A Post About Snow and Sanity

On this, the eve of Colossal Snow Storm #2, we pause to ponder how the shortest month of the year already feels like the longest. Last week we had a snow day for a mere six inches — can you imagine? Wimps.

Well, no longer — the Blizzard of 2010 dumped 27 inches on us three days later. No school today, no school tomorrow, I dare say there will be no more school until March.

This area of the world shuts down at just the threat of flakes, so you can imagine what a mess we're all in.

I am stuck inside with two boys who thrive on routine and we are sorely lacking any — unless you count the consumption of sugary cereals in front of the TV all day. We can't even go out and sled the snowy slopes, all because Sam had surgery three days ago.

The things I forget to blog about! He is fine, he had a hernia repair which was scheduled months ago and required delicate and thoughtful social stories, not to mention blackmail. And presents.

The threat of getting stuck in a blizzard was nothing compared to the thought of postponing his surgery and starting to prep him all over again.

Lots of drama, lots of waiting, lots of anxiety. Even though John had much more serious surgery as a baby, I felt no less emotional watching them put him under. It was so much harder, I think, because he was aware and he was scared. In the end it didn't matter how well we tried to prepare him. He refused to change into his hospital gown, which is how I found myself dressed in scrubs carrying him kicking and screaming into a cold and stark OR. I will never forget his screams as they tried to hold him down for the anesthesia — they twisted my insides raw.


It's not easy to turn your boy over to a room full of strangers.

Well. It was fine, he was fine, even though it took a full hour for him to wake up. We made it home just as the first flakes started to stick to the ground and huddled together for the duration. And here we are: stuck inside, no routines except for the new Snow Time ones we are creating.

My Incredibly Bad Day

Some days are harder than most and some days have nothing to do with autism. If you're really paying attention, you might notice signs that you're headed into a black hole of a day, but who has time to actually pause like that. You just put one foot in front of the other and cling to your routines. Monday? Wake up. Get boys up. Feed cat, make mental note she walked away without eating again. Make lunches. Pack backpacks. Wipe one child's nose, feel forehead, no fever. Bus driver calls, they are running late. Pace. Put one child on the bus, drive the other to school. Ignore car groans.

Breathe.

Race to meet a client. This is important, she is handing over a job and a check and the mortgage is due today. You're grateful for the slow return of freelance and are racing the clock to meet her. You are already 20 minutes late and although you called her already, you are now five minutes later than you said you'd be.

Sigh.

At last you arrive and rush in spilling apologies. Job is handed over, so is the all-important payment. She needs to leave and you're FINE with that. You congratulate yourself on arranging to meet at a coffee shop. You get your cup of joe, settle in a comfy couch. Now you will work, or write. Maybe gather your thoughts.

The cat. Hmm. Maybe you should call the vet. You call and say, She stopped eating yesterday, maybe a hairball is bothering her? Bring her in at noon, they say. That's two hours from now — you can get so much done.

Phone rings and now it's John's school. What? A runny nose. But no fever. You want me to pick him up. Now? (Are you kidding me?)

As you pack up your stuff, you imagine the task ahead — keeping John from stomping around the house as you try to locate the cat. The cat who has disappeared out of fear of his stomping feet — the one with the uncanny ability to sense she is going to the vet. She will surely be somewhere in the far reaches of the basement.

Breathe.

Drive the 15 or so miles up to John's school. Park at the curb, leave your hazards on — you know you're not supposed to park here, but you'll be in and out. He's SO happy to see you and jumps into your arms, saying "Mommy's car?" You smile, gather his things and say goodbye to his teacher. "Mommy's car. Mommy's car." he repeats, bouncing down the corridor and out to the curb where your car sits, flashing hazards.

Strap him in, get behind the wheel. Breathe. Look at watch: 45 minutes until you have to get cat to vet. You think, I can do this. Turn key in ignition and stare dumbfounded when it doesn't turn over. Try again. Nope, nada. An ominous clicking sound too. Hmm. Who can you call to deal with this? Try husband at work. Not there. Call husband's cell. Not on! Go back and forth between the two until you realize you're not getting anywhere. Try Emergency Roadside Assistance number, cringe to hear 2-3 hour delay due to weather conditions in your area.

Look back at John in his seat and realize Major Meltdown is about to occur. Breathe. Call teacher. Hi, we're still in front of the school, car broke down. Um, can you come get John?

At the sight of his teacher, John starts to scream, cry, body drop as we walk him back into the school. You hold his hand, reassure him, I'm coming too. He won't quiet until you take off your coat. Still alternating between husband at work, husband's cell, tow truck. Add in vet now since you realize you are not going to make your appointment. Ask if they can see you later, yes after 6.

Stare at John's team of women: 1 teacher, 4 paras. One, you've always liked her, says It sounds like the battery. I have jumper cables, let's try that. Cool, you think, remembering a time long ago when you used to travel with your own cables. Of course, that was before you drove a minivan and felt all untouchable sitting there in your high leather seats.

Ignore John's cries as you put on coat again. Know that he will stop once you've left and they've given him computer time. Bright spot: the jump works and Mom's Minivan is running. A call is made, John's teacher brings him outside, runny nose and all.

Finally you are home. Breathe. Let him clop-clop around the house, your appointment with the vet is later. Finally get in touch with husband, make him promise to be home early so you can get to vet. Drag John down to pick up his brother at school, remember too late that Sam has a play date. At your house. You never got the chance to clean up the mess that was already there. Sigh.

Play starts off well, but Sam's friend is scared of the cat "Zoey is danger," Sam tells him, and the boy's eyes open wide. "She hisses and is mean." You tell them that she is just old and she is not feeling well, and furthermore, he should not scare his friend like that, he won't want to come back. "Is she sick and old and then she'll die?" he asks. She's old, but Mommy's taking her to the vet to feel better. He is still obsessing on his life cycles.

Play date over, you've fed your children and husband arrives home just in time. You go searching for the cat, find her on the rug upstairs. She doesn't normally lie there, she prefers your bed. Her kitty sense doesn't seem to be working because she eyes the carrier and doesn't move. So you are easily able to get her in it although the howling starts immediately.

Arrive at vet, they pull her out, listen to her heart, notice her panting, listen to your story about the eating, the lethargy. You ask Could it be a cold? Vet asks assistant to take her to another room, says she needs to talk to you. You hear Respiratory Failure and Congestive Heart Failure. You hear Possible tumors and Humane decision and suddenly you are sobbing.

The vet is kind and forceful and probably 15 years younger than you. You want to say My day! My life! and Autism and Twins and Oh. My. God. I keep it all together. Every. Single. Freakin' Day. You will not send me over the edge because my 14-year-old cat is dying tonight.

But of course I didn't say that, I told you instead. And I did lose it, and she did die and I decided it should be peaceful. I thought my grief would swallow me — and maybe it's a grief built on bigger things, I'm not sure. But today I decided, Slow down. Pay attention to the details.

And maybe breathe a little more.

The Cycle of Life

He comes home chattering about bones. I'm only half listening, my mind is on other things. "What, honey?" I ask.

"We die and then we're all bones," he says.

"What?" I say again, my eyes wide. "Where on earth did you hear that? Did someone at school say that?"

"A- told me." I know A- to be a precocious little girl and I'm not surprised that it was her, only that this came up at all.

I don't recall learning such things in kindergarten, but they have been learning about the life cycle of plants, butterflies, mealworms. As soon as Sam walks through the door he's at his table sketching out his new knowledge. Until recently, the end of life has been a topic easily avoided. But today, Sam wants to talk about death and dying.

Baby, Boy, Big Boy, "Tinager", Grownup, Death, Gone

Huh.

"See, Mom, this is death. Gone. Bones."

"And what do you think about that?" I ask, stealing tricks from my former therapist.

He says, "When we're bones we're in the ground. Right?"

"Well, yes, but then we go to heaven and it's a very happy place, not that here isn't happy... and yes, death is part of the life cycle, but the human life cycle is really much longer than that of the mealworm," I try. Has he realized our mortality?

"Heaven? Kitty heaven?" he asks. "But Kitty is in Kitty Heaven!" he declares. We lost a beloved cat a year ago and all he knew was that it was sick and went away. I guess he thought it moved next door. My fault.

"Yes, he is. But he's so happy there, he has lots of kitty friends. And he eats his favorite cat food and fish every day."

"Oh, no! My Kitty is dead! I am sad!" and he starts pushing out tears. Literally. I can see his nose scrunch up as he tries to make them fall. I am fascinated. But then he is crying, "I want Kitty back! He was my friend! Zoey (our other cat) is NOT my friend, she hisses! I'll never see Kitty again?"

I concede that Zoey is a little mean. I pull a photo of Kitty off the fridge and hand it to him. "No, we won't see him again, but every time you think of him, he'll be here in your heart." I congratulate myself on navigating this subject for now, well aware that perhaps I should have tackled it a year ago. Cowardice.

The next few mornings, a teary Sam appears downstairs clutching Kitty's photo. Although he hasn't seen him in over a year, I can see he's processing. Each morning he tells me how sad he is and that he loved Kitty.

At last he seems to have moved on to a different life cycle — one that doesn't appear to include "Dead" and "Gone." All is better in the world:

The Many Thomases: Baby, Little Boy, Little Boy, Medium Boy, Big Boy, Teenager, Grownup

Scenes from a Play Date

I wish that I were the type of mother who came by her mothering skills naturally, who knew instinctively what normal looks like and did not always wonder, when faced with one of her children's many quirks: Is that the autism or is that just quirky? Does quirky = autism?

Well, take today — Sam was invited to a classmate's house for a play date. Because the other mom and I don't know each other very well, she invites me to join them once John gets home from school. Lovely of her. She is very nice and I am happy to get to know someone who has been nothing but warm to me, especially since we just met the week before at soccer.

John gets home, I grab his itouch and we start loading into the car. John is excited and says, "Sam school?" I tell him, no, we're going to get Sam at a friend's house. As soon as we arrive, John rushes by the other mom and heads upstairs. I have no idea why — he's never been here, but the mom waves him up, saying that there's nothing he can get into there. I'm reluctant to have him out of sight, but now Sam runs up to me dressed up as a Ninja Turtle. His little friend is behind him, dressed as a boxer, and looking a tad impatient.

I take in the scene. This little boy seems a lot more mature than Sam and I'm sensing the play date isn't going that great. That's okay, right? Not every play date is going to be terrific, but it looks like at least they both wanted to play dress-up. The other mom says something to her son and he and Sam turn and head back downstairs. She beckons me towards the kitchen and offers me a drink. We trade chit-chat — she's a school counselor I had no idea, she knows someone I know...

And she IS lovely, this is lovely — the idea that I'm the type of mother who gets to have coffee with another mom because our kids are having a play date. But it's a sham because I am not able to relax. There's one boy above me and one below. Who knows what John is getting into. And Sam's face? It looked a little lost and confused even if determined. He can be persistent when trying to play. So I say, "I'm just going to check on John," and excuse myself.

Upstairs, I find him splayed on the older sister's bed. The older sister is, of course, also there and looks a little aghast at the sight of him there atop her many pink pillows. "Oooohh boy," I say, forcing a smile, "sorry he stormed into your room, what a surprise that must have been!" and I scoop him up.

Downstairs, I give John his itouch, hoping it will keep him grounded, and I rejoin the other mom. Her son joins us with a sigh. I ask him where Sam is. At that moment Sam comes yelling up the stairs: "IT'S POOPY TIME! IT'S POOPY TIME!" and heads towards the bathroom. I'm sure my face is red. The other mom says "It's movie time?" I say no and suddenly I see she gets it.

Even though I know it's coming, I pray it's not.

"MOM! CAN YOU WIPE MY BUTT?"

So let me ask you. Is this behavior, Sam's that is:
a) typical 5-year-old acting out?
b) attributable to being on the spectrum?
c) bad parenting?

I'm thinking maybe c? — have got to teach that boy to wipe his own butt.

Teamwork

I clutch John's hand as we approach his brother's school. We are here to pick up Sam after Week 2 of an after-school soccer program, a program I thought would be great after hearing that a few of his classmates were enrolled. In the five minutes it takes to find the gym, no fewer than three teachers greet us, see John, and say "Hi Sam!"

Their faces are puzzled. I watch them trying to sort it out, Sam has a twin? Why didn't we know Sam has a twin?

We find the gym and look inside. Eight or so boys are running around between two nets, a coach is yelling encouragement. There are just a few minutes left and more parents are arriving behind us. John takes in the open expanse, the rolling ball, and yanks me in. Before I can get a good grip, he darts free. At first he just runs the perimeter of the gym, but then he begins to weave in between the group of boys, his eye on the moving ball.

Sam spots him, stops playing and yells, "Coach C! Look, it's John! He's my brother! Can he play?"

Coach C pauses, glances at me. I mouth Sorry! and he says,"Sure, John, come on!"

John laughs and runs in and out of the group, flapping excitedly. Coach C calls the group over for a huddle but Sam won't join unless John does too. He's pulling him and pulling him and I am keenly aware of all eyes on me: the coach, the kids, all the parents...

I weigh my options: go and hoist him out of there risking an epic meltdown or go help him sit in the circle with the other kids. I opt for the latter and as I near him, John yells all on his own "Sit down!" and takes a seat with Sam. Relieved, I kneel behind him.

The coach talks about teamwork and how great they did. Sam interrupts, "And my brother did really great too!" He grins at John and John throws his arms around him. At first I think it's John, excited, wanting to engage Sam in roughhousing, which is known to happen a lot these days. But then, no, I see John's grin and realize that he is genuinely happy to be here, sitting in this gym with his brother.

And then they're done and here we are leaving the gym. Sam says, "Mommy, I want John to come to MY school, not his school, okay?"

I am too choked up to reply.