Even before I knew that our son had autism, I had figured out that most of my instincts, and all my parenting books, were wrong for this child. My instinct is to cuddle a crying child, but it only made matters worse. I have sung babies to sleep since I started babysitting in my teens, but if I sang to my son, or even in his presence, he screamed. A time-out didn’t register, because he was in his own little world to begin with; what stressed him was being forced to interact, or having his routine disrupted. Explaining things to him was useless, (though I kept doing it) because he did not understand.

And for all that, he was a little boy. I took him to the library sometimes, because he’d taught himself to read and loved to look at the books. But he also loved to run, and so I found myself, one day, trying to get him to stop playing keep-away around a middle-aged gentleman who was most unamused by the antics. “What kind of mother are you, that you can’t control your child” he asked scathingly. “If he were mine I’d give him a good spanking. That would get his attention.” Yes, it would have, but it would have overwhelmed him so much he wouldn’t have understood the reason for it. I sat down on the floor, pulled my son into my lap on his next pass, and held him there by main force until he calmed down. I hoped my critic would go away once he was no longer an obstacle for a mischievous child, but no such luck. Finally, when my son was no longer fighting me, I looked up. “He’s autistic” I said, “and he’s four. What’s your excuse?” He stared at me for a second, muttered “Sorry; I didn’t know”, and finally, finally walked away. We left too; it was a couple of years before I tried to take my kid to the library again.

That was exactly it. He didn’t know. Most people don’t. Unless you live with it, it’s invisible; you can’t see that the beautiful child standing with his mother is neurologically different. Physical disabilities make people uncomfortable, but you can see them. Autism isn’t obvious unless you know exactly what you’re looking at. It looks like a tantrum at an age when tantrums should have been outgrown. It looks like defiance, or stubbornness, or repetitive, disruptive behavior. And yes, sometimes it looks like what would be lax parenting in a neurotypical kid. Even if my son’s behavior didn’t pull them in, absolute strangers felt called upon to tell me what I was doing wrong when he behaved in unexpected ways. Sometimes it was very specific advice, sometimes simply “I’d never let my child get away with that.” I resented the need to explain him all the time. I resented being judged and found wanting by the clueless.

He’s grown up quite a lot, and now the comments I get are complimentary. People tell me what lovely manners he has, and how helpful he is, and how confident. There’s still a lot they don’t see, but what they do see no longer arouses negative comment. I no longer get well-meant but irritating advice from random strangers in the mall. But I sure do understand that bumper sticker.

Parenting Advice Is Not Welcome Unless You Also Have A Child With Autism. Yes. That. Exactly that.

She got his attention in classic early-adolescent fashion, though. She poured a bottle of water over his head. He changed clothes from the skin out (we send a change with him), but he was laughing about the drenching. That was my first clue that Something Was Up. Any time previously, he’s been thoroughly ticked by such a thing. When T. did it, he thought it was the funniest prank ever played on him.

So she’s his buddy. He’s enjoying her company a lot, and I’m enjoying listening to him chatter. And I’m very glad he’s comfortable chattering about such a thing with his mom.

Local is a relative term. Their territory covers all of Northwest Indiana, and they’re based right on the Illinois line. So while it’s closer than, say, South Bend, it’s hardly close. My first thought was that 25 miles wasn’t too bad, and it isn’t, but 25 miles each way twice a day suddenly becomes 100 miles. I can certainly combine necessary errands with the drive, but even at that most places aren’t yet open when I drop him off. So the grocery shopping got done this morning, but by the time I got home it was hot enough that I really didn’t want to be outside mowing. I guess tomorrow I’ll come directly home so that the yard gets a haircut.

So it is, as one of the other women in the congregation put it, quite a schlep. On the other hand, he’s gotten in the car at the end of the day bubbling over with the games he played, and what they did swimming, and who he found to run around with, and all the other things that go with day camp. Last year he was nervous about crowds of strangers, and I didn’t push. This year his first reaction was that he might make some friends, and he does indeed seem to be. I’m glad he reached this point now, because by next year he’ll be too old for it. And for all it’s a lot of driving, it really is worth it to see my kid simultaneously excited and worn out from running his feet off. He was dressed and ready to go half an hour before we needed to be, bounced out the door as soon as I had my clothes on and his lunch packed, and chattered about what he’d be doing today the whole 45 minute trip. He was just has talkative coming home. He’s a happy kid.

So it’s worth the drive. Having a happy, not even remotely bored kid is what it’s all about, in the end.

“I don’t know” I told him. “We’ll….” and he finished for me “walk that plank when we come to it.”

And then he asked why I was laughing so hard. Arrrh, matey’s I can’t imagine. Couldn’t be that he’s funny, could it?

I had much ado not to giggle at the latest one, though. “Fork-lift! Idiot computer!…..”

Now it’s my son’s turn.  His does fit in a shoebox.  He’s supposed to do a diorama about France, and so chose to do the Eiffel Tower.  I had visions of him trying to construct the thing out of clay, popsicle sticks and/or toothpicks, with associated howls of frustration because while he builds amazing things from Legos, things not intrinsically designed to fit together give him fits.  I asked him if he wanted to build a model or if he wanted to put a picture as the background in the back of the shoebox.  To my relief, he thought that the picture was a fabulous idea, but wanted it painted rather than as a photograph.  Hmm.  We found a good photo to work from, and I drew a pencil sketch on watercolor paper.

I helped with the painting of that, and then it was time for modeling compound.  Crayola makes something that can be modeled like clay, air dries very quickly, feels rather like marshmallow, and is paintable.  That’s what we used, and he now has a seated human figure holding a dog on a leash, a cat and another little person sitting cross-legged, two wee chairs and a pedestal table.  They’re all drying on the card table, and will be painted tomorrow before being glued into position.  The table and chairs aren’t particularly in proportion to the people, but hey, he’s 12.  Now he’s painting grass and a sidewalk while I keep him company.  I suspect he’ll remember this as long as I have the Indian Village.

He’s also answered some factual questions, done a written report on French history, and prepared an oral report.  He’s looking forward to presenting the whole thing to his Social Studies teacher.  Me?  I’m looking forward to his teacher’s response.  It’s his project, but I don’t feel at all bad about helping with it.  All I’ve done is mechanical execution.  The plans and ideas have been all his, and that’s the important part.

He drew a figure leaning back against a taut rope, the other end of which was tied to a bus.  I’d heard of calf-roping, but bus-roping?

And then he wondered why I laughed so hard.

But then there are the redeeming features.  Our landlady is a joy.  Last winter, when the power went out, she and her husband brought us a generator without being asked.  She calls to chat and to check on me now and then.  We’re friends. Our neighbors are wonderful too.   It’s just comfortable.

And most of all, there is the school district.  I have seen huge urban school districts.  Even the good ones seem to do only what they must, and because they have so many kids there’s a lot of “one size fits all” thinking.  It’s entirely too easy for a kid to slip through the cracks.

Not here.  Every teacher knows every child in every grade.  There’s no “kids will be kids” or ignoring bullying.  A lot of schools say they don’t tolerate it, but in reality turn a totally blind eye.  Not here.   Last year, when it came to the teachers’ attention that our son was being excluded on the play ground, and told “game closed”, they stepped in.  There were to be no closed games.  Period.  It took a matter of a few days for me to have a happy kid again.

And then we come to today.  Some 7th graders decided it would be fun to torment the 6th grade boys in the locker room.  One of  the 6th graders was my son.  Not to worry; he’s fine, because it was handled very well indeed.  The principal and guidance counselor were right on it.  They got statements from all concerned.  They made sure the younger kids were very clear that it wasn’t their fault.  They asked the victims what consequence they would consider fair.  They did the same for the parents.  I got a call from the principal and counselor at 6:00 pm, and they talked to me for half an hour.  The bullies will get in-school suspension (they do their class work, but are separate from the other kids), will not be allowed back until they and their parents have had a conference with the administrators, and will be required to research and write a paper about autism, to help make them aware of non-visible disabilities.  They will also be required to apologize to the kids they tormented.

Punishment to fit the offense, tailored to the children in question.  Input from and empowerment of the victims. Requiring the bullies to accept responsibility, and using the opportunity to teach about tolerance, empathy and diversity.

This school system is a tiny gem.  Why ever would we leave?

At first I tried to discourage this, but the subject would not stay closed.  Finally I decided that the best way to prevent unauthorized, unsupervised and generally dangerous experiments was to take control and provide lessons in safety.

First lesson was lighting matches.  We went through about a dozen, standing in the middle of the kitchen, before he could light his match pretty much every time.  We also blew them out and then dropped the spent matches into a pot of water, with appropriate comments on what could happen if they fell on paper instead.  So far so good.  Then we talked about how to choose a safe place for a camp fire, and what supplies to have at hand.  (Basically tinder (dry grass, bark, etc.), dry sticks of varying sizes, and a large bucket full of water.)  We forbade any attempt until we had cinderblocks to set up what is essentially a fire-proof box, and until Mom was present to instruct and supervise.  He gathered tinder enough for half a dozen fires, and a similar supply of sticks, while he waited with increasing impatience to actually see a fire started.

So finally yesterday afternoon, with all ready, we went out.  I showed him how to construct it, taking advantage of the fact that fire by its nature moves upward.  And then I impressed the heck out of him by lighting one single match, setting it under a corner of the structure, and having a good fire burning in about 5 minutes.

We let it go for about half an hour, at which point the original fuel was pretty well used up.  In the meantime, I showed him what happens when you push fuel in toward the center or spread everything out.  He also learned that no matter how you try, you’re going to get smoke blown in your direction.  Then I poured about half a bucket of water over the whole thing, (which had never been very big) and we went out to commit an act of washing machine, ours having died its final death on Friday.

So today, after homework was done, out we went and repeated the procedure.  This time he looked around and made certain everything we needed was at hand, built the structure, checked wind direction, and began trying to light the fire.  And trying.  And trying.  And trying.  When he finally gave up and asked me to help, it took me a good few tries as well, the breeze being stiff enough to blow the fire out even once it looked like it was going well.  He was getting frustrated by the time we finally had something.  He also learned that you can put a fire out by feeding it too much or too quickly and blocking the air-flow.

So he’s gotten some hard and fast rules drilled into his head, both of the safety variety (Do Not Play With Fire is Rule numbers 2, 4 and 6) and of the parental variety.  (Never Without Direct Adult Supervision is Rule numbers 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9.)  So the obsession has been channeled into safety lessons for now.  I predict the next thing will be a demand to spend the night outside in a tent.  Oh, and rule number 10?  That one’s for Mom.  Put the matches somewhere he won’t think to look.

So somewhere in the course of this, the kids are hunting for food in a swamp, and get themselves cattails.  They’re amazingly useful plants: the fluff is excellent tinder and insulation, the mature stems are rigid enough to use to roof a sapling lean-to, the leaves can be woven into waterproof mats for sitting or sleeping, the pollen is both protein and starch-rich and the roots are very starchy and can be eaten like potatoes.  Our son was enchanted by this idea.  And this was something he could actually try, because we live by a marsh and there, across the road, are real, authentic cattails!  He was determined to essay the experiment.  I figured he’d babble about it for awhile, and then forget it.  Nope.  This was something real that he could try.

There’s only one problem; they’re growing in the marsh.  No matter; he would go wade out and get some.  (Before anyone panics, the marsh is two feet deep at its deepest point, and about 10 inches where the nearest cattails are.  Every so often you see geese try to paddle and end up sort of walking.)  Now this kid is usually Mr. Fastidious.  If he gets a splash of water on a shirt, that shirt is no longer Fit For Wearing, and must be changed instantly.  But still….cattails!

So today he got home, and said he was going after cattails.  Right now.  While I was still putting away groceries.  He put his waterproof boots on, and he was ready.  It was with some difficulty that I persuaded him to just look and see where the plants were, but wait for me to get out there before actually going after them.  And sure enough, as soon as I was in sight off he went, down the bank off the path and into the marsh.  His boots sufficed for his first step, but they only come up to mid-shin, and the water was just about knee deep on him.  Didn’t phase him one bit.  It came pouring in over the tops of the boots and he just kept going.  He was an intrepid adventurer in pursuit of Scientific Knowledge!  (Either that or he was 100% pure boy, glorying in the excuse to go into water and mud.)   He actually managed to pull out a cattail stem, very proudly bringing it to me, certain that I would figure out how to prepare the thing.

So home we came, him squelching greenly at every step.  He poured out his boots on the back step, rather surprised that the water wasn’t at all clear and at how much his boot had held in addition to his foot.  Then he went inside, stripped, and took an immediate shower.  Meanwhile, Cloud started pouncing at those amazing fluttery leaves, and I got online and tried to find out what to do with this six foot cat toy in my kitchen.

The conclusion I reached was that what he’d gotten was a part that wasn’t edible by late summer, and couldn’t be made so.  But I tried anyway, cutting up the bottom part and boiling it for 45 minutes, until boychick was convinced that it just wasn’t going to soften enough to eat.  We still have the head, though, and will see if it is as good for tinder as advertised, using an otherwise unusable charcoal grill as a firepit.  We’ll even try sleeping in a tent in the back yard one night, while it’s still warm enough to be pleasant.

He isn’t discouraged.  He wants to try to get some of the cattails at the edges of the fields, so that we can get leverage enough to get the root instead of just the bottom of the stem, and wait until spring for the shoots.  He won’t forget, either.

And tomorrow I’ll see what I can do to rescue his boots.