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."