The Order of Things

He says, "Mom? You're number one." I'm curious, mostly because he has an uncanny way of remembering the order of things.

So I reply, "You mean like you're number six at school?" Because in second grade, that's how they do it — each child lines up for lunch, recess, specials — all by a special number assigned alphabetically by the teacher.

A week in to the school year, when Sam is able to recite who is what number, I'm fascinated. When I point out that the order is done alphabetically, he says "No, it's not. Number one is Maddie, number two is Alex." I explain that the order is by last name and his eyes get bigger as he rattles off their names again with this new information.

I'm amazed that he ordered everyone by number and not alphabetically.

When he starts checking out books at the library on the U.S. presidents, I am relieved he's moved on to a new topic, because let's face it — how much more could he possibly learn about geography? Or cloud formations?

Pair a new interest with his current Animaniacs obsession and now my son knows every U.S. president in chronological order. (Sam, who is number 15? "James Buchanan, Mom.") This song is in heavy, heavy rotation around our house. He sings it non-stop. It's quite something to hear these lyrics explode from his mouth:

Tom Jefferson stayed up to write
The Constitution late at night 
So he and his wife had a great big fight 
And she made him sleep on the couch all night 

James Madison never had a son 
And he fought the War of 1812
James Monroe's colossal nose 
Was bigger than Pinocchio's

What a skill — my brain has no such ability.

What I do have is a new appreciation for the way Sam orders his world. There is much comfort to be found in predictable, unalterable facts. It's the other stuff — it's the people in our lives. It's the emotional, the messy, the unpredictable that makes him anxious. Me too. I guess you just hold on and trust that order will eventually arise from chaos.

A book! A book!

I have spectacular news: The awesome women over at The Thinking Person's Guide to Autism have published a book and I am thrilled and honored to be included on its roster of authors. Thrilled!

Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism:
The Autism Book You’ve Been Waiting For

Redwood City, CA December 19, 2011 — “Refreshingly free of dogma, disinformation, and heavy-handed agendas, Thinking Person's Guide to Autism is an oasis of sanity, compassion, and hope for people on the spectrum and those who love them.” —Steve Silberman, senior writer for Wired magazine and autism/neurodiversity blogger for the Public Library of Science

"Thinking Person's Guide to Autism is the book we wish we'd had when autism first became part of our lives: a one-stop resource for carefully curated, evidence-based information from autism parents, autistics, and autism professionals."

I am so happy to be part of it. The Thinking Person's Guide to Autism publishes a wide variety of voices on its web site and in the last year some important, thought-provoking conversations have taken place there. You can read more about the book here — and it's available for purchase on Amazon. Congrats all!

Count Your Blessings

I'm not sure when I stopped paying attention to what was playing on the radio — no, that's not true. I stopped once I had kids and was more concerned with what dangers lurk outside — as if I monitored it all, I could keep my boys safe. NPR, news stations, weather and traffic updates.

I've started listening to music again. Adele? Love her. How did I live without her?

Throw your soul through every open door
Count your blessings to find what you look for
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold
You pay me back in kind and reap just what you sow.
—"Rolling Back the Deep"

I think the toughest thing I've faced as a mother was John's heart surgery when he was a baby. And although autism has been a rocky ride? It is this holiday season that takes second place. Count your blessings, and I do. I must. I'm so grateful for family and friends who swoop down and envelop me with love, and for each of you who reads — thank you.

Granite Days

I feel my way through the days, I am parting sheets of granite with my bare hands. Sometimes the effort it takes feels both herculean and insufficient. Everywhere I look there are things to be done, things to look at. I feel my power surge and fall and with it my ability to sleep. But I am strong. I feel this as an absolute. It can be no other way.

My children show me this every day.

A little boy who has always insisted others draw for him, whose grasp on a crayon or a marker has always been hesitant and weak — this boy has accomplished the herculean. Drawing by himself. Sometimes with prompts but more and more often self-motivated. Finding his power, his ability, his strength.

Contracts

We are a household of contracts — some sacred, some broken. I love you is one. The day you marry, they are binding and loud and carry the punch of possibility. Eventually I love you rolls off your tongue like a habit, Working late. Sorry. Love you. Old and familiar meant to quiet and reassure. You hear I love you and think He loves me, not He loves someone else. But you should be listening to the subtext. You should be on high alert and why is it you have not been on high alert. Oh, trust? Yeah. Well.

I think I love you is overused.

It is different when it comes to my children. My I love you for them is a song my entire being knows by heart. I love you is not a habit or a manipulation or a ruse. My I love you is my compass, my truth.

Sam has his own ideas about contracts. I'm not clear on how or why he organized his thoughts under the heading of a Contract, and am only slightly concerned that under traits for John he came up with "tormented" (when asked what he meant, he explained, "you know, when I torment him" Terrific.). I asked him, "And what else is here under John? ARTISTIC? Did you mean AUTISTIC? and he sighed and said, "No, Mom. I mean ARTISTIC, that's what it says." Well, I guess it does.

Happy, tormented, artistic. Nice, great, silly.

Sometimes, we say what we mean and mean what we say. I don't know what to do, though, with words when they're the places we hide behind.