A stumble down memory lane…

Summer is winding down, and I have to start thinking of all the prep for colder months.  You read right: I’m organizing the garage again.

Life is just an accumulation of stuff, isn’t it?  For some reason, I can send along clothes and shoes we no longer wear.  I can hand-down dishes, pots and pans, small appliances.  I have even, in my mission to downsize and pare down, passed along holiday decor that doesn’t make sense for us anymore.  In the middle of that is left of all that sits a plastic crate I can never really address fully…

I opened it today.  I admit to you that I was looking for old letters my dad wrote to me when he was still talking to me, and before e-mail became his medium.  I found, among other things, letters and cards from people that, for the life of me, I have no idea who they are.  I found greeting cards, postcards, notes and post-its.  And I found dad’s letters.

I read everything else, but those I simply put aside and tied with a rubber band.  I will deal with them later.  I can’t do it right now.

Instead I focused on the kids’ old papers from school.  Drawings, scribblings, certificates of recognition, doodles.  I found all of J’s comm books from his first year of school.  I found notes the teacher sent attached to hand-over-hand work he’d done.  We were all so excited!

I found school pictures that document J’s development from a cute waif-like creature to the strapping young man he is now.  I found the first one with a hint of mustache.  I found the first one where he was absolutely terrified of the camera and is cowering.  I found the one where he agreed to wear a long-sleeve polo shirt, and the one where his hair did the Alfalfa thing.

I framed three of the photos and showed it to J.  He smiled at himself.  It took him a moment to recognize the skinny kid with the bright mile and the spiked up hair, but he knows it him.  And he knows these are school pictures, and he knows he’s not going back. Yesterday, in preparation for our short vacation trip in a few weeks, I went looking for a backpack I can use, and J didn’t want me to get one…because it’s the sort of thing that reminds him of school.

We have started introducing the subject of this trip we’re taking.  The place will be familiar, and we’ve chosen the same hotel we used the last time.  Our itinerary will be simple.  We will see what we really, really, REALLY want to see first, and then -when J decides he’s done- we’ll follow his lead.  We’ve been researching places where he might enjoy eating, and we’re packing our comfortable walking shoes.  We will be ready for whatever adventure J is inclined to pursue, and for whatever he’s not.

Yesterday he wanted to go to the movies.  This was a slightly tricky proposition because J is not the kind of individual who can go to watch the same movie several times AT THE THEATER.  At home he can watch the same thing over and over and over and over, but the theater is usually a one-shot deal.  Since we’d been to Kubo last week (have you seen it yet?) we were at a loss.  Our calendar reminded us that The King and I would be showing at the local theater so off we went to watch it.

If you’ve read this blog before you know that J is a fan of musicals.  Most of them, of course, he was experienced at home, and we all know that’s just not the same thing.  Yesterday he got to watch Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr on the big screen.  It was a treat for him.  He was so happy!  Not only are the songs familiar, but he could see all the details much more clearly.  I have to confess that we had a wonderful time, too.  I am, after all, the girl who understood romance from seeing Yul Brynner reach for Deborah Kerr’s waist before twirling her around the floor with careless abandon.  (Yes…I sighed out loud and, says Dada, I squeaked…)

Today we are in “I have a cold” mode, and I think it’s more a matter of “I want to sit on the couch and be cuddly with you, mother” than anything else.   The weather, though, HAS started changing and J now wants his flannel sheets when he makes his bed, and he has plugged in his electric throw.  He hasn’t turned it on yet, but it’s ready just in case.  Regardless of the temperature outside, he feels a change in the air, and our resident chipmunk running around gathering food is a clear indication that summer is winding down.

So it’s back to the garage and the bins for me.  And looking for a backpack or such is necessary, too.  Post-school life goes on and we are happily realizing that we’re all moving forward…some us limping…some of us bouncing…but forward is that way, and that’s the way we’re going…

 

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A little rant on a Thursday…

Please, bear with me…I know I’m going to come across as a horribly old, cranky, not-with-it person, but I do have a point.

Raise your hand if you have a child, or are close to someone, or actually have ASD.  OK…good.  Present and accounted for, and I should have waited until AFTER my shower AFTER our run to raise my hand, but that’s neither here nor there.

Every single day, as J’s parent and primary caregiver, I work with him to make him more socially functional.  This is, as you know if you raised your hand, not as easy as it sounds to those uninitiated in the intricacies of ASD.

J has been taught when to say HELLO, and still has to be reminded.  His response to HELLO is something he has learned through effort and consistent repetition.  HELLO means to him something he does to fit into a social scenario.  When it does happen spontaneously, it is quite lovely, and we make a huge deal of it.

J has also had to learn that eye contact (while disturbing and difficult for him) is something other’s expect, and we encourage it when he feels comfortable with it.  We have also taught him to respond to his name; he knows when he’s being addressed, and we expect him to show a certain degree of attention, even if it’s only for a very brief moment.

We don’t expect J to be a walking, living, breathing example of Emily Post’s etiquette, but we do expect him to behave closer to what is considered acceptable social behavior so that others know an effort is being made, and so he will feel more a part of his social surroundings.  He is NOT, by any stretch of the imagination, a trained monkey, and we know that there are moments when his social behavior will be contingent on other stimuli that he cannot process in a way that satisfies others.  We do, however, expect him to ask for HELP and ESCAPE if he’s feeling overwhelmed and that, as you know if you raised your hand, is a significant social consideration towards others.

And here goes the rant…

Our tall, handsome, burly son is looked at like a weirdo when he displays any degree of antisocial behavior “out there” in the world.  People look out of the corner of their eyes, once in a while you can see they’re commenting, and they react as if J has committed some horrible faux pas if he doesn’t act like we think people are supposed to act when in the presence of others.  By this I don’t mean scratching his but, picking his nose, chewing with his mouth open, or farting in public (although he has done that, and we’ve told him he should ask for the bathroom because it’s off-putting.)  No, what I mean is when someone talks to him, J doesn’t answer or look at them.  That, my friends, is considered RUDE by the general population…

Let’s cut through the myth of the benevolent, happy-go-lucky disabled person who smiles and is extremely friendly.  That can be true, but it can also be bullshit.  Everyone has their moments, and (if you raised your hand) you KNOW that responding to the social cues in the way people expect can be overwhelming and, at times, even physically painful.

This is my point…really, I’m getting there…

We stand in line at the store, and in front of us are countless people who are on their cellphones.  They are talking, or texting.  They barely acknowledge the cashier.  They answer curtly, abruptly, rudely.  They ignore the “good morning” or the “did you find all you were looking for today?”  The cashier might roll his/her eyes, and chalk it up to “that asshole was rude.”

Cue us getting to the register.  We are NEVER on our phones.  We try to engage with the cashier with greetings, and thank you, and what not.  But heaven forbid the cashier should talk to J and J should not engage with them.  The sourness in the face of the person who says hello to him and doesn’t get a hello back is so obvious!  We try to explain, and we encourage J to respond socially…sometimes it works, others it doesn’t.

When you tell a cashier that your adult child has ASD and is non-verbal, they might reel back the deflation they previously displayed, or they might ignore YOU.  Why?  Because the rudeness, or the lack of social skills are the result of something that cannot be controlled.  If a person is focusing on their iPhone and acting like a self-absorbed ass, well, that iPhone cost a lot of money, and they’re paying for a service.  If a person is acting self-absorbed because Autism is part of their make-up…well, how dare they????

Look…I have nothing against cellphones.  Ok, that’s not true…I think cellphones have caused a greater deterioration of social skills than any other item we carry on ourselves.  Cellphones have destroyed our ability to communicate with each other because we are so focused on that one thing that we block out what surrounds us.  People now text in abbreviations and acronyms.  People no longer know how to sit in a waiting room not looking at what they have in their hand.

Case in point: on Tuesday I went to the doctor.  I was the only person there with a book.  The people who were on their phones suddenly saw something on the TV screen that they could latch on to for conversation, and they were GOOGLING about it while talking to each other.  I suddenly realized that they were looking at me like I was the rudest person in the room because I was not participating in this ritual…because I was reading.  So my absorption in this task was rude because I couldn’t look for a contribution to make to their conversation in an item that has no capabilities for accessing information from the ether.

I will sound like an old and cantankerous old lady, but the majority of kids out there are rude!  They don’t know how to talk to grown-ups; they don’t have the basic skills of courtesy and social interaction that my generation had to learn because our parents expected us to know how to behave.  Those same kids look J up and down like he’s a freak because of the way he acts, but how different is their self-absorbed, phone-obsessed, socially-inept behavior from his?  Oh, wait…it IS different because he is not focusing on himself, and failing to focus on others, in a socially-acceptable way.

I’m sure that if J walked around with earbuds, sunglasses, a cellphone in hand, people would just say “oh, he’s just a product of his generation.”  As it stands, J is just strange and antisocial, and we REALLY should’ve done a better job helping him adapt to society…

AAAAARGH!

Rant over…thank you.  As you were.

The patience of J…

I have to say, my friends, that we are impressed with our son.  He has, somehow, managed to learn how to patiently wait while one or another of his parents runs endless errands.  Yesterday it was my grand tour of doctors’ offices, and J spent the morning with Dada, running errands and getting a treat by having a sit-down breakfast at a diner, and going to the library.  The rest of the morning was rather dull; it included going to pay taxes, and stopping by Dada’s office.  It was almost noon when we arrived at my last appointment.  J waited patiently, and Dada dozed off next to him.

The morning, after a brief eruption involving J’s confusion about when his sitters will be coming over to cook dinner for him, went smoothly.  We understand that J wants to hang out with people closer to him in age, but insisting on seeing them Tuesday when they can come on Wednesday isn’t going to make things easier for anyone.  So we had a brief, and intense, back and forth about this, but we managed to make it through unscathed.  (And my blood pressure was actually quite nice when measured at the first doctor’s office, and positively picture-worthy at the second.)

The rest of the day went by quietly.  Dada returned to work, J relaxed in his TV room, and I fell asleep on the couch until J gently nudged me because his ESP (or his hypersensitive hearing) told him the timer for his afternoon snack had arrived.  The only out-of-the-ordinary activity was his desire to get his band-aids on, but I know that was because a) he’d been upset about the sitters being scheduled for the next night, and b) it had been a long morning.

Today he is happy.  He was up very early yesterday (because he knew we were going to the doctors,) but today he was up a little later and happily went back to bed when I said “we’re just going to have coffee so Dada can go to work.”  Big smile, thumbs up, lights out…  He didn’t emerge until nearly eight.

Of course, after having enough blood drawn to alarm the biggest chicken shit that ever lived (namely me!,) the doctor ran all sorts of tests from every angle possible.  The conclusion?  Ah, my friends…it’s fibromyalgia.  Thank goodness it’s not SLE, or MS, or MG, or RA, or ALS…not that the pain I’m often in isn’t an absolute mess for me, but I can deal with this.

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a “pill” person.  It’s not that I don’t love medical science.  Au contraire, my friends…I trust doctors.  Some doctors, of course, are better than others, and they actually take the time to listen to what is going on, and why you’re concerned.  Other doctors are a little less invested, and it’s harder to communicate with them.  I got lucky this time around, and they are being very exhaustive about everything they’re checking.

For starters, the iron level in my blood is quite alarming.  Or it WAS before I started taking iron supplements twice a day.  When I say “alarming” I mean “the specialist called the clinic so my PCP would see me immediately!”  They’re poking me everywhere.  No stone is being left unturned…no part of my body is being ignored.  The anemia was bad enough that they have to rule out internal bleeding so they’re doing every test imaginable to determine if that’s a problem.  By mid-October we will know if there are any major issues that should be surgically addressed.

In the meantime, we keep going.  I take the iron.  I eat well.  I exercise, and I go about my business.  I’ve been told, quite kindly by a doctor closer to me in age, that I need to be nicer to myself.  I could tell she wasn’t scolding me.  I could tell she knows.  She knows about J.  She told me that fibromyalgia is not uncommon among primary caregivers for elderly parents, sick spouses, disabled children.  She told me that we often put everyone else’s needs ahead of our own, and our bodies seem to hyper-react to this.  There are pills, she said, but you don’t look like a pill person, and I think you want to work on making it better through other means.

She’s right.  This thing (that, thankfully, now has a name) will stick around for a very long time, and I have to learn how to deal with it as best suits our situation rather than try to hide it behind a pill.  Maybe, somewhere down the line, that will change, but for now this is the way it goes.

I will get my exercise when J gets his exercise, and I will take my breaks while J relaxes.  I will stop doing EVERYTHING as quickly as I can, and I will focus on doing what I can when it’s reasonable.  I will take walks, read, do the chores, work with J on the things that J needs to work on, and let J do what he wants to do independently.  Dada and I want to get old.  We are no longer young, but we are not “old” yet…and we want to make sure we transition into being elderly in the best way possible.

Oh, it’s not going to be easy.  I don’t think I’m wired for concerted idleness.  I grew up among women who would sit quietly doing other chores as one of them read the paper out loud.  The household of my childhood was a household of productivity that, to the hustle and bustle of the outside world, looked slow and dull.  I don’t have to move a mountain a day, but I am used to constant activity that yields significant results without creating a whirlwind of noise and chaos.

I will try to be better.  I have promised myself this.  I want to feel better.  I really do.

So…here we go.  Let’s be nicer to ourselves.  We DO do a lot.  And J, who has learned patience, can maybe help me learn that I have to be patient with myself when I cannot do all I would like to…

Ah…the weekend…

I have never claimed to have this whole thing figured out, but on Friday I pretty much kicked ass.  That is: I managed to take J to the movies, lunch and shopping without a major incident, and without regretting that I don’t make a habit of carrying a flask full of hooch with me.

On Tuesday J reorganized his PECS board to reflect a trip to the movies on Friday.   Then he switched to “watching a movie at home.”  This happened at least ten times over the course of Wednesday and Thursday, and I had to -very quickly- research WHAT movie, and when. I settled on Kubo and the Two Strings, and even showed him the trailer on You Tube.  As is my habit, I prepared for this possible outing by over-preparing.

I had money, a cab booked with plenty of time, clothes picked out, and a timeline that would make synchronized swimming look like disoriented ducks trying to swim out of a bowl of noodle soup.

I wanted to make sure that this would happen because J insisted (even when he was changing his mind,) and I used the expression “I PROMISE!”  He raised his eyes at that.  Goes to show how often I unequivocally promise that something will happen.  I usually say “we will try,” “weather permitting,” “if the opportunity arises,” “it is quite possible,” “we’ll see if that’s a possibility.”  This time, my friends, I made a solemn vow, and I wasn’t (under any circumstances) going to break my promise.

So after changing his mind, and assuming that I was all bluster and no filibuster, J was pleasantly surprised when I told him (at precisely 11:25 per my schedule) that we were getting ready to leave for the movies.  By 11:35 we were headed out the door to wait for the cab at the complex’s leasing office and, as I had requested, we were notified via text that our cab was running a little behind so it would be a while before we got picked up.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over time is that you book cabs to arrive with plenty of time for your outing, and that way you won’t be disappointed if they’re running late.  J, who was impressed that I was this committed, patiently sat annoying anyone within earshot with his Proloquo and I WANT TO GO TO THE MOVIES, I WANT POPCORN, I WANT A SODA, I WANT CANDY.  When the cab arrived I think people danced around why taking shots of whisky.

We made it to the mall with plenty of time to go to lunch.  I’m not big on going to lunch at the mall, but I figured since J had done it with his classmates, and he no longer has classmates, it would be fun to see that those outings are still possible.

When we walked into the Chinese buffet, the lady at the counter addressed J by asking “two for lunch?”  He turned to me and handed me the iPad.  I explained that, yes, we would both be having lunch.  We ordered our drinks, and sat there for a moment before I realized that J was looking at me like I’m the dumbest person in the world.   I asked what was wrong, and he rolled his eyes and pointed to the buffet.  Ah…the lady who never goes to lunch at the mall didn’t know that you just get up, grab a plate, and serve your food.  He patiently led me through the buffet, and we sat down to eat.

From there we went to Old Navy.  J loves Old Navy.  He knows how to SAY Old Navy.  He asks to go to Old Navy.  He was so happy when he saw they had the pajama pants he loves that he let out a whoop.  I don’t know if other people get excited when they get Old Navy Bucks, but J was in seventh heaven…he handed them to me like they were a sure-fire winning lottery ticket.

We made it to the theater on time.  J ordered his snacks, handed his rewards card over, and off we went to watch Kubo and the Two Strings.  There were only six people in the theater.  This is good because we were comfortable, but it’s sad because it’s truly the best animated movie we’ve seen this year.  J loved it.  Not only was he happy that I kept my promise, he was thrilled that he liked the movie we went to watch.  He was so happy that he didn’t even mind that he only got a medium soda and popcorn, and that I ate half of his M&Ms.

After the movie we walked to Target, and bought the things we needed for the weekend.  Dada picked us up when he was done with work.  We headed home, and J had a happy, lazy smile on his face.  He was happy to be home and his new pajama pants for the rest of the evening.

On Saturday, however, he was a little less patient with us.  I’m sure the fantastic outcome of Friday went to his head, and he was expecting another solemn vow, but I had to say “we have cheese at home,” and “you are NOT having TWO hot dogs from Five Guys.”  We were not friends for a bit, but we managed to make peace without me losing my foothold on “I’m the mother, darnit!!!”

I know a lot of you are probably thinking “this is no big deal, lady!  We take our kids places all the time, and it’s not a huge production.”  Well, people, I don’t drive.  I am the crappiest, most unsafe, anxious driver ever, and I reserve my driving for “a life must be saved and it’s in my hands!!!!”  J also is used to getting to the movies via Dada or, formerly, TGG.  Going alone with me hadn’t happened in a very long time, and I believe TGG was with us then.  J was also significantly smaller, younger and lighter, and I could handle his squirming, screaming, thrashing, tantrum-throwing body a lot better.

So, Saturday was more of a low point, but Friday was amazing.  And I’m proud of us.  J knows that school has started for everyone, and seeing that life goes on outside that context is awesome for him.  We went to the movies…just J, Slinky and I with an iPad.  And  it was great.

 

Dear Boxing Gloves…

It was four years ago today that we saw you being left behind when J left for school.  We were stunned by this development.  I’m sure you were stunned also.  You had been his constant companions for two years, and he wouldn’t put you down voluntarily for anything other than his shower.

We saw J eat meals, sit on the toilet, get dressed, sleep, walk, do chores all while encumbered with the four of you.  Awkward though this was, you were a welcome presence.  Before you, J had been beating his forehead with his bare fists, and we’d seen boo, scabs, bruises and scrapes appear and disappear in an constant parade.

For some reason, his first comfort item was a balloon.  We had a shoe box full of balloons because, of course, they would pop or deflate, and J would get upset and, hands free of this item, he’d hit himself.  You, his Everlast boxing gloves, were part of his “uniform.”  He also had a sparring helmet to match.  We used to joke that kids at school wouldn’t mess with J because he is tall, big and was professionally equipped for a rumble.

We tried to make light of it because we had to; what do you say when your kid walks around with four boxing gloves and doesn’t let them go for any reason?

The day he got dressed for school and, rather valiantly, pushed you aside when we handed you over, we almost cried.  We didn’t cry because we didn’t want him to think we’re wusses, and we didn’t want him to hesitate.  He had made this decision, and we were going to be encouraging.  The moment J and Dada left to wait for the bus, I sat on his bed (with you,) and called his teacher.  I remember telling her to let us know if we needed to run over there with his comfort items at any time during the school day.

J came home and found you on his bed, waiting for him.  And he was fine.  He never carried you anywhere again, but he always makes sure that you are neatly placed by Raggedy Ann, Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck when he makes the bed in the morning.  He also tucks you in next to him at night.  He is fond of you, and you still give him comfort.

Four years is a long time.  We know that Slinky has lasted as a comfort item way longer than you, but we also know that Sparring Helmet was soon replaced with Scrum Cap Covered By Rasta Hat.  By the way, you don’t see it during the day, but Scrum Cap Covered By Rasta Hat hangs on a hook near J’s PECS board in the kitchen.  It goes there when he comes downstairs in the morning, and doesn’t get picked up again until he heads up to bed at night.  He sees you more frequently, stopping by when he’s doing his chores, making sure you haven’t fallen off the bed.

I don’t think we’ll ever get rid of you.  J likes having you around.  When he’s sick, he curls up with you; when he’s well, he feels comforted by your presence.  Slinky is his wing…item, but you remind him of how far he’s come, and that it’s ok to sometimes need something to make you feel better.

I wanted to say thank you.  I also wanted to let you know that we remember all you’ve done, and we see your being left at home as a positive milestone, not a negative one.  We don’t forget that you were there when J was being harmful towards himself, and you stopped quite a bit of nasty bumps that might have happened.

These are usually given to the fighter, but we think you deserve them…

Golden_gloves

Sincerely,

J’s parents

It keeps you (sorta) running…

J isn’t an athletic sort.  I think anyone who sees his hefty frame, and watches him walk (gambol?) to the mailbox can tell that he’s more awkward than not.  His toes turn slightly in, and he doesn’t necessarily keep pace with anyone who walks with him.  Neither can anyone keep pace with him.  There’s a bit of a skip, and a bit of a sway.  He looks joyful when he’s walking, but he doesn’t look athletic.

J only actually runs (the proper definition of “run”) when there’s some sort of thing that freaks him out; dragonflies, moths, butterflies, dogs, birds, or any other imagined threat will make him break into a trot, canter or gallop.  There isn’t, let’s face it, a single chance in this world that he will ever excel in track-and-field events.  He cannot keep up a proper pace, and his breathing is laced with laughter and humming.  He sometimes runs out of breath and coughs, all while smiling broadly and laughing.

J running is reminiscent of the screaming boy in Robin Hood: Men In Tights, or Phoebe Buffay jogging in Friends.

As you all know, if you’ve been reading this, J is a fan of using his elliptical machine while watching musicals.  I have to leave the garage because this is a thing he likes to do by himself.  Whether he’s watching Guys and Dolls, The Sound of Music, My Fair LadyOklahoma!, Gigi, South Pacific, or The King and I, I am not allowed to burst in and sing while he’s working out.  I get a firm (but broadly smiling) BYE!  While out on our walks, I am his personal jukebox, and I take (of course) requests, but while he’s exercising…nope…not allowed.

J alternates his elliptical machine workout with his Wii Fit.  This, my friends, has been tricky.  A) The Wii Fit isn’t smart enough to know that it’s dealing with a person who doesn’t understand some of the instructions, B) J has trouble fulfilling some of the requirements of the correct form for the exercises, and C) running was something we had to do with him whether we wanted to or not.

Ah, yes…aging is not easy, friends.  Aging after you were an extremely active youth who had very little respect for all the fine mechanisms within one’s body is a pain in the ass.  Our knees (oh, our knees!) creak, crack, snap, squeak, and make us yelp.  There are days that, as with life in general, easier than others.  On those days, we are as bouncy, flouncy, pouncy, trouncy as Tigger himself.  Other days are laced with groaning and dread at the thought of running.

It was on such a day, not that long ago, that J insisted on running with the Wii Fit, and I had to accept that, unless the Wii Fit was the thing to use, exercising wouldn’t happen.  After slathering myself with Tiger Balm (which promises to become the fragrance that my body exudes as I age further) I told J “we’re going to figure out how to run with this thing.”

When I say “figure out how to run” I really mean it.  J, left to his own devices, will get the Mii to stand there while the clock keeps time, and every other Mii in Wii Fit Island passes him while looking over a shoulder.  So teaching J to “run” (something we all basically take for granted) had to be done.  Stability, something to anchor him, was the key.  The first time (after the Tiger Balm and some Tylenol,) I ran next to him as he held on to…drumroll, please…a stepladder!

Look, it’s not the most gracious running you’ve ever seen.  It’s nowhere near a cheetah, a gazelle, or Usain Bolt.  The pace continues to be choppy and less than consistent, but now J runs with the Wii Fit, and he listens to his music while watching his Mii being waved at by his relatives’ Miis.  The musical selections are eclectic: some days he starts out with Lou Bega’s Mambo No. 5, and works his way through Christina Aguilera’s What a Girl Wants, and sometimes he’s bouncing around to Todd Rundgren, The Spice Girls (don’t tell him I told you that,) Beck, The Cars…  He started running for five minutes, and now he’s up to 30 minutes.  He covers about five miles in that time.  He sweats and drinks lots of water.  He laughs as I do the chores in the kitchen and dining room, or take care of the plants in the driveway.

Like I said: not the most elegant runner in the planet, but he works at being fit.  He knows he’s doing better than we (the old, creaky people) are doing in that department.  He actually stands on the doorway and giggles when he sees us doing our run in the evening before we cook dinner.  He peeks in on us, and shakes his head as if saying “that’s all you’ve got???  HA!”  And off he goes to set the table for dinner, or to get things lined up for dinner prep.  J will never be thin, or graceful.  J will always go into interpretive dance when telling me if he wants to do the elliptical or the Wii Fit.  Saying RUN sounds more like “WUHN,” but I can tell from his arm and leg movements what he means: expansive back and forth with deeply bent knees means elliptical and musical, and a quick back and forth of close-to-the-chest arms, and tiny, quick steps means Wii Fit and iPod.

We are, like just about everyone else on the planet, following the Olympics, but not with the TV…we know who has medaled by reading the news and following the medal count.  We know the greatest athletes in the world are out there achieving great things.   And then there’s Robel Kiros Habte, the Ethiopian swimmer who has received attention for being the least Michael Phelps‘-like swimmer in the competition.  Like Florence Foster Jenkins, he is probably the best example of doing what you do because you love it, because you want to, because you have a right to be there with everyone else.

Not everyone will live up to what they see in Michael Phelps.  THAT is why he IS Michael Phelps.  How long did it take for Michael Phelps to outdo Mark Spitz?  The thing is that the chubby kid, the uncoordinated kid, the awkward kid, the clumsy kid, the asthmatic kid, the kid who is afraid of water have as much right to dream, and maybe their dream won’t be to BE Michael Phelps, but rather to BE there, too.

So, yeah, J runs…sort of.  He doesn’t win medals outside of our home, our garage, our milieu (limited as it is.)  But he runs.  He didn’t before.  He does now.  You do what it takes, and you should be thrilled when it works out.  I know we are.

We can do this your way, or we can do this the right way…

J has come a long, long way.  There’s no arguing that point.  I see it every day, and I can attest to the fact that leaps and bounds are the measure for his progress.

That, however, doesn’t mean he’s not human, and it certainly doesn’t mean he won’t try to get his way if he thinks it’s possible.  But, heaven help me, I am the mother and I get to call some of the shots around here.  Not too many shots because I respect the fact that he can choose like any ol’ Tom, Dick or Harry.  I do, however, take out my thick marker and draw the random line here…or there…or maybe over there…

Many years ago, when Dada and I were choosing to make our lives OUR LIFE, we agreed that it was crucial (as we embarked in co-parenting these extraordinary children of ours) to not forget what it was like to be whatever age they were at any given point.  So, very often, the urge to punt a child over a balcony translated to “I remember being nine, and THAT thrilled about Christmas morning,” or “I remember being sixteen and wanting my license SO BAD!!!!”  With J, of course, the game is a little more complex…

We have in our midst a 21 year-old with a fully-grown body, and the sliding-scale emotional age that is par for the course in his situation.  He can be tremendously cool about some things, and he can be five and on a sugar high about others.  When the 21 year-old body (with the goatee and the deep voice) reacts with the thought process of a five year-old, well, it can be interesting.

J gets overexcited about things.  He hasn’t yet figured out how to react.  Sometimes, when he’s extremely happy, he goes into SIB, and all the while he is telling you how happy he is, and how much he loves you.  The strategy is now to control the SIB until I can get him to sit down and focus on telling us how he feels, and why.

This sounds a lot easier than it is.  We are, after all, also human, and we get frustrated with the brief spats that arise when J is overstimulated with something we’ve yet to identify.  But we’re getting there.  We’re figuring it out.

J has realized that school is about to start.  Anywhere you go there are reminders of the school year that is about to start, and we know he understands that it doesn’t include him.  That there would be a hint of nostalgia, some regret, a tinge of oh-man-why-not-me, and a definite undercurrent of “crap, I’m stuck at home” is totally understandable.  We know that is playing a part in the minor eruptions that take place from time to time.

The calendar is, for the first time since 1999, completely bare of school-related notes.  The only thing highlighted are the home-game Saturdays for WVU, and the days when parades and other activities might snarl traffic beyond all manageable proportions.  Friday is move-in day…we’re doing our grocery shopping/Friday outing today.  A) The store shelves won’t be bare, and B) we won’t have to deal with crowds.

My dad was a ham radio operator.  I remember sitting next to him as he gently turned the dials on all his equipment, seeking the signal he needed, wanted.  Sometimes the slightest movement would make him lose that signal, and he’d patiently go back and lean forward to listen for a voice (garbled though it might be,) or a bit of Morse code.  Even when I couldn’t make out what was being said, he would smile and feel satisfied that that was as good as it would get, and it was what he needed at the time, and he’d jump in and participate in whatever conversation was going on…

I’m taking that lesson and I’m running with it.  I turn the dial gently, and I listen carefully, leaning forward to get a better idea of what is happening.  I do the best with the signal I get, and I jump in and do what needs to be done.

Every single day.