise.

And this is not my natural state.  Certainly not how I was raised.

I was an only child.  A bookish only child.

I was raised in a house filled with reading, and classical music.

Bird watching, gardening, art and photography.  (A little TV, not too much, mostly PBS.)

I was a "good" girl.  No one yelled.

But it wasn't stuffy, deadened.  There was ebullient love.

Dinnertime was lively.  There was always much laughter and conversation.

But also?  Often peace, tranquility, quietude.

We could be separate and quiet and yet feel all together, the three of us in that house; my mother, my father and I.  (Well, up until the teen years, of course, which are never less than turbulent, but were not excessively so, for us.)

Pleasant memories abound: the three of us splayed about the living room sofas on a Sunday morning, pancake breakfast being digested, cats in laps, trading off sections of the Sunday papers, reading to ourselves but sharing especially wonderful bits with the others, working the Times crossword puzzle a group effort.  

But this is not how I live now.

I have a son on the autism spectrum who talks a lot, often repetitively, nearly all the time.  He also sings, screechily, and repeats noises he hears, because they delight him.

I have another son who would have a 24 hour a day conversation, if he could.

I have boys who love all things electronic and noisy; whose TV shows and computer sites and video games explode, clang, or play loud pulsing music all the time, often clashing rhythms assaulting me from two different directions, no escape except into the bathroom, and really, how long can I spend in there?

And I know that some folks with a non-verbal child would give their right arm to have one who talks all the time, like I have. (So I feel guilty for complaining.)

And I know that when the boys were 18 months old and not talking, when I wondered if I would ever hear their sweet voices, I longed for days like this, filled with their chatter.  And that when people told me this time would pass and I'd one day be wishing they'd just shut up, I looked at them like they had two heads, could not possibly picture that day.  (They may now say: "I told you so.")

And I am not hermit like, I like a full, lively house.  I regularly invite multiple kids over for group play-dates.  I wish we had a bigger apartment so we could cram in even more.

I often go out for after drop-off coffee with herds of mom friends.  We laugh so hard and carry on to the point of occasionally being shushed by old ladies wishing to caffeinate in peace.

I am a very social person.

And?  Truth?  A major league talker, myself.

But also, I do wish for occasional peace.  For Sunday mornings of quietly shared reading.  Of taking a nature hike with my family and actually serenely observing nature whilst on it.

This is not my life now, and it may never be.

I have boisterous, noisy boys.  I may have Jacob on my hands for years after other children would have left home.  (I hope not, wish for his independence, but cannot discount the possibility.)

I take my moments of quietude when I can catch them, fleeting, but still savored.

And try to remember why the sound of my boys never-quiet voices should ring sweetly in my ears.

This post has been inspired by and linked up to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday writing meme. And isn't "Q" a great quirky letter with its curly-q tail?

Not Today

I had a deep, thoughtful post half-written for today.

I had a plan: I was going to finish it up, polish it up and send it out into the world mid-day while my husband took the boys off to see the supposedly execrable but male-bonding worthy "Green Hornet" movie (I hear many things blow up for absolutely no reason).

But this is not to be.

At 5:55 this morning Ethan tiptoed into my room.  His stomach was hurting him, and he was feeling really crappy again.  He didn't quite throw up, but almost.

And?  As as added bonus?  All the commotion woke up his brother, Jacob, too.

And you know how well they get along.

And Jacob this morning is in a wonderful, joyous bouncy mood.  Which means he literally will not stop talking.

Not even for 15 seconds.

About the same things: Batman and the upcoming movie schedule.

Since 6 AM.

And when Ethan yells at Jacob to "just. shut. up!" I scold him.

But in my head?  I'm yelling it, too.  And then feeling guilty.

Sigh.

And?  Yesterday was my first day really back in the world.  I took Ethan to school in the morning.  I went to the doctor for my post-surgical check-up appointment.

(He removed the wound dressing, I got to see the stitches in my belly button. Yes I still have one. Allayed my fears that had sprung up when I read an account of a laproscopy gone terribly wrong with the poor woman ending up with a navel-less belly like a classic Barbie.)

I even actually went on a date with my husband for the first time in a month.  We kept it short and simple.  I figured sitting in a movie theater was pretty much the same as sitting on my sofa.  So we saw True Grit.  Really enjoyed it.

But by the end?  I was really hurting.  I'd conveniently forgotten that I don't actually SIT on the sofa, I LIE on it.  And sitting up engages the abdominal muscles.  Two hours of that?  Too long for me right now.  Damn.

Once again I'd let my ambitions get the better of me.  Feeling a little better didn't mean all better.  And today I'm paying the price for over-doing it yesterday.

And yes, I have a sense of perspective.  I know these are small bumps in the road, minor disturbances.

My husband will take Jake to the movies.

And Ethan may perk up later today, feel better and go off to his scheduled play-date with his best friend while my husband takes Jake off to his beloved basketball program.

But I also know that what I will be doing if I get a moment to myself is sleeping, being horizontal, non-abdominal-muscle-engagingly prone.

Healing my body.  Not writing.

Another day.

Not this one. 

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