Butt Mom

I finally got to do something I've been wanting to do for years.  It was as funny as I had hoped, to me anyway.

Years ago I saw the movie Jack Frost;  it was Christmas and I was feeling brain dead/cheerful enough to watch the TV holiday movie on at the moment.  Now, the context is hazy (I've forgotten the entire movie except for one part), but there's a scene where the young son is complaining to his Mom about having to do something he doesn't want to do.  You know, we've all done it as kids, but it so annoying as a parent to be on the other side of immature manipulative techniques (or sophisticated, depending on the level of charming).  The boy says, in a whiny voice, "... but Mom..."  and her response was great.  I laughed so hard.  And I resolved right then and there that I would tether this comeback in the back of my mind, and let it loose at the perfect moment.

Ben was a toddler at the time, but yesterday, almost 10 years later, my opportunity came, unexpected, like magic.  Un-magically, I was unloading the dishwasher.  I asked Ben to help.  He came in the kitchen, head to the side, shuffling slowly.  "But, Mooommm...." he started, and I perfectly timed,
"Did you just call me butt Mom?"
He stared.  The wheels turned.  "Nooo..." and while he back-pedalled, I laughed, and then we both burst into laughter.  He has a great sense of humour.  I even slapped my knee.

Part of the reason why I found this funny, was because it was a hard-earned joke.  Ben is, almost always, highly effected by language.  Where a coma is verbally placed, tone of voice, order of words, logical context requests(?)...  can bring a smooth response and easy compliance, or a long drawn out argument,  integrally linked to his mood and level of sensory overload.   Oh, the stubborn stare that could have been avoided recently if I had just said "Yesterday you helpfully pointed out that we are low on toothpaste and batteries.  I would love your help to make sure we get the right kind of batteries, and at the best price, so how about we go to London Drugs right now which is right beside the Rec Centre where Kate will be for a birthday party from 12:30 to 2:00.  This will give us plenty of time to also compare the Canon and Nikon cameras you have been wanting to show me,"  instead of saying, "We need to leave now to take Kate to the birthday party," in a directional, distracted tone.

And if you just had the thought that kids should just listen to and obey their parents regardless of how they stipulate that the chores get done, I used to agree with you, but then I didn't have a son with Aspergers.  And believe me, how you say it matters.

But, sometimes we can breezily shake off words, they make a soft sound, like plink plink of keys on pavement, like I can imagine they might in one of my favourite books, The Phantom Tollbooth.  Who needs words when conversational nods communicate the restful delight in sharing an amazing cinnamon bun.  Those connections are awesome. 
Ben's laughter is infectious and his smile changes how I perceive time;  a moment can feel like the best kind of forever.

(Ben just read this post, and said "It was funnier than that, but I can't think of any advice for you.")

Book Strike

In Grade 1, Davis went on strike.
"I won't read any more books!"  he said.
On library day at school he refused to even look at the book racks, instead hunching over with arms folded on the big fading couch in the corner by the plants.
Week after week the librarian encouraged him to at least wander with his classmates in the picture book section.
Dark scowl.
The teacher was concerned.  "He's a very good reader," she said.  "This is usually a student's favourite time of the week."
She tried picking a book for him and sending it in his backpack.  We tried sticker charts and rewards.  He would have none of it.  And for some reason it became a bit of an issue, because he seemed angry and disconnected from a previous joy of reading.
Finally it came out in one big spill.  "I hate reading kids books!"  he said one night.  "They lie.  They say it's good to be different, it's good to be yourself,"  he looked down, "And then my class sits in desks all in a row and they make everyone be the same and write the same way and do art the same way, and forget all the smiles in those books!"

The huge moth fluttered and spun along the ceiling, down the wall, toward the bed.  Five-year old Kate dug under the duvet to tunnel away from its bulbous brown furry body.  I sat beside her.  We both called, "Dad!"  We needed rescuing.  Sort of, I just didn't want to touch it.
Ian hopped around the bedroom, stepping everywhere except on Kate's head, still buried under cover, her mewling peeps urging him to hurry... and not hurt it, but get it out, and put it outside, but not hurt it...
Davis came running in to see why all the commotion?  Ian grabbed at the moth, and for the tenth time it flitted just out of reach.  Davis ran to get the dog.  "Go get the moth!"  Davis told her, swishing his hands in its direction.  Our little white puppy stared, head bobbing back and forth, watching the flying creature move closer.  Davis picked her up, facing the moth, dangling her in mid-air.  Our attention then went to encouraging him to put the dog down.  He ignored us, running with her toward the erratic flying wings.  The puppy wiggled and wiggled, Davis was losing his grasp, paws everywhere.
"Get the moth!  Eat it!  Eat it!"  Davis yelled.
Kate cried, "Is the moth gone?"
"No!" Davis punched the air with the dog.
"Get it!  Eat it!"  The puppy squirmed, Davis held her above his head, to reach the moth.
Ian got the puppy, then the moth.  He questioned the frustrated chaos of Davis' attempts to feed the dog.
Kate came out from under the covers, red and sweaty, wiping tears, and relieved.
Davis was angry.  He wanted to make sure the moth went outside, that it wasn't crushed in Ian's hand.  He was angry at us for not letting him force the puppy to eat the moth. The puppy curled up and went to sleep.

Later that night he told me and the dog that there was only one okay way to get rid of a moth, besides putting it outside, but that's not good either because moths might struggle to live through the cold of the night.

"If Dad killed the moth, that would be murder.  If I killed the moth, that would be murder.  But, if the dog killed the moth, that would be part of the cycle of nature. So, you see, I was trying to help Kate by giving the moth a natural death."

We had a playdate today with a five-year-old girl, Lily, who played with Kate, and a nine-year-old brother who played with Davis. While the two girls played post office, and grocery store in a tent in the living room of their home, the boys parallel played upstairs with lego or hung out in the back yard.  Overall it was a very pleasant afternoon.

After a couple of hours we stood by the door to say our good-byes, and thank-yous for a delicious lunch.
Kate's friend asked me if Justin was going to bite her.  She seemed genuinely worried.
"Who's Justin?"
"He's Kate's husband," she said.
"Pardon?"
Apparently, Kate is married to a boy named Justin that she met at the park two days ago.
He's 5.   And imaginary.  And he bites.
"He bites people he doesn't know.  He doesn't bite me, though," Kate added. "I think he would bite Lily because he doesn't know her yet."
Lily started to cry.
Her Mom and I asked Kate if she could ask Justin not to bite.
"I can't control my husband," Kate answered.
"Sounds like a real marriage," joked Lily's good-natured Dad who happened to walk by.
"He doesn't listen to me when I ask him to not bite.  He has Aspergers.  Even if I ask him five- hundred times, he doesn't learn it.  He'll still bite people he's never met before."
"Sounds like he needs to learn some social skills," I said, a bit surprised, trying to be funny.  Lily's Mom and I raised our eyebrows and looked over at each other, sort of laughing.
I took Kate aside into the kitchen, probably making things worse by trying to convince her to tell Lily that Justin wouldn't bite her, as now Lily was burying her head under her brother's arm and quite upset.
Kate was adamant.  Justin would bite anyone who was a stranger to him, and she wasn't going to lie to Lily.
I tried to be encouraging and turn this imaginary husband scenario into a teaching moment, by telling her that everybody can learn not to bite, and it's totally doeable with help.  Kate didn't look convinced, which kind of bothered me.
We walked back toward the door while Lily's Mom assured her she wouldn't let anyone bite her, while trying to keep it light and friendly.  Lily has developmental delays and really believed that a boy named Justin was going to bite her.  Saying he was a pretend friend as a game, or down-playing it by moving to another topic seemed to backfire with both girls. 
Lily's Mom joked that maybe Kate should have married a different guy, and Kate's voice rose, insistent that she wouldn't!  Thoughts of  future arguments over suitable boyfriends flashed through my mind.
Davis stood by the door, and as I turned to get my shoes, he slapped Kate's cheek, not hard, but hard enough.  She screamed.  He just stood with his arms straight at his side, staring at her, sure he was justified "because she had married a jerk!" he concluded.
I separated them, watching Kate's cheek turn instantly pink. 
I praised her for handling that situation well by moving away from Davis and not hitting back.  I've learned from experience how futile it can be to hash things out in the moment with a kid with Aspergers, we would discuss it later.
We reached the car.  I said, no more talking about Justin, until we could do it calmly.  Davis stormed ahead yelling he wanted to meet this Justin guy and he couldn't believe she had married a jerk who bites!
"He's not a jerk," she yelled back, "he has Aspergers!"
Crazy ironic.
"It is time to sit quietly for the next 10 minutes", I said, reminding myself to breathe.
"His eyes are telling me he is so mad", Kate said.
"I'm not talking", Davis growled through clenched teeth.
"His eyes are talking", Kate replied.
Davis gripped his seatbelt as if it was the only thing keeping him from lunging at her.
He stared harder.
We were all quiet, until Kate whispered, "I fibbed".
"You fibbed?"
"I fibbed about Justing biting.  I taught him to do that, to protect me.  I taught him to bite to protect me from my brothers when they get mad.  He wouldn't bite my friends.  I'll tell Lily that."



Aside:  On the way to the car I calmly talked at him, being clear to everyone else how inappropriate it is to hit, especially in the face, for sure when we are feeling mad... he was too irritated to hear a word I said. Rather than insisting on apology right then I tried some deep breathing of my own and attention to Kate; we would discuss it later when he was calmer; he would apologize and acknowledge to Kate that he had made the wrong choice, and do something nice for her.   I was mostly saying it to validate my distaste for his actions to myself and Kate, and my efforts at teaching appropriate emotional regulation and impulse control at the apex of his frustration and inflexible thinking, felt deja-vu non-effective. There would also be time later to accknowledge his feelings of protectiveness, loyalty and caring for his younger sister, and that there are better ways to show it.

Perfect Peach Pie

I have one quest in life: to find the perfect peach pie.  One hot summer afternoon, a bite into a perfectly ripe cool peach brought me delicious moments of pure bliss.  Unforgettable.

When peaches are freshly plucked from a lush tree they bring your sense of taste and smell to rare peaks of pleasure.  It has to be hot dry weather, your tongue longing for a refreshing variation, and by some mysterious and unexpected good fortune, the peach is cool in your hand. The fragrance of the peach awakens a sense of possibility; the youthful fun of summer and memories of peaceful, insouciant dawdles on a back porch swing.

Granted, there are rivals for the coveted place of ultimate summer fruit or berry.  I love the sense of accomplishment from holding between pricked fingers, a plump sweet blackberry won from sharp selfish bushes, while on tiptoe teetering on the edge of a river.  Or, ruby raspberries examined for bugs in Grandma's backyard.  Fulfilled longing for a delicious summer berry is even better if there is a little risk involved.  Or, juicy oranges, even the scent of strawberries...
But above all others, this one peach has the power to stop time.  Pure.  Simple.

And while a badly made pie crust (mine) can bring me terrible disappointment, the treasure of a homemade pie (someone else's), enticing me by smell before I know of its existence with sweet sticky juices, brightens my mood every time.  So, perfect peach + perfect pie crust  =  perfection worth searching a lifetime for. 
Side question:  can pie be truly amazing independent of time and place, or does a sip from a cold glass of lemonade on a lazy summer afternoon, pre-nap round off the notion of perfection. Another question: Do I enjoy the search more than the pie?  If I did find it, that would end my quest, and that would be boring.  Whenever and wherever I see peach pie I must try a piece.  It is quite rare and must be experienced regardless of look or location.  Imagine the cruel pleasure of judging a peach pie contest, and having to chose just one!

I practice my daydreaming skills so that when this perfect melody of flavours and smells lingers,  I can begin an extended appreciation for the moment, and end with a light reve delicieux.  I allow and encourage myself to have between one and three short daydreams per day, dependent on environmental factors (any less would be inhumane, and any more could lead to complete detachment from reality).  These luscious moments range from the ridiculous to the sublime.  The more detail the better, with requisite rambles and twists.  I try not to re-run them, I like to keep my irrational whimsies fresh.

So, I've been trying to coax the boys into manufacturing a creative retreat for the drearier moments of life when they are stuck where they are, like stuck on a long car ride, pinned in between a crying younger sister and a sweaty, stinky teenage cousin.  

First of all, they look at me like I'm crazy, and I inwardly cringe because I suspect they are right.  But I don't give up, because an imagination can be a tool, or a reprieve, or sometimes the only syringe fast and legal.

Their minds are wired for logic, facts, rules and regulation; so it doesn't come easy.  We have some good starts:
Ben's daydream:  to rent a fancy hotel room away from everyone else with room service so he wouldn't have to leave his Mac.
Davis' daydream:  for puppies to lick his face all day long.

Sounds good to me.  We are still working on uncomplicated life quests;  life can bring random and fierce struggles, so balance it out with an appreciation for a "simple thing done well,"  as my husband would say.

A thousand rose bushes

Sensory Sensitivity

He squirmed awaywhen I pulled him close for a cuddle, even as a baby. He had his own ways of being close. He ran his little fingers through my long hair over and over.  His hands were like delicate combs, adding a silky shine to my hair.   

Something unexpected and bewildering was becoming more apparent as he grew.  His senses seemed in constant overdrive.  Soothing words brought no solace to his cries when we brushed his hair.  Smiles and encouragement didn't produce a decrease in frantic panic at the park to a two-year-old Ben slightly jostled by another child.  He shrieked at the feel of cotton on his skin and ate food based on texture as much as taste, which didn't leave many options.  Before he could even talk, his body gave the first signals for us to search for answers beyond his behaviour, such as his tears of frustration when people talked to him; he seemed unable to filter out the sound of the TV or traffic as background.  He also seemed unable to filter in our reassurances.
I found myself scanning every new environment for possible Ben hazards; crazy making to search for hairline fractures on the horizon.  I began avoiding stores with fans on the ceiling because of their intolerable noise to Ben.  No air-conditioning in the car unless I wasprepared for screaming about the "wind and smell" of  the feather-light breeze.  Clothing, food, sounds, light; each brought an intensity never before on my radar. 

I didn't see any other children getting as upset when the loudspeaker at THE GAP came on announcing a "sale on women'souterwear, for a limited time only." The sentence wasn't finished before it was drowned out by his peels of raw primal screaming. I didn't know it was possible to scream like that without being stabbed.

 Apparently no one in our life had any helpful answers either.  

 "Relax, be glad he's willful," my friends would say. " A lot of kids don't like getting their hair wet."  Was thrashing about, running away and howling in panic really an excessive response to the suggestion of a bath?  We wondered. 

"What if you gave him a toy to distract him?" 
"Ignore it."

The list of advice was endless... except there was little acknowledgment that he reacted at times as if his environment was...painful; apparently even the tiny hairs that fell on his neck during a haircut hurt his skin.  How do you explain that making him wear the cute little jeans that Auntie bought him for his birthday somehow felt cruel.  

"He'll grow out of it, wait and see," was the all-knowing answer of the public health nurse visiting our parent participation preschool.

 "My son used to do the same things, it will pass," was the bemused and placating response of older mothers and grandmothers. 
"You just need to be more firm with him," was the most common comment.

I thought they must be right.  

I also knew they must be wrong.


Ben's sensory sensitivities have slowly but significantly decreased over the past few years, and his abilities to tolerate discomfort have improved.
He no longer says that putting on a wool sweater is like being thrust into a thousand rose bushes, maybe just a hundred.

Twisted ankle

We leaned against the huge fallen tree beside the duck pond.  Fluffy baby geese splashed under close watch of alert parent geese.  Kate ran to the edge, her little hands pressed together with undisguised excitement... peaking  with an intense trip and face plant in the mud.  The goslings flapped their useless tiny wings while propeller feet swished them across the water.  Kate blinked with shock before she cried and pulled her leg in close.  She'd hurt her ankle, scraped her knees and redecorated her clothing.  I leaned down beside her, mostly concerned that her foot looked oddly angled.  Older brother hands reached in, grabbed her ankle and twisted it to its full range in the opposite direction.  Kate and I gasped in surprise while her eyes opened wide.  Her hands shot out to push Davis away and mine grasped his shoulders to pull him back.
"What are you doing?"  I blurted.
 Kate yelled.  Davis' back straightened in frozen confusion.  "I'm fixing her ankle,"  he said as he let go of her foot.   
"What?  How is that helping?"  I tried to look calm while my frustration mounted and concern tripled.
He didn't answer.
"Davis, she's hurt her ankle..."  we both looked down at his four-year-old sister.
"That's what they do on TV.  If someone breaks their ankle they twist it back into place,"  He made a cracking sound as he demonstrated with his hands.
"In cartoons,"  I said.
"Ya, also in cartoons,"  he nodded. "It always helps."

lunch table

(perspective of Davis, Grade 2)

I like squishy squeezy places.  I told my teacher that I like it under the lunch table.  The cafeteria in the school basement is very loud.  It's echoey.  Like a hollow crazy place.  Kids move around a lot, even sitting in one spot.  Bryan, who usually sits beside me is very jumpy and he bumps into me and bangs against my arm with his arm.  I've been thinking that under the table might feel better, and maybe even be quieter.  I climbed under there today and crawled near the end against the wall.  I had enough room to eat my almond butter sandwich.  My brain didn't feel so screamy and my legs weren't trying to run away.
 Mrs. Dundas asked me to come out.  I didn't hear her at first, so she got my brother to come over and tell me to come out. He asked me why I was under there.  I told him "Because I like it", and he said okay and walked away.  Mrs. Dundas told me that she had asked me four times to come out and she was going to get the Principal.  I really hadn't heard her say it four times.  But even if she says it four squared, I am not coming out until all the kids are gone.
 When the Principal came she asked me come out, and said I wasn't going to get in trouble.  I wanted to make sure, so I told her I was afraid Mrs. Dundas would yell at me and she must be hard of hearing because her loud voice could really echo, so I would rather stay under the table.  Mrs. Dundas went to get a drink of water.  The bell rang for kids to go outside and the room got quieter after the tables wobbled from their knees hitting them as they got up to go,  and then I came out.  The Principal told me that the little kids might copy me and that it is not safe to be under the table. I don't mind showing the younger kids how to crouch without getting kicked.
 When Mom came to pick me up today I heard my teacher tell her that I went under the table and refused to come out for anyone except the Principal and that shows I was being defiant.  I've heard that word before at school, usually with another word too:  deliberately defiant.
 My teacher reminded my Mom about "the incident in October".  I had to apologize to the whole class for that.  I am still not sure why.  It was silent reading time.  I went to the back of the classroom by the couch to pick another book.  The books we have in this Grade 2 classroom are very boring and I can read them super fast.  The space between the couch and the wall looked like a great place to read silently.  I kind of climbed and fell down in there at the same time, and I was right, it did feel good.  Then I heard the other kids moving around and the teacher started talking and nobody noticed I wasn't at my desk.  I wondered how long it would take for anyone to find me.  I still think that was an interesting question.  I have an Ironman Timex water resistant watch, with a timer and a button on the side to light up the screen.  Which was useful because everyone left and turned the lights off.  It was so quiet and peaceful and comfortable.  I had never felt so good at school before.
I was kind of hoping they wouldn't find me, but then 30 minutes went by and nobody had come back to the class, so I thought maybe school was over, but it was only 1:15, so that couldn't be it.  After 32 minutes I heard the door open and then Ainsley's loud annoying voice that scrapes along my brain.  She makes me so mad.  She sings all the time too and no one ever tells her to shut up.  Mark, the boy who sits beside me asked the teacher where I was.  She said "Wasn't he with you all in your computer class?"   " No" said Bryan.  Mrs. Dundas told the class to wait a minute and we were all quiet. I didn't know why she was leaving the classroom.  The computer teacher, Mr. Admor, argued with her that it wasn't his job to keep track of me and she should have been aware that I wasn't there when she dropped her class off at his computer lab upstairs.
Mrs. Dundas gave Mark the red card from her desk that we give to the Principal in case of emergencies, and she told him to take it to the office right away.  Everyone else had to sit at their desks and work on their spelling.  I was already finished mine, and was still feeling pretty good and cozy.  One of the school Aides came to watch the class while my teacher left the room.  I was getting a bit bored, but my watch was working well.
When a shadow stood over me I looked up.  It was the Aide, with my teacher and the Principal standing behind her, all in a line.  Mrs. Dundas said I made everyone search the school grounds and all the classrooms and washrooms. I didn't make them do that. Mrs. Dundas told me to get out of there right now and did I know what a scare I had caused everyone, including some of the kids who were crying.  It was only Emily and William, who cry at everything.  The Principal said that's not a very nice thing to say and that I missed the point.  The Aide said "What do you think of what you've done?"  I guess my answer was not what they wanted to hear because Mrs. Dundas grabbed the elbow of the Principal and said "See what I mean, no remorse." She took out a piece of paper and wrote down my answer so she could send in a report and tell my Mom.  I only said that I thought I should be congratulated because 43 minutes is the longest I've ever hid without being found.  She asked if I felt bad, and of course I said no because it was cozy and quiet and I read my book and my watch can be programmed to save important data like this.

Literally

(fictional interpretation of one sibling relationship)

I’m writing this in my journal.  Not the one I decorated at the "Siblings of Kids with Aspergers Bookbinding Craft Group" my Mom took me to so I could write stuff like how much I love my brother and understand how hard things are for him sometimes.  That's true.  But so is this. 

Sometimes I hate him.  I hate how my older brother Kevin checks the weather report every morning on the TV, radio, internet and newspaper.  Not because he wants to be prepared for rain by bringing an umbrella, but because he needs to be sure that our all-season tires will be “sufficiently safe” for Mom to get to the clinic where she works so that she can make money to give him allowance every week so he can reach his goal of $170 plus tax for this laser projection keyboard he desperately can barely live without.  My Mom reminds him every morning that he has a list of chores to do every day, but he can earn extra money by sweeping the floor or unloading the dishwasher.  He just stares at her like she's bonkers and she stares at him without reaching for her wallet.  He still makes money from his website that lists battery usage guidelines for hundreds of different cel phones, but it goes into his college fund.

He also cries about stupid stuff, which I think is disturbing.  Like, if we don’t have Hellman’s mayonnaise- NON-LITE, because then he can’t eat his ham sandwich, which is all he ever eats. Obviously only full-fat mayonnaise can coat the bread with enough fat content to prevent dreaded seepage of totally needed ketchup.  I don’t really know the whole list of ham sandwich hazards because I never stay in the kitchen long enough.  Plus I don’t care.  Sometimes it just feels good when I open the fridge and see that we only have a little mayo left in the jar, and I use it.  I do that when I'm really mad at him and the timing is right.   Oh ya, he’ll also eat apples if the peel is off and there are no bruises on it; with a fork so his fingers don’t get sticky!  Who does that?

Yesterday he didn’t answer me when I asked him if he liked my new skirt.  I really want to look good for Friday because I'm going to my friend Jesse’s house and she has a brother who is cuter than cute.  I mean, there's no word for how good looking he is.  He's the same age as Kevin, so I thought maybe Kevin would be a good test for how 14-year-old boys think and if they like brown skirts with pink lace along the bottom, but not too much because that would be babyish.  Kevin didn’t even look at my skirt; he told me that some boring computer thing called Lion OSX has a new version coming out July 20th. 

My brother is the definition of Ass-Burger.  I told him that once when he got totally upset when I accidentally stepped on his Nintendo 3DS charger.  I got into a lot of trouble for saying that, but it was worth it.  He never shuts up about video games!  Minecraft this.... Mario Galaxy that....  Lego Star Wars blah blah.  And he only wears practically the same clothes every day because they are the only ones that don’t scratch his skin.  He won’t let my Mom or Dad touch him lightly, like pat his back, but he's always asking us to squeeze him as hard as we can.  How does that make sense?

I guess he’s not so bad.  We have a secret system at school.  I slip him a fortune cookie at recess from my friend Amber (she's Chinese and doesn't like the fortune cookies her Grandma puts in her lunch everyday) because he collects the ones that tell him he's lucky today.  Odd for someone who tells me my horoscope isn't scientifically relevant.  He heard on the show 'Age of Persuasion' on CBC radio that people have a neurological dopamine response to the word "lucky" so he's saving them up to give to Dad for Father's Day even though Kevin is sure that luck is a  false construct based on a lack of logical reasoning.  You can see why he’s confusing.  I have to ignore him at school because he doesn’t have any friends.

I'm also doing really well in English.  I love to write and I have a flare for the dramatic my teacher says.  My brother has the imagination of a knat.  If I hadn’t helped him write his poetry for English he would have failed his assignment for sure.

Bill Gates                                                                                                                                                 
With Windows 8

Picked the dates

It’s going to be late

I can’t wait to get Windows 8

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       
He was going to hand that in! Mom said it was a good rhyme, and informative poetry is refreshing.  I know he's way smarter than that because he is on the gifted list at school.  He uses such big words, but he freezes if he has to write a story or poem,   I think I get good grades in English because I hear him talk.   He didn't say thanks, but he cleaned my computer screen after we'd finished with his homework.  He told me that the number of oily fingerprints on my screen was consistent with a statistically relevant portion of the population who are unaware that they touch their computers as much as they actually do.  He has a special cloth for that, so he rushed to his room to get it.  Dad says that's Kevin's way of saying he cares about me. 

I’m in my room right now because Mom told me I need a break for a while, which is fine because I’d rather be in here than stay in the kitchen with him.  He told me my hair looks messy, like I just woke up.  I did it special today!  I told him to take a hike, keep your shirt on, and make hay while the sun shines.  It was all I could think of.   Kevin started up about how he can’t go for a hike because we don’t live near a mountain and he can’t get to one because he doesn't have a drivers license.  He asked me why he would take his shirt off, the temperature is a bit low in the house, and he started to stutter about the hay thing.   This is an awesome way to confuse my brother and stay out of serious trouble myself by pretending to forget he takes everything literally.  I left before I could hear the same lecture about how Kevin says stuff he thinks is true and he's still learning that some things hurt people’s feelings.  He told a girl in my class that she should go to Weight Watchers and cut down on junk food, and she's my friend!  Ya, she’s fat but anybody knows that’s rude to say right to her face.  I do think it’s funny when he tells the Principal that she has bad breath.  No matter how many times my parents tell him that it’s not polite to say, he still does it.  He says it’s the truth and that he's being helpful, plus she could get some mint gum from the vending machine, but if she forgets or can’t afford it he could get some for her as a present.  He’s so embarrassing.

My parents are always telling me to watch out for Kevin.  He's older than me, he's a boy, and barely notices me.  They don't get it. They take me to a friend’s house but then say I'm lucky because I make friends so easily.  Why do I have to feel lucky because Kevin can’t do something and I can?  And by the way, the word lucky doesn't cause a spike in my brain happy chemicals.  It's not like he even wants to hang out with me.  And we don’t do much as a family, like we can’t all go to the beach because Kevin will freak out that the water is sticky and the sand feels like glass on his bare feet, but he also won’t wear shoes because the sand gets in his shoes and that's just as bad.  And I don’t think the ocean stinks, it smells great.  It’s so relaxing.

Mom says it’s okay for me to feel mad at Kevin.  She listens to what I say, most of the time.  But… she doesn’t see that he's so selfish.  I guess I’m mad too because Kevin makes her so happy.  She smiled for days when he learned to ride his bike, when he was 9!  I learned when I was 4.   I’ve never seen her try so hard to hold back tears as when Kevin stood up and sang a bit of a song for music appreciation day in front of the whole school. When I do something good, she just smiles and hugs me and puts her hands on my cheeks and stares into my eyes.  I don't see any tears. My brother doesn't notice when people are happy or sad, won't let anyone hug him and no one could ever touch his face or look into his eyes without him having a major meltdown, or he would just walk away.  And not see that I smile too.

No Such Thing as Santa

"There is no such thing as Santa!" our four-year-old son yelled, fists clenched, his little freckled face pink with insistent frustration.

My husband, Ian, bent to Ben's eye level, trying but unable to make eye-contact.

"There is a Santa Clause, and the exciting part is that he's coming tonight to put presents under the tree!" Ian smiled with encouragement.  He was wearing wilting felt reindeer antlers that jingled as he nodded his head.

"A big fat man can't fly through the sky and squish down smokey chimneys with a huge sack of toys!!"  Ben glared into his Dad's eyes, challenging him with an impressive yet disturbing intensity.

"He uses magic, Christmas magic."

Ben took a moment to judge the sanity, and intelligence level of his Dad, who held his ground, rubbing the soft fur of a red stocking with his thumb.

"Magic is a lie," Ben said evenly, confidently.

"It's fun," replied Ian, becoming aware of shaky ground.  "When I was a boy, I snuggled under the covers with my dog on the couch, hoping that I might be the luckiest kid, and actually meet Santa while he ate the cookies and milk I'd left for him."
 Ian looked over at me, welcoming my input at this point.  I smiled and raised my glass of eggnog in a silent toast to his noble attempts to draw his son into a magical world of talking snowmen, flying reindeer and tiny peppermint scented cottages dotting the sparkly landscape of the Northern toy capital of the world.

"All your life you were a liar?" Ben's eyes grew large.

My laugh bubbled my eggnog, causing me to drool on my shirt.  

I remember that winter evening because in an odd way it was a turning point.  I saw in our son's eyes a question that went beyond that moment, to reveal an unbending commitment to facts and logic; a boy lost and floundering in a world that made no sense.  A struggle over the existence of Santa Clause nudged us closer to a future awareness of Aspergers, a deeper understanding of our son, and a grateful thrill for a different kind of magic - a sense of humour. Ben's definition of a lie basically exposes every holiday as a sham, and his parents and siblings as compulsive liars.  Halloween has been a gong show; wearing a costume to pretend to be something else is definitely a lie, no matter what the sugary pay-off. Valentines Day cards are cheesy sentimental lies being stuffed into construction paper boxes of classmates you don't really love, and rarely even like.  The Easter Bunny is just a bizarre farce, and if we mention the Tooth Fairy one more time we may as well admit to our own premature dementia.

Later that snowy Christmas Eve, after we'd soothed tears by finally admitting that we'd bought his presents, I held his little hand and whispered "I love you".  He cuddled under his blankets, nodded and drifted off, recognizing the only truth that ever matters.