Posts tagged ‘jobs’

Does anyone need a sign inspector?

     C has always wanted to be a sign inspector when he grows up. He has created this very logical way for how his job would be done – if you, all of you out there in the world, notice a sign that needs repair in your neighborhood, you call me (he’s not allowed to answer the phone unless it’s someone he knows), and I’ll drive him to where the sign is so he can fix it.

     This prompted a discussion on the way to school recently (as he was wearing his new “sign inspector” shirt created by his Aunt J and Uncle T – VERY cool) about what he wants to do when he grows up. Here’s the list, and please note that every job will be done for one year except the President job, which will be four or eight years:

          Sign inspector, train conductor, band leader, president, a government (“One that makes money, Mommy, but I don’t really understand this but I saw it on tv. Can you give people money if you’re a government?”), bus driver, a worker like Daddy (prompting me to ask C what he thinks Daddy does, to which he responded, “He sends emails to people and calls them sometimes.”), teacher (“But I have to go to college first.”), a money saver-upper, dog trainer, and an explorer.

     This list pretty much sums up all of his loves. Signs, trains, Presidents, music, money, buses, Daddy, dogs, one of his therapists (who is a dog trainer on the side), Dora the Explorer, and all the fine folk at school who are his teachers. It’s funny how autism works, because chances are, he’ll be one of the few people in the world who actually love their job. It won’t occur to him to compromise his loves simply to get a job; he’ll actually do what he loves. Somehow.

April 7, 2008 at 10:02 am 4 comments

The oldest profession

     A recent homework assignment asked C to draw a picture of someone important in our community and write about their job. “What’s a community?” he asked. I explained about our little town, and what keeps it running. Police officers, firefighters, doctors, the mayor, his principal at school.

     He sat down to write, earnestly holding his pencil in hand. Brows furrowed, he bent over and wrote, “Mommy’s job is being a Mom. She takes care of me.” He then studied my face for a moment and drew his best picture of me, including his first attempt at eyebrows.

     I know he doesn’t recognize my struggle with my sense of self these days. But at his deepest core, he recognizes the value of what I do for him. After all, he puts me up on that pedestal where police officers and firefighters live. What more thanks could I get?

February 27, 2008 at 3:04 pm 2 comments

It’s all autism, all the time.

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