from here to there and back

If my son was writing this post, he would tell you that his new dvds are awesome. He would tell you that he loves the songs and the silly dog and the really great social stories acted out by kids his age.

But since it’s my hands on the keyboard, I will simply tell you this: Kibbles Rockin’ Clubhouse and Handling Transitions and Change very much belong in your personal dvd library. I was worried that these shows would skew a little too young for GP or that they would be too simplistic in their message or execution, but we’ve been watching them together (over and over again!) this week and I remain impressed.

Last night, I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. And it made me realize—really reminded me—that on some level, he understands that he struggles with this stuff. We read a lot of social stories here at home and I know his speech therapist works hard with him on social communication, but I think part of the reason why he loves these dvds is that he sees real live kids working hard to make the right choices. And that’s something he faces every single day.

I almost hesitate to tell you about these dvds now, since I don’t think either one is due to hit stores until April 1, but since so many of our kids are in a similar place with their social/emotional learning, I just had to share. Maybe you could bookmark the links as a reminder for later?

There’s a change in the air. The kind of thing one typically associates with the coming of spring, but here we are in the middle of winter and I have nothing to pin it on.

I’ve wanted to write about it, but I’ve been afraid to jinx it. As if commiting the words to the page will make them vulnerable, put them at risk. But I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one who senses something unusual happening. Susan. Drama Mama. Niksmom. Good Fountain. This Mom. People are putting it out there, tentatively—forcefully, even—saying “Hey, look over here, something is happening.” It’s a virtual perfect storm of new skills and heightened awareness.

We’ve seen this before with GP. Developmental bursts. Hard work. Maturity. Mastering something new. But this hasn’t been an easy school year for us and I wasn’t expecting to go from chaos to control in such a short time. I don’t mean to imply that the days are perfect, but they are going well. He’s still just six years old, but as he says, “I think I will try to act like I am seven today.” Add to the mix that he’s more focused. More relaxed. More accepting of change. Happier than he’s been in a good long while. And excited to go to school in the morning!?!?

The significance of all this doesn’t escape me. And though I can’t say what has changed exactly, I can say that what seemed impossible way back in early December, is kind of just all of a sudden, well…not so hard to imagine.

There was a point, before I started blogging, when I thought I might move my freelance work in the direction of writing essays—and getting paid for it. I was feeling very been-there-done-that with writing pieces for trade journals and custom publications. I was desperate for a change.

So I started writing about my son. A thousand words at a time. I submitted to parenting magazines, webzines, My Turn, Lives, you name it. Some of the editors I knew. Some I didn’t. All the while I was submitting, I was writing. After awhile, I wasn’t just writing about my son. I wrote about my father. My husband. Other things. And nothing. Not a single placement in over a year.

The rejections were always encouraging. “We loved this essay. Unfortunately, it isn’t quite right for our readers.” But in the end, none of it really mattered. In the end, I wound up here. Writing a novel. And feeling like I’ve come home.

I remember asking a friend—a talented and very published writer and editor—if he thought I could find a gig writing a parenting column. I think he said something along the lines of, “Stop looking for something else and go write your book.”

It took me a long time to hear what he was saying.

When I started blogging, I referred to myself as a freelance writer and essayist. And though I’ve written quite a few posts about my writing, it wasn’t until I started here that I was able to actually type the words, “…a writer, currently working on my first novel…” in the sidebar.

I hit 30,000 words today. And though I still don’t have a working title, I have written one-third of my novel.

One-third.

This is easily the hardest work I’ve ever done. It is my something else.

One-third.

It’s like coming home.

Perhaps the single most important objective of first grade is learning to read. And my son is close. Very close. But not there yet.

I imagine this is one of those things that will eventually click, like flipping a light switch in his brain. He’ll go to bed one night studiously sounding out words and wake up reading chapter books.

I’ve been pretty laid back about the reading from the start. I want to foster a lifelong love of words. Better a late reader than a child who dreads the very idea. Still, I’ve decided to step it up a bit here at home. We’ve been spending some of our free time this last week with these books and on this website. I don’t want to pressure him, but I do want to give him a little extra push.

I wonder if it isn’t all about the way his brain processes information. There are times when it might seem like he is reading, but he’s simply working from memory and a careful study of the pictures. When you show him the words out of context, he doesn’t always recognize them. His phonics are good—excellent, in fact. He can sound out anything, but then when he tries to put it back together, say the word quickly, he typically drops off one or more of the sounds.

It’s likely that he may eventually need a tutor; that we’ll have to shop around for a learning method that makes more sense to him than what they are teaching at school and what we can do at home. I’ve talked to his classroom teacher about it and our private OT. They both agree that he’s almost there and that a tutor only makes sense if he isn’t reading by the end of the school year.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue looking for excuses to give him “extra” computer time and special “read with mommy” rewards. Because when it’s handed to him in a pretty package tied with a nice ribbon, it doesn’t feel like homework or study time, it feels like fun, like he’s getting away with something.

And what could be better than that?

Well, maybe just this: Right after I snapped the photo above, he turned to me and said, “Some day, mommy, I’ll be able to read to the whole family… Maybe even today!”

Yes, maybe even today…

Still no snow. And as far as I can tell, there’s none in the forecast. We are simply cold and gray, the sky like sheets of glass (despite the fact that the neighborhood kids are wearing their pajamas inside out and doing a nightly snow dance).

One of my son’s favorite books, Stranger in the Woods, by Carl R. Sams II & Jean Stoick, is a charming snow story. In it, a menagerie of woodland animals and birds discover a stranger in their midst. The stranger—a snowman, left in the woods by a boy and his sister—is the cause of much speculation. But as the animals work up the courage to investigate, they find that the stranger is friendly. His cap is filled with birdseed, his eyes are nuts, his nose a carrot. The animals and birds settle in for a feast, while the boy and his sister quietly look on from the shelter of the trees.

The last page of the book offers a recipe for a snowman. Last night, after we read the story together, GP asked if we could follow the recipe as soon as we get snow. Of course, I said, though I wonder what the winter will bring. In the meantime, should you find yourself with an abundance of the white stuff, I’ll leave you with this, courtesy of Sams and Stoick:

Recipe for a Snowman

• 1 generous helping of wet packing snow
• 1/4 cup of round nuts in the shell
• 2 larger nuts
• 1 large carrot
• 2 old gloves or mittens
• 1 old hat
• 2 fallen branches
• 1-4 well-bundled children
• 2 scoops of imagination
• 1 dash of good humor

May substitute or add any of the following ingredients: scarf, ear muffs, sunglasses, acorns, pine cones.

Makes one serving. May last for several days.

I am reading Irene Nemirovsky’s Suite Francaise. And though I am only halfway to the end, I am already in awe of this extraordinary work of art. According to the translator’s notes, the two novellas were still a work-in-progress when they were discovered some 64 years after they were written.

Work in progress? Wow. If Nemirovsky’s first draft is this good, I can’t imagine how much more polished her completed work would have been. Nemirovsky died at Aushwitz in 1942.

And while there’s plenty to be said about the beauty of her writing, the honesty and harshness of what she portrays, there’s also something to be said about the way she gives life to a history most of us learned from an outdated textbook and a world map.

In the back of the book (yes, I skipped ahead to peek), there is an appendix filled with the author’s handwritten notes and her plans for the novel. Reading this is a gift; a glimpse into the mind of a brilliant writer.

This book has been sitting on my shelf for months—I cannot stress how glad I am that I finally picked it up and opened to the first page. That first page was, in fact, all I needed to pull me in.

What a rare and unique treasure, a novel written in real-time. Events documented as they unfold. To be taken right into occupied France, to be immersed in the day-to-day struggles of those who tried to flee, those who chose to stay, and those who fought against evil on every front—the arrogance and entitlement of the wealthy, the misery of the poor, and the complex web that binds us, all of us, in the disagreeable reality of wars being waged.

From the author’s notes: Keep it simple, tell what happens to people and that’s all.

That’s all? Yes. Perhaps. But it is, in fact, what Nemirovsky has elected not to say that speaks volumes here.

He stumbled into my room this morning at 5:10, “I’m sick,” he croaked. I felt his forehead, which was cool to the touch, and told him to climb in bed next to me and go back to sleep.

When we woke up again two hours later, I had to decide quickly. School—yes or no? I still struggle with the ambiguous nature of the common cold and non-fever related illnesses. When is he too sick to go to school, too healthy to stay home? I am inconsistent, at best, sending him off to class when he should be on the couch with a blanket or keeping him home only to wonder, what was I thinking?

Today could be one of those what-was-I-thinking days. He’s sniffling a bit, coughing occasionally, and still cool to the touch. His biggest complaint is that he’s tired. And while I know—and he knows—that’s no excuse to miss school, I feel like, on some level, he needed this day.

As he rests now, quietly in his bed, I think about how exhausting life can be—for all of us. How sometimes it feels like swimming out against the waves. Today, I am trusting my instincts. We have our blankets and our books and a seat on the shore. We don’t need much else. A chance to rest, regroup and remind ourselves of the progress we are making. The days are hard, challenging, the relentless push and pull of the current.

But we’re keeping our heads above water. And it feels good.

This morning my husband J left on a business trip. As he was saying goodbye and heading out the door, our son turned to me and said, “Hey mom, it’s like now you are the babysitter and I am the kid.”

Um hm. That’s it. Exactly.

I have never accepted the idea that it won’t simply fade away over time. I have never given in to the notion that the challenging behavior is permanent, a fixture, a lifelong disability. I realize that now.

It came to me after reading something on someone else’s blog. “…still thinks the twins will outgrow their autism…” Outgrow. Yes, I’ve thought that too. Hard work. Maturity. Time. The right kind of support. Poof. It’s gone. Only in my darkest moments do I wonder if, in fact, this will never go away.

I don’t know which it will be. I suspect it’s not a black or white kind of thing. There are countless shades of gray here. The challenges for us continue to be in situations where he is forced to conform, to meet some preconceived, inflexible notion of how a six-year-old is supposed to behave. I still hear the neurologist, his thick German accent rattling around my head, “There is no limit to what your son can achieve.” Were those just words? Standard encouragement for parents who are handed an ASD diagnosis? Or is there truly no limit?

This weekend my son checked a book out of the library. Sector 7 is a wordless picture book. In the story, a young boy on a school trip befriends a cloud. In one of the illustrations, the cloud hides under the boy’s coat so the two friends can stay together. But the cloud can’t be completely hidden. Little wisps of white trail below the hem and spill out the sleeves. And the boy’s sudden weightlessness and unusual, puffy shape betray the presence of the cloud.

The image makes me think of how ASD affects my son. While it is mostly invisible, under wraps, there are places where it spills out. Where it cannot be contained. I look at this drawing and I see my son trying unsuccessfully to manage or conceal his differences.

And I wonder how that’s going to look down the road. Will the things that cannot be contained become more or less obvious as time goes on? When does a quirky child—one who is often avoided by his peers—simply become something else? An interesting mind. A creative force.

There was one other thing the neurologist said. “Be careful who you tell.” And at the time, I thought, why? Only secrets can’t be told. And this has never felt like a secret. But maybe what he meant was this—maybe he meant that labels can be limiting. And there is no limit to what my son can achieve.

Is it wrong to think he will outgrow the behaviors that set him apart? Maybe. But it can’t be wrong to believe there is no limit. To believe that one day his unusual mind will be celebrated—beyond these four walls—for the thing of beauty that it is.

The weekends belong to them. Both of them anxious to make up for time lost during the week, when work and school limit them to fragments in the early morning and before bed.

On Saturday and Sunday mornings they make their way downstairs, foraging for breakfast. Pancakes, coffee and milk. Though I am supposed to be asleep, I hear our son relating some long and elaborate dream, his father responding with punctuated interest.

Today I found them lounging in the backyard—a roaring fire in the chimenea—the air brittle and sharp, 26 degrees. It’s not cold, they protested in unison, as I hurried back into the warmth of the kitchen. I find them like that often, in cahoots about something. Talking about cars, train layouts, music. Making plans.

It hasn’t always been like this. He used to call for me to join them. And mommy too, he would tell his father. But for this, they don’t need me anymore. Now it’s a kiss and a wave and they’re off. To take a drive, to walk to town. I see them now and years from now, together. Claiming their time. Turning to the things they love.

And I think no matter what the future holds, these are the things that will carry them. These are the things that will see them through.

One of the things I love about this site is that I can build pages, in addition to posts. You may have noticed, in fact, that I’ve added a page called Library.

Back in the days when I was riding the subway to and from work, I easily read between 50 and 60 books a year. And I kept track. In my Filofax. (Bet that brings back some memories.) In the last few years, however, I have been a little less bookish.

Okay, a lot less.

Despite the fact that I love to read and am an active member of a book club, I am still not reading as much as I should.

To that end, I’ve decided to keep a record. Again. To motivate me. The Filofax is gone. The Library page is much cooler. I will never end up with a to-be-read pile as daunting as this, but I hope to keep an interesting stack on hand. Enough to encourage and inspire me in my own writing. And enough to carry me away to another time, another place, when I am in need of an escape.

What should I add to my pile? What have you read lately—and loved?