Asking Why

Jake in the pool, Summer 2012

No, this is NOT a "Why Autism?" post.

Because that's just a tail-chasing exercise in speculation and futility. (My usual answer if pushed to spit one out is: just the right combination of genetic predisposition and environmental triggers, a complex process that is different in every individual on the spectrum. Epigenetics, dude.)

What this is, instead, is a post about hope. And awesomeness. And Jacob.

It's also long overdue, because what I'm about to share took place this summer, right at the end of our usual Berkshires vacation. Something I'm so excited about, been dying to share. But if you've been reading here for a while, you will recall that we returned home from vacation on a Friday evening at dinnertime in mid August, only to have the phone ring at 2 AM with the news that my mother had fallen in the nursing home, and was headed to the hospital.

So things got a little out of hand in my life at that point, and this post sat, languishing and half-written in my "zombie files" of unfinished posts that I really mean to complete and send out into the world someday.

And so this is that day...

There is something new afoot... a wonderful blossoming in Jacob's development...

At the boys' Aunt Patty and Uncle Jimmy's house in Great Barrington there is a wonderful pool. And Jake, given his druthers would spend nearly all day there. He is OK in it alone - with me right at poolside watching OF COURSE - but prefers the company of others for his frolicking.

So the day before our final packing and leaving day, we had all been in the pool together, having fun, playing our version of something like pool volleyball.  This involved Ethan and I playing against Danny, with no net and semi-contentious guesstimating of the center line and outer boundaries and which were actually point scoring shots. Meanwhile Jacob was parallel playing a game of catch with all 3 of us with a separate ball, right in the middle of it all.

I had begged a moment to myself to just float off to the deep end which was still bathed in sunshine. Dan had gotten out of the pool for a moment and was getting back in the water when Jacob looked up at him.

I heard Jacob asking his daddy one of his thousand incessant questions and I had piped in to help answer it when I suddenly realized -- hey! This wasn't yet another usual Jacob question, rhetorical and answer-already-known; his idea of conversation.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

What had I heard? I replayed it in my head.

Jacob: "Why are you not wearing a shirt Daddy?"

WHAT?

It was a genuine, spontaneous, curious and wanting-to-know-the-answer WHY question.

A why question!!!!!!

And, because it came out so naturally, I answered just as naturally and didn't even realize what had happened until a full beat afterward: "Because boys and men have the option of not wearing a shirt when swimming and Daddy makes that choice, like Ethan does." (Jake prefers a swim shirt.)

And then I had the biggest cognitive double-take I'd ever taken.

Wh-WHAT?

I suppose Dan's shirtlessness had just registered with Jake, and as my husband is not the type to wander around our home without at least a t-shirt on, Jake rarely sees his Dad bare chested.

And he wanted to know why. And he asked.

(Simple really. But momentous if you know autism.)

I honestly did not know, up until that exact moment, if I would ever hear this from him, if he really understood the meaning of "why" - an abstract concept if ever there was one; certainly compared to who, what, and even when.

And maybe it makes sense that it happened in the pool where Jake is so happy from getting its sensory input needs met, water giving up so much more information and pressure than air against his every millimeter of skin. So brain firing on all cylinders, chugging along, he made a new connection, a leap.

It hasn't happened since, but I have no doubt that it will.

And on darker days, stormy and difficult, I consciously choose to turn around, look back to this bright shiny moment and remind myself: patience. He will get this; get there, in his own way, according to his own internal timetables. Remember: it's all inside, waiting to burst forth, someday. When he's ready.

And until then?

Patience. Love. Support. Set the bar high. Never give up hope.

And be prepared to hear to a thousand basketball statistics, while listening for the next "why?"

Alternate Side

A detail of my car's dashboard. Very 90s.

We have a car in Manhattan and we park it on the streets.

And that's every bit as insane as it sounds, but we have our reasons. ($400 a month garage fees being chief among the street-park decision.)

I never set out to be an auto-bearing Manhattanite, but rather had this thrust upon me when my very elderly parents moved back to New York and under my care about seven years ago, and their car came up from Florida with them.

It was full of dings and scratches, patches of other car colors that had been acquired by... violent proximity. Apparently at the end of his driving years, nearly every time he took the car out, my father would return with dents of unknown origin.

If my parents had just moved to Manhattan, I would have sold their car and been done with it. But no, they chose a senior residence in the northern reaches of Riverdale. (Technically in Yonkers even, though literally it was just a toehold over the line, on the north side of the dotted-line dividing street, rather than the south.)

I was their chauffeur, ferrying them to doctor appointments, shopping trips, Dad's one-man show at the Yonkers Library (his last big professional hurrah).

Now, other than weekend road trips and family vacations, I mostly drive Ethan to school on alternate side parking days, when the car must be ritually moved and re-parked.* Twice a week. More if we've used it and been unlucky in our parking choices upon return.

And after dropping Ethan off, I have about an hour to kill before it's time to re-park. The perfect excuse for morning coffee with the mom-friends.

This morning our conversation spanned hysterectomies, Gay Day at the Mall of America, rating of local pediatricians, concern for a friend having a hospitalization-worthy manic episode, homework, Sacha Baron Cohen, Simon Baron Cohen, the horrors of the middle school application process, Freddy Mercury, a theatrical parent's reaction to numerous boyfriends over the years until her loudly sung declaration of the husband to be: "Keeeeeeper!"

Once again I was filled with that warm snugly feeling that I have the best friends in the world.

A particularly supportive non-judgmental group; when I hear of women complaining about the competitiveness, vindictiveness and shallowness of women's relationships I can't help but think: "Who the Hell are YOU befriending?" because that so does not describe anyone I know or choose to spend time with. Then again we're not the "perfect" moms in designer clothes (unless they came from Filene's or Loehmann's) with the "perfect" children. Far from it.

Giving a friend a ride home after coffee today, she hopped into the passenger seat and seemed delighted to find I had a cassette deck in my dashboard, with actual cassettes in the cubby. (I did mention it's a 1997 sedan that had been previously owned by old people - i.e. my parents -  right?)

She grabbed Special Beat Service and popped it in and we started loudly caterwauling together, singing along to "Sugar and Stress" as we barreled up Amsterdam Avenue.

By the time I dropped her at her door "End of the Party" was playing. A hauntingly beautiful song. We had spent much of the car ride talking about how important music has been to us at various times in our lives.

I mentioned how one of my blog friends had included a song in her post that sent me on a wild nostalgia ride: Kate Bush singing "This Woman's Work."

And then, a few moments later, just as I'd found a parking spot, the heavens opened up and a torrential downpour ensued, the kind that laughs at your puny little umbrellas as it soaks you with sideways rain and from the ground up in great splashing puddles.

There was thunder and lightning involved, and the blaring of alarms, as cars close to the strikes rocked in the violence of the electrically discharging blasts.

Me? I sat toasty in my bubble, listening to my old music on the cassette deck; enjoying the spectacle outside my windows.

Windows, from a rainy window

Trees above, through windshield raindrops

So I will leave you with a few words from and a video of this English Beat song I Confess: "I know I'm shouting, I like to shout!" Enjoy:

*Note: this is a post from my "Zombie Files" - written months ago, and just finished up and posted today (being reminded of it by the rain). Right NOW I am actually using the car a LOT driving back and forth to Long Island where my mother is in a nursing home.

Lost Stories of BlogHer11: Rooming with Royalty and a TV Star

Me with my BlogHer11 Roomies: Alexandra & Shari

Well, it's the DAY BEFORE BlogHer12 begins, and I have just realized that I have an unpublished post from last summer's BlogHer11 still sitting in my "zombie files" - where posts that I began and never finished, but to which I'm too attached to just leave for dead, sit and wait for resurrection...

OK, don't laugh, here it is: my final BlogHer11 wrap-up post. And only 364 days after the actual event.

Once again, I’m late to the party; very, very late. Everyone put up their “seriously folks, this is my very last post about BlogHer11” post in late August, about the time I put up my FIRST one. But here's my little secret: if you're late enough you can be early.

So really, this isn't a ridiculously late BH11 post, it's another pre-BH12 post. Voila!

Part of it is that I’m just not a quick digester, I like to ruminate (sorry about the visceral image that metaphor may conjure up). And then there’s, you know, my crazy life. Oh, and did I mention I have ADD. Bad. Yeah, that might be part of it too.

Because I STARTED writing this post on the plane home from BlogHer11 in early August. Last August.

And now I'm finishing it the night before BlogHer 12 kicks off here in my own New York City. One whole year later. (Note to self: work on this ADD thing, OK? Sheesh!)

So....

First of all, I was THERE, at BlogHer11. (And at first I typo-ed that as “BlogHer111” and amused myself by thinking while fixing it, “no that’s not for another 100 years yet.” Now wouldn’t it be something if it were still going on then? Although what that would look like? What media will exist in 2111? I have no idea. So exponential is the rate of technological evolution and advancement at this point, it renders this inquiry mind-bogglingly unimaginable.)

Yes, I actually flew across the country and was immersed up to my elbows in all things Bloggy, at the biggest women’s blogging convention EVER. But, oddly enough, without either the physical or mental capacity to write anything. Oh, I made sure my SN Sibling Saturdays guest post went up (by putting in significant 2 AM time at the hotel’s rent-a-computers center). But other than that? Nada.

And then I came home to the then nine year-old twins, 24/7. And the Autism. And the ADD. And two weeks worth of everyone’s laundry. And I could go on, but I'll spare you.

So I went to BlogHer11, and yes it was terrific, in oh so many ways. I had many tales I could tell, especially about being STYLED by some wonderful ladies. Did I overindulge a bit, were those three days a little over-stuffed? Yes, you might say. But also deeply satisfying.  

And, as always it seems, some of the best parts were unplanned, the result of serendipity or gifts of circumstance; seemingly forced upon me by necessity, but bearing wonderful fruit.

Most importantly, if I could have afforded it, if I hadn’t been doing it on the way-cheap, on a budget of nearly nothing - early bird conference rate, frequent flyer miles airfare, all but one meal free, ridiculously cheap ride to/from airport, etc. etc.? I probably would have stayed in a room alone (a room to myself being a rare-to-never luxury in my life these days). And that would have been a tragedy of epic proportions.

Because, I? Ended up rooming with Royalty and a red-headed TV Star. Oh, yes.

I had booked my room way early FOR ONCE, instead of scrambling at the last minute (usual M.O.) and so I had a much desirable room at the actual conference hotel. I then, eventually (you didn't think I did EVERYTHING on time did you?) set about conjuring up a roommate.

And I got two: the Empress Alexandra of the blog Good Day Regular People, and the lovely Shari, she of the blog: Earth Mother Just Means I'm Dusty. Two very funny women.

Now, pretty much everyone seems to know that Alexandra is also known as "The Empress" due to the royal names of her children and her regal, generous personalty. Alexandra is a blogger much beloved on the internet, and was being wined and dined by many in San Diego, as she was a Voice of the Year speaker.

But did you also know that Shari, the amazing "Dusty" (aka her blog name) is also a reality TV star? Yes, beautiful and funny - what a combo - she recently had her kitchen done over for a reality TV show - and here's her v-log post about it. 

So a merrier band has ne’er been seen in all the world. Truly. We got along famously, like a house on fire. It was like the best parts of being college roommates (heart–to-heart discussions in PJs, honest & hilarious clothing & make-up consultations) without all the other crap (being 18 again and confused & insecure - shudder, shudder).

I had known Shari already in real life, both of us being local members of the sadly defunct Silicon Valley Moms Group Blog. We had bonded over being older moms together, and our love of all things New York City.

Alexandra I had known only online, and I was prepared for a connection, as we had been leaving insightful supportive comments on each others' posts, and tweeting away together for at least a year. But I had no idea how much it would be love at first sight. It was like we had been friends forever.

And she brought me & Shari each this wonderful pendant, just because we let her room with us:

On the back: Super Mom, Super Busy, Super Tired

They were the best roommates EVER. And did not hate me when my husband rang my cell phone at 3 AM local time, waking EVERYONE up, to ask where our son's lunch box might be. (Guess who usually does mornings with the boys?)
 
Last year, Alexandra was a VOTY reader and this year, Shari and I BOTH are. I think maybe some of Alexandra's sparkly magic, filled the room and cast its glow upon on us while we all slept.

I so look forward to seeing them both again this year, hugging them and riding off into the sunset together... or maybe just cruising the Expo hall in search of Dove bars and a good laugh.

I will always...

Ethan, at bedtime this evening was not quite ready to let go of the day. He was in a talkative mood, rare recently as he has been reading until deep drowsiness sets in, sometimes even falling asleep on the sofa, a seven-hundred-plus page tome of Harry Potter's exploits resting spread open upon his slowly rising and falling chest. A comforting weight, perhaps.

But tonight something had him stirred up, and thus my need to talk him back down.

"Mom, will you always love me?" he asked. (Not a chit-chat night, then. Alright.)

Although he has heard the answer a thousand times, he somehow needed to hear it anew tonight, for the thousand and first: "Ethan, these two things are absolutely true: I will always be your Mom, and I will always love you."

"Well," he says being practical about it, "we will love each other until whoever dies first."

(Love AND death. Stirred up, indeed.)

"That had better be me!" I tell him, "But preferably not until I'm an old, old lady."

"A hundred and two?" he suggests.

"Yes, that would do, nicely. And with plenty of grandchildren at my knee." (It's never too early to plant the seeds.)

I tell him the old joke: "Do you know how to live to be 102 years old? Get to 101, and then be very, VERY careful."

(Possibly one of the best unforeseen benefits of having kids: old jokes are new to them and considered hilarious; I get to trot out all my favorite shopworn groaners to an appreciative audience. Win!)

He laughs, but then I round the corner back to serious again.

"And also... you do know, love goes on after death. I still love your Grandpa, my Dad, and he is dead."

"Yes," he nods solemnly, contemplating his blanket, and then looks up, breaks out in a big grin.

"But hugs don't, so hug me now, Mama!" and he opens his arms wide. He opens his arms wide, to me.


In honor of today being the very last day of NaBloPoMo November, I decided to sift through my drafts, resurrect one more post from my zombie files. I had thought of this as a snippet, not quite a full post for wordy, rambling me. But reading it over I realized: "yes, it could be enough." 

And thus... it is done. 30 posts in 30 days. Goodnight!  


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A Member of the (not so) Secret Grammar Police

You may or may not know this about me: like a lot of other dorky writers, I'm a bit of a language and grammar nut. I know in this blog I don't always use 100% proper grammar 100% of the time. But I can assure you that 99.9% of the time, if I don't? It's on purpose, for reasons of literary integrity, cadence, emphasis, etc.

A blog is not a formal paper, after all. Sometimes I want it to sound like we're having an intimate conversation, like I'm sitting beside you, whispering my thoughts, inches from your ear. And friends? I don't always speak in complete sentences, with proper grammar, it's true.

But some stuff? The really egregious stuff? Drives me completely batty. Like using the wrong "there, their or they're." Really, people, didn't you learn that in second grade?

See? I instantly become a member of the secret grammar police, schoolmarmish, clucking my tongue and rolling my eyes and generally taking everything you say 50% less seriously if you use certain words wrong. I'm sorry. I know it's elitist. But I can't help myself.

But also, like (I think) all grammarians, I have my favorite, pet non-grammatical phrases. I know they're dead wrong but love them anyway. Like this one: "needs done."

And? "Y''all." Because there is NO plural for you in "proper" English. And it needs one, doesn't it? "Y'all" will suffice. 

And then there's punctuation. My blog voice is halfway between literary & conversational, making it sometimes hard to find just the right balance between "proper" and functional.

So often I literally hear the words in my head as I write, and then am scrambling to find a way to make the punctuation work just right so that you will hear them EXACTLY the way that I heard them, too - or as close as you can since you will likely be hearing your own voice reading my words to you.

Unless you are my friend in real life, then you might hear my actual voice talking to you. Or not.

Maybe you hear Katharine Hepburn or Carol Kane or your Aunt Matilda (or Tweetie Bird for that matter) reading my words in your head. I have no control over that. We never really know what is going on inside other people's heads anyway, do we? (OK, digression over, back on topic now...)

But, even though I have no REAL control, I do what I can to clone my voice into your brain. Trying to parse things like: What sort of pause is a dash verses a comma, a comma verses a semi-colon? What level of emphasis is ALL CAPS verses bold verses being set off with *apostrophes*? How much of a shout is *ALL THREE AT ONCE*? (And is that ever justified?)

Also? Correct pronunciation counts. Sorry but it does.

I was raised by New Yorkers who had no New York accents, who were literate and believed that sounding intelligent was a good thing. (Did this get me shunned on the playground from time to time, left as the cheese who stands alone in the games of Farmer in the Dell? Probably, but it was worth it.)

If you said "axe" instead of "ask" around my mother? She would literally turn green, ask who you were planning to chop up. And our next door neighbor kids, who I played with every summer? Their Mom was from South Carolina. Axe, axe, axe away how they pronounced THAT one.

I've learned in the wisdom of my old age to keep my damn mouth shut, to not actually roll my eyes, to keep my polite on; because I really don't need to get into silly altercations about such trivial things after all, do I?

But in my mind? The schoolmarm is quite alive.

Take "nuke-u-lar."  Pronounce nuclear that way, and I immediately shave approximately 30 IQ points right off you. Which is why if I ever hear any of this come out of Ethan's mouth? (And I do.)  I get on his case like a tiger.  He pushes back: "It's not fair, Mom, Jake says stuff wrong all the time." And that's true.

But Jacob has an excuse. He has autism, and furthermore, his particular flavor of autism is heavy on the language processing deficit stuff. Ethan knows this, knows if he goes on I will ask him the up-shutting question: "Do you really want to trade places with your brother? Because you know, life has actually been very not fair to him. But if you'd really prefer to be the twin with autism..."

And yes, I know this seems like nitpicking. But remember, in the animal kingdom actual nitpicking is an act of friendship and camaraderie. An important part of the social contract among our primate ancestors: you pick my bugs off and and I'll pick yours.

Speaking of which, since no one is proofreading my stuff but me, and sometimes I'll miss things that are obviously a mistake - like dropped apostrophes on "it's" and missing prepositions - if you DO catch something in my blog that needs fixing and isn't a clear style choice? Would you let me know?

I know it's not in the official spirit of blogging - write it and move on - but I *WILL* go back in and correct things in my posts. Sometimes multiple times (but not on Stream of Consciousness Sundays which are supposed to have all mistakes left intact, YIKES).

Because those occasional stray commas? Make me twitch if I find them in my blog. Oh, yeah, it's, fun, being, me. (Twitch.)

Note: This post is one from the Zombie Files. Since yesterday I said that they were "coming soon," I figured I had better make good on that promise, and sooner rather than later.


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