Posts tagged ‘friends’

All By Myself

Yesterday evening felt like Hubs’ and my last night – not so much alone, but without having a care in the world about what is going on in our house. C will be home a week from today, and to say I am not feeling ready is an understatement.

Out to dinner we went. Apparently, it’s prom somewhere, and there was a huge table of dressed up kids having a great time. I watched them giggle and smile and talk and I was hit with a pang of sadness that brought tears to my eyes. C is nearly 18 years old, yet these moments still take me by surprise when they happen. You would think I’d be used to them by now, as the window of typical closed long before it could open.

I’m not sure what that sadness is about, exactly. I don’t picture C ever sitting in a restaurant with a group of kids before going to prom, but that is hardly a barometer of a life well lived. I think it is more about C having people. No siblings, no cousins, and I can remember every kid that has been his friend. They have been few and far between. He goes to school, goes to work, and comes home. He spends entire weekends seeing no one but us.

For me, isolation has been a sign of depression. For C, isolation probably causes his depression, perhaps without him even realizing it. He simply doesn’t know anything but isolation, really.

Still, I sometimes don’t think C knows who he is unless he has someone to bounce off of. He is so intensely social and desirous of contact, and most of the time, that contact is us. It’s no wonder this past seven months has been such a respite for Hubs and me, and I probably shouldn’t be surprised that my androverted self is anxious at the thought of C’s return. Because really, that’s the core of it: C needs more than we can give him. He needs a life outside of home, and we need a life separated from being his entire circle.

C has been around kids 24/7 for the last seven months. While they all have autism and I can’t expect he’s necessarily picked up any great social skills, I hope that he has experienced the joy of interacting with one’s peers. I hope that he will somehow have recognized the power of companionship and will do whatever it takes to get out there and make some friends, whatever that looks like for him.


March 17, 2019 at 11:51 pm 3 comments

Summer dreams make me feel fine…

     It was with great trepidation that we signed C up for swim team this year. Our club has a program where the inexperienced swimmers can be on a junior team where they all get ribbons and no one gets disqualified. We’ve had little success with these types of experiences before; karate (twice) was a disaster, golf lessons with a large group were worthless, cub scouts lasted one week, and all I can say is I’m glad C has never really wanted to do little league, because the thought of that experience makes me want to run screaming into the outfield. Generally these types of experiences are too unstructured, have too many kids, and are too chaotic for C to handle well. He runs around like a wild child, completely out of control and overstimulated, and then comes home exhausted and out of sorts for hours.

     But swim team. Swim team. Basically, swim team – for me – means summer. I started swim team when I was barely five, and didn’t stop until a college without a swim team sort of forced me to. Swim team defined my childhood. I know better than to think C will follow in my footsteps, but I also know swimming would be good for him. He enjoyed the pool we had in Arizona; that is, once we actually got his little face in the pool. Then he became a fish. He loves the water and moves through it in his own unique way that is both effective and entertaining at the same time.

     The first day of practice, I was dismayed to see 35-40 kids, most of whom were about 6 years old, wiggling around and waiting for the coach to get started. It was chaotic at best, insanity at worst. There was much standing in line and downtime; generally the kiss of death for C. I watched as other boys, years younger than him, somehow managed to gang up on him within minutes of practice beginning. I had to intervene at least five times, and by the end of practice I had decided there was simply no way we could continue.

     I approached the coach after practice to explain why we wouldn’t be back. Too many kids and too much downtime, I rehearsed in my head, so as not to sound as though I thought the coach was somehow to blame for the situation. I started the conversation by telling him C has Aspergers, and did he know what was? “No,” he said clearly sensing that AS involved something that would make swim team challenging. “But what can I do to make C successful?”

     “What can I do to make C successful?” Seriously? I was stunned. I hadn’t even told him of my decision yet, and he was already trying to keep us there. I honestly can’t recall the last time – if ever – someone has said something like that to me. Here’s this coach, basically a kid himself with 35 overactive kids on his hands, wanting to figure out how to keep C on board. I explained a little bit of the problem, and his next comment was even better. “I can rearrange things so he’ll be more comfortable. We will do whatever we need to do.”

     It was only because of this conversation that C happily, and successfully, competed in his first swim meet last Saturday. I have the video to prove it. Thanks, coach.

June 14, 2011 at 1:50 pm 19 comments

I am from Mars, but I’m moving to Venus

     C was sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen island the other night as I chopped vegetables for a recipe. We were talking about our upcoming move to North Carolina, and he once again expressed excitement about being somewhere new. Then he dropped this bombshell:

     “I’ll bet everyone will miss me. Everyone except S. He hates me.”

     C said this without affect or inflection in his voice. No clues to the emotions behind the words except the content of the words themselves.

     I stood there for a moment, waiting to see if he’d add anything else before I resorted to my usual “fixit” mode of being. You see, a long time ago I actually read the book Men are From Mars; Women are From Venus. Honestly? It perplexed me. Far more a “fixer” (Mars) than a “sympathizer” (Venus), I don’t really know how to do the sit and listen to a friend in need thing; I want to help her. I’m more about solutions and finding a way to make things work.

     Carefully, I spoke. “You know, C, a lot of times when people say they hate someone else, the person they really hate is themselves. S is probably very unhappy with who he is, and he’s taking that out on you. He probably doesn’t really hate you,” I said, matching C’s flat tone so as to calm any emotions that might be hiding beneath his words.

     Before I finished my thought, I saw the glazed look in his eye C gets when he’s done with a conversation. I vaguely knew, in that moment, that I had failed him with my response. Instead of just listening and asking C how he felt about S’s words, I tried to explain the situation to him. I tried to fix it; not S’s words, but C’s reaction to them.

      And that’s what I missed: C’s reaction. I blew it and missed my chance to have a real conversation about what it’s like to spend the day with someone who hates you, what it’s like to feel someone’s contempt simply because you have the nerve to exist, and what it’s actually like to be C. I won’t make that mistake again.

     The moment is over – it’s too late to go back and fix it now (yes, I get the irony here). But next time it comes up – and it will, I’m sure – I’m prepared to be all kinds of Venus.

November 9, 2010 at 6:38 am 10 comments

Breaking up is hard to do

     When I was in college, I pledged a sorority. I didn’t really want to, but my parents encouraged me with stories of how much their lives were enriched by Greek clubs while they were in college. The short version is that the hazing, something I have never really fully put behind me, changed my college experience entirely. The final straw for me, however, was talking to a pledge sister about the hazing, hoping we could change the experience for the next year’s pledges. “I can’t wait until next year,” she said, “when I can pass all of that hazing on and do it to the next group to come through.” That was it for me; I quit.

     The difference between C’s experience and mine is that my experience was voluntary on my part. C has had no such choice in how kids treat him. Yet recently, I discovered how quickly the tides can turn. C has “infiltrated,” for lack of a better word, a group of two boys and become the third in that group. I have watched this friendship develop with a certain amount of trepidation because of the tightness of the original two combined with an autism diagnosis for one of the boys. I suspect it was just as hard for “Andrew” to make friends as it has been for C, and I was concerned that in this situation, three might be more than a crowd.

     When C came home from school today saying that Andrew told C and “Billy” that he wanted to “break up” with them, I was immediately on alert. C talked about how he, Billy, and Andrew were playing a game, and Billy started to tease Andrew a little bit. C apparently joined in the teasing against Andrew, and from his description of the event to me, I’d say it was with a certain amount of joy.

     Whether C relished the new-found feeling of being tight enough with someone that the two of them could be against a third, or if he’s just so happy to have a friend that he will follow whatever comes along I’m not sure. What amazes me, however, is how quickly this can happen. In a span of days, C went from being the odd one out to the one excluding another. I was nothing short of stunned, having never seen this type of behavior from C before.

     I suppose it feels so unusual for C to be on the giving instead of the receiving end that consideration of another’s feelings just flew out the window. It’s all harmless playground drama for most kids, but it’s exactly the kind of thing that has hurt C so much in the past. The irony of the fact that Andrew also has a special needs diagnosis is not lost on me. I’m hopeful C will quickly realize that being on either end of the teasing specturm is sad and make nice with Andrew once again. And in a world where three is almost always a crowd, two boys with autism and a third – who is also not your average joe kid – might make for more than one friendship group can survive.

October 13, 2009 at 2:44 pm 5 comments

Sometimes the sword beats the pen

     I write a lot about the playground and friends (most truly, here). Would that the playground equalled friends for my C, but alas, it rarely does. Whoever had the not so great idea to throw a bunch of kids into an unfacilitated situation with minimal supervision did not an autism child have. We tend to think that if we just put kids together, they will learn things; things like social skills and how to make a friend. It actually does work that way for most kids, but there’s always those special few who either learn something you didn’t intend for them to learn or they spend their free time wandering the fence line.

     Enter a great Mom. She got tired of watching her child with autism wander the fence line, sometimes playing near other children, but rarely actually playing with other children. She got tired of the tears in her eyes as she watched her child struggle with loneliness that only she could see, so she did something about it. (Does she sound like me? I wish. Read on.) She called in the experts, the fabulous folks at the local autism research and resource center and asked for help. They, in turn, developed the coolest, most real life functional program I’ve ever seen to help our kids thrive on the playground, and the data from the pilot programs is astounding. Using the simple formula of a well-intentioned playground aide or two, a quickly trained peer, and our target audience kids, interaction happens. Meaningful interaction. It seems so simple. It is so simple.

     I proposed that we incorporate this program into our district, and our district responded with an enthusiastic “yes.” So next week, a team of eight of us will attend a training in this program so that we can bring it to C’s 3rd grade playground. Eight lovely people who have kids like C in their hearts and minds. They understand how difficult making friends can be, and they are going to do their best to make sure these kids aren’t alone.

     Finally, it feels good to be doing something about this instead of just writing about it. I can’t wait to see it go live.

September 14, 2009 at 6:11 am 4 comments

Wordless Wednesday

Best Friends

Best Friends

December 10, 2008 at 4:41 am 8 comments


     As any parent with a special needs child will tell you, there are moments of extreme heartbreak. The moment when the specialist renders a diagnosis, or when you realize your child will struggle with something his whole life that other kids get in ten minutes, or when a school lets your child down. Yet often these moments come when you least expect them, and they are so swift and painful they take your breath away. Sometimes you don’t fully process them until later and you find yourself crying in the middle of the grocery store, reaching for your sunglasses and hoping you don’t see anyone you know.

     When I watched C wander around the playground this morning before school, aimlessly looking for a familiar face, something started to well up inside me. The time was only a brief five or ten minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. It’s not for lack of wanting to connect with someone; this child is about as social as they come. So I watched, while he walked around, anxiously looking for a friend to share his time. All the playground noise of the zillion kids running around faded from my ears as my chest swelled with a sob. There’s something so awful about watching your own child, whom you love so dearly and so completely, struggle with something so basic, so fundamental to his very existence.

     The moment became far bigger than it was, simply because it represents C’s challenges in the most profound way. He no longer approaches anyone and everyone with abandon, so he’s learned a lesson or two along the way. This is good and bad for the same reason: he’s more aware. Aware of some of the rules, yet aware he still doesn’t know exactly how the rules work. It’s a core issue of C’s version of autism.  

     The moment continued for me, while I later went about my day, sneaking up on me at inopportune times. Tears continued to drop here and there as I remembered his forlorn look as he milled about. Surely parents of “typical” children experience this at times, but I comforted myself by remembering that with the heartbreak comes moments (and there are more of these, truthfully) of extraordinary joy. Perhaps parents of special needs children experience the heartbreak and joy in more extreme ways, simply because there is nothing we can take for granted.

August 21, 2008 at 9:48 pm 11 comments

Older Posts

It’s all autism, all the time.

Parenting Blogs - BlogCatalog Blog Directory

Blog Stats

  • 80,797 hits