Tiny Bubbles, Timing, and Asperger's

We went to a small café. My husband and I, with our two kids, walked in, ordered, and stepped out onto the front porch of the place to find a table. There were none.

Just as we were about to head back inside, an older man stood up, smiled, grabbed his coffee cup, and said, "It's getting hot out here. I'm going to finish this," he held up his coffee, "inside." He gestured to his table. We said no. He should finish his coffee. We were fine inside. And we thanked him. But he insisted it was just "good timing". 

My family enjoyed the gorgeous day in late August when it should have, indeed, been too hot but it wasn't. It was about 75 degrees, sunny, and breezy. Perfect. Partway through our meal, the man who gave up his table for us walked out of the café. I thanked him again. He said he saw a family of four walk in and he was taking up a whole table and wanted to move for us. He was only one person, after all, and his wife was in the hospital. Normally, since she was in a wheelchair, they would have taken up a lot more room. We chatted with this man about his life and where he lived and how often he visited the cafe (a lot) and when his wife was due home from the hospital (in a few days). 

Eventually, he said, "I'll let you all finish your lunch."

My husband and I said that it was nice talking with him and wished him and his wife well. 

My seven-year-old thanked him and smiled and waved. 

My ten-year-old Aspie said, "This cream soda is really fizzy."

My Little Mr. Men

My kids could not be any different if they tried.

My 9-yr-old

My 9-yr-old is disorganized, loud, messy, and forgetful. He loves sports, running, jumping, throwing, stomping, and any event held at a place packed with screaming kids.

When I ask Mr. Messy to clean his room, he picks up a book that's right in front of him, leaving the dirty socks, snotty tissues, pencils, paper airplanes, and Lego pieces littering his floor.

"Hey, thanks for picking up your book, kiddo. How about that puzzle, your hotwheels, the crumpled-up hoodie, the twelve pencils?"

"Oh. I didn't see them."

Huh? Yes. And, after years of living this, I know he's actually being serious. He doesn't notice it. I have to turn heel and run. The mess hurts my head.

My 7-yr-old is orderly, quiet, neat, with a memory that rivals my laptop. He loves playing the piano, dancing, karate, and any production held at a small venue with quiet grown-ups.

My 7-yr-old

When I ask him to clean his room... Ha! Kidding. That's never happened. I'm not sure when, or even if, he's ever learned the saying, "a place for everything, and everything in its place" but he lives it. Since he was two years old, he's put his books back on the shelf (upright, spines facing out), grouped by color, size, or subject.

So when I ask Mr. Perfect to eat his dinner, he moves his cup ever-so-slightly closer to his plate and adjusts his napkin. Then he begins.

"What if I moved your cup here," I grab his drink and put it on the other side of his plate.

"I'll move it back," he smiles.

"What if I say you can't do that? You have to eat your meal with your cup on the other side?"

"I don't think I can eat if it's on the wrong side," he answers.

Wrong side? Yes. I know. After years with this one, I know that when the cup thing is over, it will be something else. So I let him have his desired cup position.

But I have to draw the line sometimes. I have to fight with my kids. Mr. Messy has to clean his room when things begin moving on their own, you know? And Mr. Perfect has to deal with his day when things aren't exactly the way he needs them to be.

Yes, my little Mr. Men. They drive me batty. They make me worry. But, regardless of how long I can tolerate the mess or the perfection, they make me happy. And, more importantly, with their quirks and ridiculously different personalities, both of my kids are happy. And, if there is only one thing I can say about them that is alike, that is the thing I want to be able to say. 

My little Mr. Men 

Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three...

Conversations with my 9-year-old.

 

Putting the "N" in Asperger's.

My son brought a test home that he failed. (The school uses "N" for a failing grade.) It was the first one ever so we were a bit surprised.

Was he distracted? Did he not study well enough? Did he not understand the material?

We asked him what happened. 

"Why do you think you did badly on this test?"

He looked at us like we had 3 heads and said:

"Because...it has an "N" on the front."