My Boy, He Has Some Skillz!

My little boy is sad. This makes me sad. As I may have alluded to earlier in the school year, Sam is finding it tricky to navigate the social wormhole that is first grade. He actually says, "Mom, it's tricky." My boy is nothing but astute when it comes to feelings, his feelings, but has a harder time figuring out his peers.

He had one constant friend, a little boy who is perhaps a little quirky too — but unlike Sam, X seems to be accepted by all the cool kids (the kids that Sam desperately wants to play with). Whereas in kindergarten play date invites were passed out to all like a bag of lollipops, first graders have settled on their favorite flavors and invites are not as forthcoming. Birthday party across the street? Not invited. He was hurt and blamed me for not taking him (I gladly accepted the blame).

This one little boy, though, had been pretty constant.

So when Sam announced that he plays alone at recess now — an unstructured, loud environment that had gotten better (I thought) with intervention from a few adults that were asked to facilitate — I asked him why? What about X? That's when my little boy said that X has a new friend. And that's when he started to cry. "He was my one, most special favorite friend, Mom. He doesn't play with me anymore."

Help, readers! I'm feeling blind rage towards first-graders! My first instinct is to scoop him up, move far away to a place where he is loved and admired for being such a special, brilliant kid. A place with kids who get him. Doesn't a place like that exist? Yes, he is quirky. Yes, he sometimes sounds like a 30-year-old when he talks. Yes, he has a hard time modulating his voice. But he is loving and caring and wants to be your friend. He wants you to be his friend. He is a damned good friend.

And just so you know, we have had X over numerous times. They play really well together but lately I hear X scolding Sam: "Why do you talk so loud? You don't need to yell, Sam." And while I know he has this tendency — I can't tell you how many times a day I remind him "Inside Voice!" — I bristle to hear one of his peers, who can be just as loud, lecturing him this way. I hate later, after the play date, when I ask him about it and Sam asks me, "Do you think he'll still be my friend?" I hate that the answer was apparently not.

Instead I hug him tight and tell him that it's hard when our friends seem to forget us when they make new ones. I suggest he try playing with both of them — and this is where it's tricky for me. I know that social relationships adapt and change frequently at this age. That is to say, I know this because I am told this. I have no practical knowledge of this phenomenon. I look around and what I see are pretty solid friendships going back to last year. What I see are kids who once played with him? Now they ignore him.

But then he says, "Mom, it's okay. I feel better. I'm drawing you a picture of how it goes." Ten minutes later he brings me this, an "Imformaition" key helpfully written on the back, and he explains:

"1. First I start off with the Happys (they are yellow).
2. Then something happens and the Attack begins (those are the red mixing with the yellow).
3. A Volcano forms and erupts (I yell or make noise).
4. The Angrys come in (they are red).
5. The Smokys are here and they make me very quiet.
6. The Blues, I am very sad.
7. There is a Problem now because I can't talk.
8. I Rest and then the Happys slowly return.
9. The Betters are here (they are green). And I'm okay."

He is more than okay. He is way better than I am.

I can't help but think that if he can so clearly express every stage of every emotion he feels, then he is doing way better than 99% of us. I think how I've had my head in the sand the last few months, not really able to deal with much and wonder how it might be different if I could draw myself a map of "how it goes" for me.

Homework.

Heaven is a Place

There's been a lot of talk about dead people and heaven lately. Sam is a bit consumed. There was the time our beloved Kitty died and he processed that with many drawings and a 3-D demonstration of the Thomas the Tank Engine life cycle (which I personally thought was genius).

It's been quiet — no more talk of death — for close to a year. But he's in first grade now — learning about presidents both dead and living, discussing Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday and why it's a holiday ("But he's dead, Mommy, right? Do they have birthday parties in heaven?") and suddenly he's all "Mom, can you tell me about your Grammie who died again? Your Grammie in Florida."

I oblige and tell him the bare minimum. I say, She was very sick and very old, Sam. I loved her very much and she loved you too. I don't tell him how there's a piece of me that aches when I think of her and that I don't really know the answers to his questions or the ones I sense are coming.

"How old was she?" he wants to know. Eighty-six, I say. "And how old was I? When she died." I tell him he and his brother were not yet two.

"Do we all die?" he asks. Yes, sweetheart, but after a very long, long time. My Grammie was pretty old.

"She's in heaven," he says. "But where is heaven? How do you get there?" I tell him the truth for once, that I don't know but that I imagine it's a beautiful place up in the sky where everyone is happy and it's sunny all the time. "But how do you get there?" I really don't know, honey, but I think your spirit flies up there when it's time.

What else can I tell a boy who gathers facts like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Facts are solid and make sense. Heaven is faith. Can my little boy have faith?

He dropped the subject for a few days and returned to poring over his encyclopedia (a requested item from Santa) and books about constellations.

Yesterday he came home from school and the first thing he said was "Listen, Mom? The Vikings thought that the Milky Way was a bridge the dead crossed from Earth to heaven." Drumroll, please… "That's what I think too. Okay?"

Well, okay then.

Well, Hello!

Happy New Year blog friends! We are just going to ignore the promises I made in this here blog and move forward. We will not mention the lofty goals I had as 2010 wound down (of writing every day, was I mad? in December?). Uh-huh. A little mad, yes — after two weeks of living inside a house full of vomit and diarrhea and two boys who never quite made it to the bathroom in time — you would be too. (Now I can laugh: hahaha! But I assure you, I was not laughing at the time.)

First, I just want to welcome a few new readers who have taken the time to comment recently. It means more than you know. When I first started blogging in 2006 I was overwhelmed with twins and autism. I felt utterly alone. I must say that five years later I am still overwhelmed with twins and autism but it's different now because of all of you. I disappear from here when life becomes too much, it's true, but I'm forever grateful that my posse is here when I return and that others join from time to time. So welcome to 4timesblessed (four children with ASD) and Lorraine (yes! both of my boys are left-handed), Betsy and Miss Erin and Jenny (all three autism twin or triplet moms), and Todd, a dad to twin boys on the spectrum. If you're blogging about your life, I look forward to reading and if you're not yet, I hope you think about it.

I love and miss all my blogging friends — all of you usual suspects :) Fairlington Blade (another dad to twins with autism) and Christine, pixiemama, Niksmom, Mom to JBG and Keen and Ilene (autism twin moms!), Eileen, Rhemashope, MOM-NOS, Jordan, bugiboogie, goodfountain, Betty & Boo, Kristen and Stimey.

Good god, I have a lot of catching up to do. See you soon.