Mean Daddy

Something happened. . . about six months ago. I haven't written about it. In fact, I haven't really written anything at all since that time. The impact of what happened has stunned me into a verbal silence but also propelled me by fueling a violent inner rage. I feel as though I am hosting a dormant volcano of injustice and old school "mean" that will one day boil and erupt. I am afraid that I will blow up and everything in the vicinity will be destroyed. That is the last thing I want.

Last June, my son was texting with his Father in an attempt to determine what he might like for Father's Day. I won't go into the fact that his Father's wife ought to be the one hosting any purchase of Father's Day gifts - not me - the ex-wife. But . . . she doesn't. Never has. I don't understand. Never will.
In any case, my son wanted to do something nice for his Dad and I didn't discourage him. Their relationship has never been a solid or respectful one so in an effort to allow my son to show his care for his Father in any way that he can - I support.

My son, wanted to get his father something that he needed. His Father - instead of graciously accepting any gift and then returning it or whatever solution suited him and might remain in the hemisphere of 'polite'-  instead reacted, critically, ungratefully and with a measure of callous that should only be reserved for . . . well nobody.
My ex-husband told my son that he didn't want the gift and not only did he not want it, he wanted my son to stop attempting to get this item for him, "trying to rule my life" and for that matter, stop everything. Stop coming to visit him " . . . ever, I don't need the hassle."
What my ex-husband said to my son in a text was deeply rude, mean, horrible, entirely disrespectful and managed to completely obliterate any salvageable remains of the pathetic relationship that had existed prior into a huge pile of hurt feelings, inadequacy, personal rejection, humiliation and emotional abuse. My son has not visited his Father since the first part of June and has no intention of going.
The kicker is that these days, his Father wonders why he won't come over. He is not so much surprised, he simply doesn't get it.

It's the "I don't need the hassle" sentence that stings so badly. I can barely get myself to put those hurtful words in writing.What type of parent would ever say those words to a child in reference to the relationship between the two or with respect to his or her task and duty as a parent in raising that child?

It's incredulous.

I am still so angry I am practically apoplectic. I am deeply hurt for my son and sad that any child ever has to hear those types of words from a parent. I am embarrassed to write about them - those very painful words.

All this - because my son wanted to get his Dad a Father's Day gift and his Father has NO IDEA how to behave like an adult OR understand his Techie-minded Autistic son.

I have shared this story with a few people - close friends who know the type of man their father is and they type of young man my son is growing up to be. In every case, at the end of the story, the listener will squint his or her eyes, cock his or her head and ask, "What?!" as though they must have missed some critical part of the exchange. Maybe the part where my son is antagonistic or has been so disrespectful to his Father that his Dad had no options left but to end it entirely. None of that happened though. It's not there.
Again, "What?!"

Disbelief.

My son was emotionally crushed even more than he had been up to that day in his life. He remains so to this day. He only speaks to his Father at an arm's length and has lost all respect for him. I cannot blame him. Would it were me, I be planning some sort of homicide, but my son is far more forgiving than I am. He always has been. My son has never expected his Father to behave like an adult the way I do.

The worst part is that according to the courts, there is nothing I can do to keep him from having to go with his Father should his Father decided he wants to see him again. I have no choice. Neither does my son unless he goes to court and tells a judge that he refuses to go. As you might expect, my son is afraid of retaliation from his Father should he do so. Honestly, I am too.
I thought about moving far away from here - from him. How can having any child exposed to that be healthy, right? Again, the court has determined that I have no idea what is best for my children. However, they do. The response was that we cannot move away from here because in the eyes of the court, that would damage my son's relationship with his father. I can move, but I cannot take the boys with me if I were to. They would have to stay with their Father.

What?!

Now do you understand?

Good, because I don't either.

"That's How You Get What You Want"

My son wants something . . . again.

He has his eye on a target and his tenacity in pursuing achieving or obtaining only that is impressive to say the least.

He didn't want this item yesterday, or last week, or last month. Before today - this minute, he wanted something else. Another item that, (if he could figure out a logistical path to it's retention) at the time, was critical to his continued survival and overall happiness.

Where did this come from?

The truth is . . . he had never so much as mentioned this 'thing' - even in passing before today. My son never mentions anything 'in passing.' There is always a reason. Despite that, his need for this piece of equipment was and is always as immediate and immovable as is his will. We have been through this before and I know the drill. Still, shoring the dam against the sure and massive storm surge of his persuasive attempts will be exhausting. The process is not new. However, the goal is.

Today he has an entirely new agenda and he wants this bad!! He is fixated. He's bargaining. He's managing the logistics (which I am apparently too dull to manage or sort out on my own). All this work must be exhausting for him. I am exhausted and all I have been doing is dodging bullets. My son is the one planning the battle strategy and lobbing all the logical artillery. I am convinced that all this determination is simply a method devised in an effort to keep both his mind and his senses busy with something - to stay focused. I believe he is creating a point to focus on.

Planning a battle that more resembles an international political negotiation to keep from becoming bored. The task is complicated and likely to take up quite a bit of time. This sort of undertaking provides him with something to concentrate on - something to focus on when his thoughts are scattered and jagged. Here . . . embedded in this issue, is a clear, definable agenda and a problem that can or could be solved if he put his mind to it.

As he matures, so do his abilities to formulate and verbalize some very compelling arguments for the items or privileges he wants. Because he thinks so quickly, he can sometimes (quickly) leave me behind grasping for some way to hold on to my position. I know. "Because I am the parent and I said so" is always an option, but he's 17. At this age and despite his or any disability, I feel he deserves more respect than being hurled such a childish, contemptuous and relatively disrespectful statement.

He wears me down like the waters from an enormous storm that cover everything, soak through and flood all the layers leaving only what was always firm and permanent behind. These attempts to make me change my mind leave me feeling like soggy toast. Like if anyone disturbs me any further, I will fall apart entirely and be left a mushy mass of unrecognizable bits.

Something new happened this weekend though. A victory - for me!

Again, as is the case with many weekends, my son was bored and set his sights on something he wanted; an activity this time. Naturally, I resisted and used my full arsenal of experience and factual evidence in my attempt to help him understand why this won't work as he believes it might. It was a long day.
However, at the end of it my son said, "I think I am glad I didn't do that. It would have been a bad idea."

Yay!! (for me)

Yay!! and congratulations to my son who is learning to think ahead and make those complicated decisions that involve more persons than just him and more affect than only he might feel.  

Lost . . . again

For all of us, life can get distracting. Some days there is simply SO much to do that managing all the tasks seems practically impossible, totally exhausting and mind-numbingly paralyzing. I hope I have described it correctly because this has been my life for the past six or seven months.

So much has happened that I have wanted to write about - tell someone about or maybe even find someone who has been on this path before me who can empathize. I would even be happy just to have company along this road through Autism - I wouldn't care if neither of us knew if we were on the right road or where that trek might lead. I would be happy to have company along the way. Someone to talk to about the joys and stresses of finding ways to help my child with Aspergers as well as the child without Aspergers. He suffers too - just as much and in entirely different ways. Sometimes I believe life is harder for him. He knows. He understands issues and concerns that my first son does not.

All distraction aside, I am making an attempt to get my life back on track, keep things moving in some direction that resembles forward because time will march on whether or not I choose to try to affect the outcome of events, learning, changes - all meant to be interpreted as 'growing up with Aspergers.'

I will start with the most recent challenges and make my way around to all the other wonderful, frustrating and remarkable occasions to learn acceptance rather than conformity my son provides me with. I have always known that my son 'lives in the moment.' It is just how he his. As is typical, he helps me see both the benefits and the costs that come with this.

My son looses things.

Important things like homework, books, his wallet, all manner of belongings, money and clothing. Typically he finds them again, but not always. The odds decrease if the items have left the house. In other words, if he has had to transport them between school and home - forget it. It's gone. When we travel, I literally have to keep an eye on everything he brings along. With the exception of his electronics. Those he can manage and does, but he has had to work very hard to learn to handle them and still needs help in the form of my ever watchful (yet from his perspective - completely humiliating) eye. He hates that I still try to look after him at his age. I am trying to learn not to, but it is difficult to watch him fail (I have to choose the times when I can allow this - like the ones that aren't too expensive).

I wish I knew why keeping track of these items wasn't important to him. Well, let me state that differently. They are only important when he needs them, if he doesn't need them - they do not matter. Class notes and homework, once completed are finished in his mind and he no longer needs them - so they are forgotten or thrown aside with as little care as he might give a candy wrapper. In fact, less. He would actually put the wrapper in the trash. The homework is simply left unattended until it is left behind in some random location like all the lost socks you see along the street gutters. Just ignored until they are lost.

I live in North Texas. For the most part, our weather has extremes like any part of the globe. However, out extremes live in a higher position on the temperature scale. For us, average temperatures fall between 40F and 115F (40C). We rarely need winter coats, gloves, hats or scarves. Unfortunately, there are usually just a few days or weeks each year that we do - then 'winter' is over and we march back toward triple digits.  Therefore, my son has a winter coat - HAD a winter coat. Every year it seems he needs a winter coat.

This year, he will definitely need one because we are travelling to the east coast after Christmas to visit family in Massachusetts. Since I am a planner, I went looking through the closet as soon as the tickets were in hand to make sure we had what we needed. In truth, the boys have grown so much the past year that I needed to make sure what they had still fit even though I knew there was no way it would. A person simply cannot grow six inches and still be able to wear the same clothes. But a coat? - you never know. I thought I might get lucky. Not!!

There were no coats in the closet except the old dark green, "Starter" sweat jacket my brother used to wear that neither of my children would be caught dead in, a light-weight, nylon wind breaker and my coats. Where in the hell did the coats go?
I know for a fact that I bought two wind breakers; one grey and one black, a winter coat for Jack and a mid weight coat for Ben. I swear that closet is like a black hole for coats. Put them in there and they are off to other parts of the universe through some unseen portal!!

Seriously, how can a person loose their clothes? I will never understand - even if was explained in detail, I would never be able to comprehend how this is possible.

I asked my son where is winter coat was and he was immediately defensive - a bad sign. It means he has realized he's lost it and was hoping I would never be the wiser. Poor kid. After the astonishment abated, we went coat shopping. Again. Like we do every year. This trip is as regular as our annual trip to buy a Christmas tree. Every year at the same time of year, we are coat shopping because last year's coat is in some unknown location and the only peace I can gain from this is knowing that all clothing left behind at school at the end of the year is donated to charity. So maybe someone is getting some use out of all those coats.

I know what you're thinking. Why don't I simply choose his coat as the item that I keep track of? Yeah, I wish. It's not that easy. I am a single parent. I have a lot on my plate and some things just outweigh 'coat location' on the priority scale. Managing a household, raising two boys, going back to school, keeping a meaningful adult relationship meaningful, providing meals, keeping a full time job and looking for a new one, and all the rest easily present themselves.

So I ask my son to go coat shopping and of course he doesn't want to. It's boring and it costs money; two things he has a distaste for. As well, it cements the fact that once again, he lost his coat and it embarrasses him. But being the logical child he is, he goes.
At the store he vetoes choices left and right. All but one. I know that the color has to be either blue, black or red. I have learned not to waste my time with any other functional option not available in one of those hues. It's just not going to happen. I hold up hanger after hanger and no words are necessary. The curled up mouth is striking enough that I simply put it back. Until . . .  one choice gets a barely discernible nod. Hallelujah!! And . . . it comes in grey - Oh no! Surprisingly, it's okay. Wow!
Basking in my triumph I risk it all and ask, "Can you try it on?"

(Imagine a train wreck here. Crumpled, piled-up, derailed momentum come to a screeching halt.)

"No."
"Please."
"No. It's fine."
"Why not? We should see if it fits before we buy it."
"It's fine."
"Okay. If we buy it and it's not comfortable, you are going to have to keep it." (Stupid me, have I forgotten that in four months it will be in the company of all the other lost coats? How much of a threat is this - really?)
"I will try it on at home."
"If you don't like it at home, I am not bringing it back." (Sticking to my position even though I have realized it's hopeless.)
"Then I won't wear it."
"That is not an option."
"Fine (eye-rolling). I will try one arm to see if I like the fabric."
(Eye-rolling from Mom). "Great."

And we take the coat home. The coat lies on his bed for three days - tags on. Untried.

Then . . . . the weather turns and he needs that coat . . . and it's lost.

I know. I cannot believe it either. This is definitely a lost-coat-speed-record.

After the usual questions, we find it. It has been stowed in the same dresser drawer that he keeps his jeans in. Mashed up, tags still dangling and forgotten. Out of sight and out of mind. Right where he is comfortable with it residing.
The day afterward, he wore it to school. Two days later, he wore it out to the store. He's not sure he likes it. The coat is made of a neoprene-like material that feels "stiff." Fortunately, it's lined with a soft fleece in bright, construction orange! Now you see why I was so surprised to have it approved. This color is completely out of character. But for now he's wearing it - which is all I care about.
I hate the thought of him standing at the bus stop in 38F weather in nothing but his t-shirt. (He won't wear long sleeves, sweaters, sweatshirts, hoodies, etc., but that is another battle entirely.) His hands white and cold and his ears frozen to bright red stubbornly and diligently obeying his preferences despite that they are haltingly uncomfortable.

It is going to be a long few months.

The Sky is the Limit

Actually . . . it's not. There isn't one. A limit, that is.

Did you know that in the State of Texas a Divorcee who has primary custody of a child with Autism is entitled to ask for limitless child support from her former spouse to support that child?

Really! The standard formula does not apply to children with Autism. So, as a parent with two children the standard child support percentage of 25% which would normally apply - does not. I can ask for as much as it takes to provide my son with the treatments, therapies, educational support or services he might require. With NO limits for that child's support!!

I wish I would have known this ten years ago. Not that it would have made a bit of difference in the piddly stream of reimbursements I receive from my ex-spouse, but you never know. Maybe it would have. If knowledge is power - I have definitely felt financially powerless once or twice.

What I do know is that I certainly would have considered more emotional therapy, more life skills therapy - maybe even more music training if I had believed that asking for more than the standard 50% reimbursement for doctor bills had been at all enforceable. There are as many forms of therapy for these kids as there are places on the Autism Spectrum where they live. Who knows which one might have been useful or helpful? An un-frustrating version would have been nice. They are all seriously (some ridiculously) expensive.

At this point I cannot help but wonder how his life might be different now had I known that I could have asked for money for occupational therapy costs beyond the standard 50% of what my insurance won't cover (almost everything). How might he be different now? How would he have grown or developed if there had simply been a little more support available?

Unfortunately, I don't believe in second guessing myself. There are way too many opportunities to convince myself that I am doing a less than adequate job here and I know better than any of them that that is simply not the case. But I must keep reminding myself that I am a single parent doing the best that I possibly can with very little help - financial or otherwise. But you had better believe that now that I know - the sky is the limit.

You might want to find out what the limit is in your state 'cause - "Who knew?"

Lazy Days . . . a.k.a Bored to Tears

It's August 8th. I can hardly believe it, but summer is almost over. School begins in just over two weeks.
I need to prepare!

Where does the time go? Does it feel as though it passes very fast to everyone? Or is it just me? Is it magnified from my perspective?
The days of summer go by at the same speed as do all the other work days of the year. For some reason the days that I do not go to work seem to fly by more quickly than those I spend with my colleagues . . . watching the clock . . . counting the minutes left . . . knowing that I will surely die before the hands move the necessary inches around the dial to free me from servitude.
For my sons, my bored young men, I believe time passes more slowly, with less consequence and with far less remarkability than it does for me.

I think they are bored.

I think they have been bored for weeks.

It's summer and they are teenagers; too young to work and too old to be sent to sports camp at the YMCA dragging a swimsuit and a sack lunch.
Their friends are on vacation or hold up inside their respective air-conditioned homes. In their defense, it has been over one hundred degrees outside for weeks. They cannot exactly spend afternoons outside without risking heat exhaustion, heat stroke or something similar.
Their Mother is at work. 

They are left to their own devices - boy devices - which means staying up late Facetime-ing with friends, sleeping until two in the afternoon the next day and not having to get dressed until a parent arrives home from work and calls them to the dinner table.
There are Pop-Tart wrappers and empty orange juice cups mounted on bedroom furniture surfaces, clean laundry piled on dressers aching to be worn or just noticed, damp towels piled on bathroom floors and laptops teetering on the edge of meltdown because they haven't been turned off for weeks. Their batteries  are toying with molten stage. YouTube is bookmarked and evidence of texting volumes are gaining on the heights comparing to Mt. Everest; somewhere near twelve hundred. One more zero and it would come close to a record. This month, it's just a 'personal best.'

The boys are happy, content, quiet, occupied - albeit with Internet monotony and they are teenagers who need to begin finding their own way through their days and through the forced, alone, togetherness that this summer has provided them.

School starts soon.




Th

TAKS time

My son took TAKS (Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills) tests this spring - four of them!! hey were coming. They are required and his performance either sends him on to Senior High School or holds him stagnant where his is to repeat 9th grade. All ninth graders take Social Studies, Mathematics, Science and English TAKS.

However, all ninth graders are not completely distracted by the way the paper feels under his or her hand. All ninth graders are not consumed with trying to place ambiguity where none exists. All ninth graders do not find the bell schedule - and the fact that it is 30 seconds off - far more interesting. All ninth graders are probably better able to block out the tactile consequences of 'ugly pencils' (anything but a Ticonderoga No. 2) scraping on 'spongy paper' (newsprint). Other ninth graders can get past all this input, ignore all the other noises around them like the girl biting her nails and the boys scratching his jeans and the teacher's breathing and concentrate on the questions or better yet, what is happening in the world economy. Is the Euro in trouble? What is Spain's debt rating? Will the storm in the Atlantic turn into a hurricane as it enters the Gulf? There are so many places where life is more interesting than in that room - where he has to undergo TAKS testing.

This year my son's and my collective stress levels were no different than any other year. In fact, they might have been greater. More tests = more stress and anxiety. Jackson's High School future depended on him passing these tests.

In Plano, high school isn't the same 4-year program at a single school that it is in most places around the country. High School in Plano, Texas means ninth and tenth graders go to one school. Senior High School students go to a different campus to complete eleventh and twelfth grades. It's weird. I know. But that's how they do it here.

He took the tests at the end of May. Yesterday - his results arrived in the mail. Immediately he told me not to open the envelope. if course, I ignored that request and tore it open. He made a dash to the other end of the house only to come sneaking back out - one pensive footfall at a time.Shy. Afraid. Bracing for the look on my face that let him know he would be attending summer school. (I don't know why. This hasn't happened since he was eight but I suppose that one occurrence is enough evidence that summer school remains a possibility.)

Let me just say . . . . "Commended!!"

This means that his scores were not only passing, not only average, not just above average, but above they typical high score as it relates to his peers and other students in the state.

YAY!!!

I am so proud of him! And do you know what? He is too. He said as much. After taking his time examining the results, he said, "I didn't think I did that well. I am kind of surprised." He worked so hard this year and has done really well. All those years of test-taking training and strategies to help him enhance his ability to concentrate have finally paid off for him.

He has done a fabulous job and can look forward to relaxing this summer and beginning Senior High School next August at the school of his choice. Plano East Senior High.

Yes, he had a choice. But that will have to be the subject of another post.

Joy to the World

My son's favorite song is "Joy to the World."

Can you believe it? What a wonderful song (and sentiment) to enlist as a favorite!!
Joy to the World!!!

What a wonderful wish!

This is truly what he wants; the world and it's inhabitants to be peaceful and joyous. He wants harmony, joy and 'world peace.' He wants people to get along. He wants people to try.
He likes negotiation and hates yelling.
He wants diplomacy and abhors fights.
He wants mutual respect and hates irrationality.
He wants informed communication and doesn't understand assumptions.

Only Julie Andrews' pure voice will do for such a simple song.

He is SO VERY reasonable. And so indefatigueably logical.
Even when and if he is not sure why, he will err on the side of caution and respect. He knows where the line is even when I do not (or refuse to) see it.

He is joyous!

What a wonderful idea!! Christmastime is not a requisite because it doesn't have to be Christmastime to wish good will or happiness. He's right. That behavior is only the result of our poor habits.

Here is a link - just in case.

http://www.amazon.com/Greatest-Christmas-Songs-Julie-Andrews/dp/B00004XR5U

You are going to love it.
Just listen. Really listen - not just to the words you have memorized, but to their intent and meaning.
It's a wonderful song for any season.

Sweet and Sour

As a single Mom with two kids, going out to eat (only once in a bit because I cannot afford it most days) seems like a welcome relief from just a few of the days' chores. The tease is; I won't have to wash dishes or wipe the table OR sweep the floor. I won't have to load the dishwasher or put away any leftovers. Ugh! just the thought of it makes me want to run screaming. I love the cooking. I absolutely HATE the clean up part.

But because I love the cooking part, I also love the 'surprise' aspect of trying new restaurants. Those I had heard of by a friend or those that I had read about in the latest local "Best Places In . . ." column. Who doesn't love to try new foods? What cook worth her salt doesn't admire and respect another cook's interpretation? It's fun! However, not everyone believes that unknown can ever be equated with 'fun.'

My son intensely dislikes 'unknown' Food is one area where he is least likely to be adventurous.
Feeding Jackson as an infant was easy. He ate pretty much the same thing almost every day. All babies begin this way. As new parents I was instructed to introduce foods into their immature constitutions gradually never veering too far from the bland and familiar. But Jackson seemed to accept quite a few foods - well . . . until around the age of three. At that point, with a younger brother who was just beginning his introduction to solid foods, Jackson found renewed comfort in those foods that he knew. My foods. My cooking - EXACTLY the way I made it. No funny stuff, no variations, no creative ideas, please.

When Jackson was younger, going out to eat was not an option because unless you have been to a restaurant before and you know without any doubt that items are available that will not cause stress, meal time just isn't the stress-free experience that it really needs to be as a parent.
As an adult, meal time is the one place where you want just 20 to 30 minutes to relax, enjoy your children and admire your work and your day. For Jackson, meal time could be nothing short of a culinary mine field.
To this day, both my children have peculiar tastes. Neither really enjoys uncertain gastronamy. They like what they know - which means, what I cook.

They don't like Pop-Tarts. "They're crap!" They would prefer a steaming (and home made) plate of French Toast.
They have never finished even the smallest glass of chocolate milk. (Why ruin it?)
They don't consider Jell-O edible. (It's like plastic, isn't it?)
They have never had Lasagna. (Too many textures all in one mouthful - boycott!)
And their reaction the first time I made them a casserole . . . eye rolling and "When did you come up with this bright idea?!"

As a toddler, Jackson didn't even like fast food. At McDonald's he would tear the ends off the french fries because the texture on the ends was different from that in the middle and it made his mouth feel funny. At some restaurants, chefs had the audacity to put garnishes of food items that could irreparably tarnish meals and make certain that there was no way in hell he was eating what was presented. And what is the point of writing out an entree description for the menu if it is not meant to be followed?!?! (I cannot tell you how many times I tried picking out parsley.) Why are there still surprises?
Just because Jackson liked broccoli, cheese, rice and chicken did NOT mean that he liked or yet likes Broccoli/chicken/cheese casserole. He still won't touch it, regardless that he enjoys all the ingredients separately and if they are cooked the way his Mother makes them. Broccoli on his dinner plate at home is not the same as the broccoli that the Italian restaurant prepares. They put 'stuff' on it. To you and I 'stuff' is seasoning. To Jackson 'stuff' is a contaminant.

This weekend we learned for the five hundredth time that the Sweet and Sour Chicken from First Chinese BBQ is not the same as the Sweet and Sour Chicken prepared at Jade Palace. Jade Palace is the one he likes.
We went out to dinner last weekend. Jackson likes Chinese food so we chose a place in the town we were visiting. Jackson ordered Sweet and Sour Chicken. This dish is typically his favorite and only choice at the Jade Palace. The chefs make it for him the same way every single time he orders it. The preparation never varies. He can count on it. Figuring it would be a safe bet, he ordered it again, using the same words and descriptors when placing his order.

Before his plate even arrived at the table - in fact, as it left the kitchen and I watched it's inevitable arrival at his side - I knew there was no way he was ever going to eat it just as surely as I knew that asking him to be flexible, sit quietly and eat it would get me no where. What does pineapple and or corn have to do with chicken anyway?

There was no way he was going to eat that dish - ever.

The waiter hadn't listened. He wasn't familiar with my son. The sauce was not on the side. The vegetables were mised in - touching the chicken. The menu description in Chinese characters didn't reveal that it would be made with dark meat - at least not to someone who doesn't read Mandarin. Jackson "doesn't prefer" dark meat.

He is not going to eat it in a box.
He is not going to eat it with a fox.
He is not going to eat it in a ship.
He is not going to eat it on a trip.
He is not going to eat it - anyplace.
He is Jackson.
He is.

Except in Jackson's story, he did try it. As he held back his gag at the tenuous texture of the dark meat and the sweet, sticky sauce - he tried so hard to behave politely, to sit at the dinner table with other and consume a food item that he really, really just did not like in any way, shape or form.

As I sat there watching my son struggle with an entree that he didn't care for I had to wonder; would most non-Aspergians try so hard to be polite? Would they try to consume something they didn't care for or would they send it back, order a different dish or stop at a fast food place on the way home after pushing their food around on their plate for 30 minutes?

What would they do?

Why did Jackson (and the rest of the family for that matter) assume that the problem with the food was laid solely and singularly at his feet and not with the dish? Who is to say what accounts for individual taste? And why is does he consider it bad it he doesn't care for something? I don't particularly care for oysters. That doesn't mean that chefs prepare them poorly - but that also doesn't mean they didn't.
I like sandwiches and I hate the way my Mother makes them. That's okay!!

I did not make Jackson eat his dinner that evening. How could I? Why would anyone want to eat something that tasted 'ugly.'?

He tried so hard. He was so polite. He took a few bites grimacing all the while beforehand; Like someone who is about to eat rotten fish heads, or boneless duck feet (yes ,that was on the menu) but knowing he should at minimum try one bite before he is allowed to abstain - he did.
He held is breath, held his gag in and swallowed. The politely said, "I don't care for this dish the way they make it here." He had rice for dinner that night.

And I did not order the boneless duck feet. I ordered pork with eggplant. The dish was salty and mushy. I did not care for it, but I ate it  - some of it. Just enough so that I wasn't hungry.

My son knows his limits and  I have accepted them as hard limits. I have been raised to ignore mine. My 'limit's have always been 'preferences' as opposed to limits. The waste or monitary loss was always the hard limit - not my preference. An inanimate cost was far more important than I ever could dream of becoming. Who's the honest, healthy one in this picture?

Check out some of my son's website links

 Hi, I am Jackson Cymerman, Beth's son; these are the website's that I administer and am active with daily::

www.facebook.com/StormWatchDallas
www.facebook.com/WeatherCrew
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Hurricane-Hunters/383880451664048
www.stormwatchdallas.com (My Website)(Jackson)
weathercrew.weebly.com (Run by me and a team of 5)
And Finally, https://www.facebook.com/pages/DFW-Stormwatch/171745422880570

If you have time, please check them out and let me know what you think.

Thanks.

Brotherly Love

It must be hard to be the younger brother.

I know only a very little about occupying this position; the younger. I was a younger sister - but I had a younger brother too which meant that I almost literally got lost amid the oldest child and the boy child who also happened to be the baby. Despite that I was virtually invisible between my siblings and life was sometimes, painful and lonely, I am still willing to bet that life must be especially difficult if you happen to be the younger brother of a boy with Asperger's - or any form of Autism.

There are so many special rules for a child with Asperger's. How is a toddler or small child without Asperger's supposed to tell which are for the sibling and which are for him? In addition, not all children with Autism Spectrum Disorder's require the same rules. In a house where Autism lives all rules are child-specific. This is very different from what both brothers will discover for themselves in the real world.

As a parents, we know to well that constructing and consistently enforcing rules is difficult. Finding the stamina to enforce one set is hard - let alone two. Two is takes a mind-numbing amount of concentration and is completely exhausting. Because there are multiple sets of rules there are at least two sets of expectations; one for the child with Asperger's and one for the child without. The only condition that binds both is a moral foundation to do what's best, kindest, and thoughtful, to behave well and respectfully. As adults most of us struggle with identifying firm, stable moral ground. As kids, the fact that we expect them to grapple, learn and apply these guidelines borders on insanity.

As a society we believe we have learned what or how much to expect and in turn demand two sets of behavioral expectations as opposed to one moral expectation where children with Asperger's interact with others who are not affected. As educator's we cope with two sets of expectations and attempt to make both simultaneously saleable yet mutually exclusive and independent. These parameters are practically and widely necessary and at the same time they are socially cruel at the smallest level. Yet, we expect that the youngest among us, the younger siblings, those with the least experience, or with the fewest behavioral tools and least developed intellect should learn, understand, support and actively participate in this required and duplicitous system of behaviors. If the child without Asperger's happens to be the younger, it must be like trying to separate the seas. Trying to grasp that there are two sets of rules at the tender age of two or three and be mindful that this situation exists not because of parental preference, but out of necessity for the older child's handicap is ridiculous. At such a young age these very small children must accept that the rules for them are different, less lenient, more demanding and it's not because they are not the older (favorite) child.

I had a younger brother. However, I am not a boy so my relationship with my brother was completely different than that between my sons. Most important, the fact that we were different genders made most competition irrelevant. For the most part we got along. We could talk or play or at least pretend that we shared some common interests because we could communicate. What it we couldn't? Worse, what if we were talking and communicating - at least technically - but we had no idea what the other was thinking or didn't really care very much? What if we didn't understand that we should be interested in normal play? What if we had a younger brother who looked up to us who was constantly shut out through no fault of amyone's and that small boy was simply too young to understand why?

Can you image how all the appearances of privilege and preference that naturally and always accompany the role of 'oldest' are magnified when the oldest has clear and definable needs for another set of special rules? Can you imagine trying to identify those rules and properly compartmentalize them while you are in the midst of attempting to grow up and understand social order and the world in general yourself?

It must be very hard to be the younger brother of someone with Asperger's. The rest of the playing field is even enough - but for the brother of an Aspergian, that same playing field must seem at times a very lonely place.

It's true. Not only the child with Asperger's is affected when this disorder appears. We all are, in ways that we cannot possibly understand yet must somehow learn to cope with.

Storms

Panic. . . . Anxiety. . . . Uncertainty. . . . Hurricane Season. It's all the same.

Storms make my son nervous. He doesn't delight in the strength of nature - in the absoluteness of weather the way I do. He doesn't like drama. I don't either, but I do like definitive; statements of clarity. To me, storms are like nature's most definitive behavior. For my son, they represent potential chaos, destruction and personal harm. He's right. I'm probably the one who should be more wary than I am.
He's right to be nervous about storms that boil up in the middle of the night fueled by the build-up of heat throughout the day and the clash of cooler air that the evening brings.

listverse.com

His way to deal with this type of uncertainty is to gather all the information he can and make his own determination. He needs to know; to find certainty where there isn't going to be any. This aspect of his personality hasn't changed since he was a toddler. He has always realized the extreme subjectiveness of opinion as well as the muddy disguise of opinion testified as facts within most media avenues.
Unfortunately, storms are simply not something that will ever be 100% predictable; and he really needs them to be.

Hurricane Season is a dated time of the year. In other words, it has a specific term. There is a time when it's over and it's on a calendar. That's definitive. When storms erupt outside of these quoted dates, he needs to know why.This is what he respects about this time of the year.

"The Gulf has been pretty quiet this year" is all he will say so far. He knows the water temperatures in the Gulf are up but there's no moist cool air this year to fuel a storm. He's waiting in his quiet, pensive yet very alert sort of way.

Now that the cooler weather has arrived, he is less provoked by anxiety concerning storms. Where he once would close all the curtains in an "If I can't see it - it's less there" attempt, put his earphones on and surf weather channels, and bombard the local meteorologist with email questions concerning weather patterns, storm tracks and "upper-level lows," he now consoles himself by posting weather updates on Face Book for all his North Texas "Friends."

We had a storm last night. His last FB post was at 1:32am (complete with radar links and volatility forecasts). While I'm not crazy about him staying up well past midnight on Facebook - I have to admire is ingenuity in dealing with his anxiety in a way that is both helpful to himself as well as potentially to others. And by posting these storm warnings, he is able to gain an immediate barometric reading of how others are feeling about an impending storm. If he gets quite a few comments, he knows that it's not only he who is watching, waiting, maybe even concerned just a bit. If nobody else really cares (comments), then it might be okay if he didn't become quite so anxious either. In a way, his posts are a self-designed method of calibrating his anxiety level in accordance with a much larger population without actually asking everyone he knows why they aren't more worried about the storm heading our way.

I am amazed that he is trying to hard to define 'normal' and fit himself into it. I am amazed that he is so inwardly conscious of the fact that he doesn't fit 'normal' in such absolutely subtle ways. I'm sad that he feels he needs to change to be better accepted by his Facebook generation.
Never in a million years would I have come up with this strategy.

But I am so much more confined by my personality than he is.

10 to 143: I lose (big).

I don't typically see activities as contests. In fact, I don't ever see anything from that perspective- even when it certainly is, is pointed out or I am told of it. Perhaps because I usually and flatly refuse to participate in comparisons and contests or be measured in such a way. I am the only one who can measure my adequacy (or failure).

I have not written on this page for months and every day over the those past months I have felt guilty about not writing, not having anything interesting to say and not wanting to talk to anyone. Granted, the previous year has been horrible beyond what I have words to describe. Not entirely and or thoroughly but in a very significant way that is completely unrelated to my familly, my writing or much of anything else. Yet it's effect has been the equivalent of a tectonic shift in my habits, disposition and free time.

Writing is an odd hobby. As well, I do not know it as one that I can force to occur. Either I have something to say - or not. When I don't, then writing is torture. Since I have not wanted to add another awful task to my plate, I have not written much of anything. For that I am sorry. But the anticipation of writing again was always with me. Silent, dormant hope.

Yesterday something happened that instantly made me understand without a doubt that I would be writing again very soon. My son said, 'Let me check my stats." It was that simple.
I have been writing this and another blog for literally years. I do not write them for notoriety or for consequence. I write them because I like to write. Never the less, I do (once in a while) look at my 'stats' to see how many people view what I have written; offer some sort of comment or simply stop by and read for a while. People come from all over the globe! For this I am eternally grateful and gleefully happy. Typically only a few people stop or 'click' on my blog page and I am so thrilled that someone other than my immediate family member and myself read these paragraphs that I do not mind that the number is almost always pretty low. (Let's put it this way; ten would be a big day.)
Still, I love writing my blogs.

A few days ago, my oldest son sent me a link . . . to his own blog page. He was spending Spring Break at his Dad's; busy texting me that he was bored. Amid the texts was his link and there opened a brand new page. Newly formed. Hours old. Only three short days old when I first saw it. My son loves the weather so I was not surprised at all to find that it had to do with weather or that it was organized, clear, easy to read or that locating specific information was elegantly simple.
What did surprise me was the complexity and sophistication that existed within his blog - immediately. His blog was just three days old yet light years ahead of me with respect to his ability to connect it to those readers who would be most interested. His posts are supported by both the local television station as well as the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Yes, that NOAA!!
His stats for yesterday: 143 views!!! Three days old and he's getting 143 clicks!!!
This! From my Autistic son who it has been said, " . . . lacks the ability to communicate well"!!
How? How is he lacking - exactly. Because I don't see the problem.

I cannot say that I am surprised. Yet, I am stunned and even more perplexed as to why this is my reaction. How could I not have expected this or any less from him? When it comes to technology and the weather, my son simply cannot be beat. These are his two best skills as well as his favorite activities and interests. Combine them and I am sure that the sky is not even close to his limit.

Yesterday when my son said, "Let me check my stats" in the middle of a conversation about something entirely unrelated, I was not prepared to lose in such a big way and by such an overwhelming margin. I was completely blindsided by his effortless success. Once again, I should have known better. If he just weren't so darn nonchalant about the whole thing it would be easier to take. I feel as though I put actual work into my blog pages and his simply flow from his as easily as a quiet exhale amid an entire night's sleep after a long and boring day.

If you live in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area and need to know what the day's weather will bring, please visit his blog page at the following address www.stormwatchdallas.com Or, you can like him on Facebook at Storm Watch Dallas. Either way - it's great. I am very impressed. I hope you will be too.

It's SO cool!!! And I am so proud of him.