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 

Spoonerisms at Breakfast: Cop Tarts and Poffee

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

"Hey! It's cat and dog day," I told my kid at breakfast. 

“There is so nuch thing!”

I turned to him. “What?”

“There is no such thing!”

“That is not what you said,” I snorted.

He looked at me then starting laughing, too. “I said a spoonerism.” 

“Um-hmm,” I mumbled through a mouthful of coffee. 

“It’s when you mix up a letter in two words and put them in each other.” He explained. 

I looked at him. “Okay,” I said.

“Spoonerisms are real.” He insisted.

I know my child. I believed him. But, hell, I’m a writer. I write. Um...I got my degree in writing. Which I will now use to clean my windows. Next year. Why does he know this and I don’t? And, I might add, this is not the first time I’ve been bested by my 7-year-old son.  
  
After breakfast, it was Google-time. I just love Wikipedia. And here is what Wiki had to say about spoonerisms.  A slip of the tongue, a twirly-whirl of consonants. Shel Silverstein even wrote a book composed almost completely of spoonerisms. Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook. How did I not know this? 

I often have to overcome major embarrassment to write these blogs. And I don't mind. Sometimes it's just awesome kaving hids. 

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."

Melodious Morning

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

At breakfast this morning, my little one says, “I love that the birds are singing to us every morning again.”

I listen for a minute. Huh. There they are. “It is nice,” I agree. Why does my child have to notice the little things in life like that for me? I’m not doing anything—I should be in the moment. I’m not. Kids are so great for bringing you back to reality. Sometimes even in a good way.  

I just sip my coffee and listen to them chirp. “Wait until spring is here in a few weeks…”

“One week. Plus three days.”

“Yes,” I say. “One week. Then…”

“Plus three days,” he corrects.

“Yes,” I say again, “that’s the equinox. Spring. Right. Anyway, the birds will be chirping and singing and sounding so, um…”

“Melodious. They’ll sound melodious.”

Yes, my beautiful little boy, that’s exactly the word I was going to use before I finished my coffee this morning. Definitely not “good” or anything.  

Beep! Beep! Bedtime.

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

My little one is getting ready for bed. We take his pajamas, throw them in the hamper, and get new ones out. They have race cars all over them. Of course they do because, if you’re shopping for a little boy it’s always cars, trucks, sports, or dinosaurs—none of which my 7-year-old likes.

“Ugh! Those are ugly! I can’t stand race cars!”

Just an FYI...these are NOT my son's jammies.
I wouldn't do that to him.

“Um…they’re pajamas. No one will see them.”

“I’LL see them! They’re awful!”

“Are they comfortable?”

He looks down and doesn’t answer. I think he might actually cry. Ah…to be seven again.

I’ve never liked the car, truck, dino thing either, really. And I’ve never made this poor kid leave the house in a shirt with a race car or t-rex on it. But these are pajamas. 

I honestly don’t know what to say so I try to make light of the situation and poke him in the tummy saying, “Beep”.

He looks up at me and says, “Oh, nice. Thank you so much for rubbing salt in the wound.”

I am ashamed.

Potty Humor and the Peloponnesian war

 Conversations with my 7-year-old.

“Can I read Big Nate?”

“No,” my husband responds. 

“Why? Because it’s inappropriate?”

“Yes, because it’s inappropriate. And I’ve told you this before.”

“I know but I thought you might have changed your mind since then,” he says.

“Changed my mind since last week?” My husband smirks. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Just because you're able to read a book for older kids doesn't mean the content is something we want you reading."

My little one sighs and looks at my husband. “It’s not like I’m reading about the Peloponnesian War.”

No. It's definitely not like that. 

 

Just for the record, I did NOT teach my 7-year-old anything about the Peloponnesian War. 

Bifurcating, Pastries, and Nevada

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

“Hey! You bifurcated my pop tart.”

I look up from my coffee. “Oh.”

“Do you know what that means?”

I really wish I did but, in truth, I don’t and so I say that. “No, I don't.”

“It means you broke it in a little part here and a huge part here. It's split.” He points to the bifurcated bits of pastry. “Look—it’s totally uneven!”

“I see that. Sorry.”

“It’s just that you usually bisect it into even parts, like, in half.”

I just look at him, my mind whirring, thinking that the next chance I get I’m going to bolt out of my chair, run to my computer, and google “bifurcate”. I have no idea what to say. He doesn’t seem all that upset. I just say “sorry” again. I haven't had my coffee and it's all I can say.

“It’s okay. It’s just weird. But, hey!” He holds the larger piece up to me and says, “The bigger part looks exactly like Nevada!”

It really does.

“Sunrise Sunset” Sings the Six-Year-Old Boy

My son’s birthday is in one week. He knows this is bittersweet for me. He knows how “Happy!” I am and how he’s going to be such a “Big boy!” but he also sees through me like a newly Windexed window.

“What’s wrong?” he asks all innocent. Yah, right. He totally knows.

“Nothing!” I smile (my eyes all watery).

“You’re sad.”

“No! I’m so happy for you!” I insist a little too enthusiastically. He stares at me. Waiting. Little shit. “Okay, I am happy you’re growing up healthy and strong. And I’m really proud of you…” I can’t finish. Fresh. Tears.

“I’m not a baby anymore but I’ll always be your baby.”   

Frickin’ seriously? He’s unbelievable. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he starts singing “Sunrise Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof. No word of a lie.

Is this the little girl I carried?
Is this the little boy at play?
I don't remember growing older
When did they?
When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?
Wasn't it yesterday
When they were small?

Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze

Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears

If you don’t make it through the whole song, skip to the end…my heart felt like that glass.