Pink baseball bats.

Pink hockey pucks.

Pink barbecue tools.

It used to be if you wanted a military exemption you showed up to your physical in pink underwear; today would anyone be surprised if our soldiers were handed pink grenades?

The Komen approach to securing funding and eyeball time has produced one of the most ubiquitous and frankly, in your face, marketing campaigns that is shattering the way dollars are raised for alleviating human suffering and tragedy.

Its time those of us with kids on the spectrum get up to speed and ditch the old “soft-peddle” of colorful brochures and sappy, pleading copy: “YOU can be the difference between a happy child and one who sits alone in the dark!”

We need to own a color of our own (Purple anybody?)

We need something more dramatic than a puzzle-shaped car magnet to get our message out.

We need a pitchman who can sell our story to the world and put Autism and Coke “within arms reach.”

We need a Billy Mays infomercial that touts the positive features of having a kid on the spectrum.

“But wait! There’s more! Included with your highly sensitized bundle of  joy is a brilliant mind waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world!

He itches. He tantrums. He won’t laugh at your jokes. But he will always show up for dinner at exactly the right time…every time!”

Or perhaps, if you prefer something far less contrived, why not tout the money saving features?

That’s right.

I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t had a personal experience the other day. Given the tens of thousands we have thrown at this “problem,” who would’ve ever thunk my Asperger son could actually put money back in my pocket?

Here is what happened.

For a few months we’ve been in the market for a new raincoat for our sixteen year-old.  We were together yesterday as we passed a bustling thrift store where I have found some incredible bargains, and had the time and money to try our luck.

Normal, everyday shopping is a major sensory overload for me and an activity I am loathe to do unless I know the layout of the store and exactly what I am looking for. Every time our Target rearranges their floor plan, let’s just say it takes me days to adjust and settle down. I’ve been known to get lost for hours of aimless wandering while filling up a cart with dozens of items I really don’t need.

“Everything 50% off!” The store banner screamed as we walked through the doors and into a raucous world teeming with ethnicity and the rank of cumin and fried onions.

There was no smoke in the air, but you would have sworn I was high on something, that’s how quickly I lost focus and got swept away by the exciting prospect of leaving this bazaar with hundreds of dollars in great deals under my arms, all on the cheap.

“Where are the raincoats?” My son’s monotone voice broke through the noise and mental clutter.

“Right over here, in the aisle next to the… WETSUITS” I exclaimed, my heart quickening as the fog returned.

Wow! I’ve always wanted a wetsuit!

“How does this look?” He drawled as he tried on the first of two possibilities.

I was deeply lost in the feel of the wetsuit running through my fingers while my eyes spied several pairs of snow bibs we absolutely MUST get for the kids.

He managed to grab my attention and we both agreed that neither raincoat was “him.” (Ha! Even an Aspie kid has fashion sense.)

Finished with his mission he refused to allow me to drag him down more aisles in search of OTHER opportunities. Nothing, not one-dollar video games, not damaged editions of the latest books or loads of toys were able to sway his attention.

“We didn’t come here for this.” Was his response to everything. And he was right. That wetsuit will just have to wait a little longer.

We got back to the car before the station took their next commercial break.

“And if you act now, we’ll throw in a good dose of stubbornness at no extra cost to you! Think of the money you’ll save with one of these babies!”

I think I will take him out and buy him a super-sized Slurpee to celebrate!

LJ

Harder still is watching them fail at the same stuff you were never good at either.

Hardest yet? Knowing that until you get a handle on these same problems, you will likely cause more good than harm since watching you is only going to reinforce their bad behaviors.

The recent revelation that the son who we had long believed had an NLD actually is dealing with ADHD should have come as no surprise to me.

You would think the guy who was pulled out of day school for two years and enrolled in a “special school” for third and fourth grade would have recognized immediately why his son cannot get himself together more than two consecutive days.

You would think that our shared (in)abilities like rattling off fifty quick-witted comments in thirty seconds or less, rapidly deteriorating interest levels and impatient need for quick results might have been a dead giveaway.

But that’s just it, isn’t it?

It takes unbelievable patience, wisdom, understanding; and above all else, humility, to accept that this is truly, your kid.

Parents of high performing children experience the thrill of vicarious achievement watching their boy hurl that fifty-yard touchdown pass or their girl execute a flawless landing off the parallel beams.

Parents of poor performing children experience the agony of reliving their own failures and muffed opportunities, sometimes dovetailing perfectly with nearly identical current situations (which only creates more anxiety and anger).

While clearly painful, there is a silver lining here.

Whereas one group has “arrived” and reaps the benefits of grandparenthood while raising their own children, the other has been handed a rare “second chance”  to go back in time and heal age-old wounds and hurt.

We all have trouble seeing our own deficiencies. Standing on the sidelines and watching your “mini-me” go through the same motions should inspire compassion and understanding, not anger and resentment. What sense is there in being angry at yourself now that you see this is clearly something innate and rooted in genetics?

The process is as much educating the inner child as it is the one standing before you. Figure out what you need to succeed, be it insight, patience, support , love, and go ahead and share that with the child who brought about this awareness; let one gift change two lives.

LJ

Part Bruce Lee spoof, part blacksploitation – the film follows the development of a young man on his journey to become The Dragon Master, defeat his evil nemesis (hysterically named:  Sho`nuff the Shogun of Harlem), and win his sweetheart’s love.

If you didn’t see it, check out the recent Kung-Fu Panda – same film only animated and with lots of cool tie-in merchandise.

The climax of both movies is the moment where the learner discovers the ultimate truth to becoming the Grand Poobah of Kung Fu is simply: to believe in yourself.

It’s an old saw, but: “The journey to the greatest discoveries so often lead you right back to your own doorstep.”

I think too often we fail to accept what we already know to be true when it comes to raising our children. Instead of moving forward and making sensible changes, we keep hanging on like some sort of “thrill of discovery” junkie who simply “cannot believe” that boy has “gone and done it again!”

Take for example a recent episode with our NLD son. In the past month he has made it to school less than forty percent of the time, and even then often arriving very late in the day.

It dawned on me that instead of wondering what’s wrong with him that he isn’t motivated to go; perhaps I should be asking myself a different question. “Should it come as any surprise that a child with a super high IQ and with his sensitivities should be able to pick up on the things about this school that drive us crazy?”

This is not to say that his reason for not going is because he hates the school. Until he opens up we will never know what us going on inside his head. But at least remembering the obvious should make it a whole lot easier to tolerate him and not see him as some sort of “problem.”

Another example:

While he is technically our fourth child, in many ways he has become the eldest in our family and, I believe, is suffering from an inability to place himself in any context.

For the last four years his oldest brother has been at a boarding school and only comes home for a total of eighty days a year; hardly enough time to forge a relationship. Not to mention that our firstborn isn’t the type to place a random call to just schmooze with his siblings.

His next most senior brother is our Asperger boy who, though he is probably unaware of the intensity of his comments, emits such waves of hatred towards him that he cannot possibly be the big brother he craves.

Our eldest is a wonderful daughter, but she is pretty “useless” to a Lego digging, Gameboy loving, Tolkien reading self-proclaimed “geek”. She plays a mean game of Banannagrams, but she’s not going to whip your tail in a lightsaber duel anytime soon.

So is it any wonder he feels lost all the time?

And despite knowing all this, I struggle to keep this information front and center. Instead of a heart overflowing with compassion for the tough life this kid has endured, I find myself trigger ready, set on edge waiting for his next obnoxious comment or refusal to cooperate.

Tackling these thoughts head-on does not seem to work. I know what I am supposed to feel, but all the baggage makes it very hard for the message to sink in.

You know what I really need? My own Mr. Myagi to coach me on accepting this child.

I think I need a thousand: “Make his bed” or “Put treat in lunch” to start softening up those hardened attitudes.

LJ

I guess it says something that not one of our three eldest sons have elected to continue their education with them past middle school. We aren’t a match made in heaven, and there is no point pretending they are able to meet our needs and vice versa.

A few weeks back a really beautiful thing occurred to our tenth grade Asperger son involving the school he currently attends, which brought back some painful memories by way of contrast.

While our lives were by no means “normal”, until this child hit fourth grade we were a model family as far as anyone else was concerned. Our home operated on the “what happens here (in Vegas) stays here” motto and no one was the wiser for it.

The wheels fell off as they always do for us, with a dramatic explosion of events. When he began fourth grade a change was apparent: He refused to do his Hebrew homework with me and pretty much stopped doing it altogether. He never had the easiest time decoding a new language and we supposed that his frustration hit a high water mark and he decided to just give up.

I had begun a job the year before with a new company and had taken a 35% decrease in salary. I was working my tail off to pick up sales especially with the Bar Mitzvah of our eldest coming up quickly – I needed more money and in a hurry.

I wasn’t home often, he was having more meltdowns at home that were  intense and longer lasting, and given his growing dislike for Hebrew studies, he began to wander away from the classroom for extended periods of time. He caused no damage, never left the campus and was often found compressed in a crack between the lockers and the wall. But this was enough to touch off an avalanche of meetings.

As a former high school principal, I know many of the tricks administrators use to gently tell parents their child isn’t wanted here. The ace in the hole is the amorphous: “safety” issue. It goes something like this -

Seated around the table are dour faced parents nervously wringing their hands listening to an equally dour faced principal (or possibly two administrators at once so they can play the Good Cop/Bad Cop game). The principal begins by talking about all that is going “right.”

“He’s a lovely boy with so much potential” Blah, blah, blah and on it goes.

The nicer the words, the higher the other shoe is lifting so it can drop with a more resounding “thud.”

“But we are concerned for his safety and ours. You see, the school has to be worried about our liability and we cannot have students wandering off unsupervised.”

Brace yourself for the overly dramatic punch line

“We would be devastated if something happened to him on our watch and we were not able to prevent it.”

Oh sure you would. C.Y.T(ush) – that is what this is about.

” So we think it would be better that you keep him home with you until such time that you can assure us that he will remain with his class and be where he needs to be….always.”

One! Two! Three! We’ve been pinned. We’re out. He’s out. Done. Game over. You can’t beat this argument. The school is playing in “invincible mode” and we can’t win.

What else could we do? We took him home and lined up a dozen doctors to poke him and stick him until we could get them an “answer” they would be happy with. And how exactly do you get a nine year old to promise he will follow orders?

Here is the real kicker. He was out of school for NINE WEEKS. During this time he did not receive a single phone call. Not from his teachers, not from classmates and only one from the principal who threw him out when I finally called and suggested it might be a nice gesture to do so. Of course, my son hung up on him after a minute and the fellow never stopped by or tried again because: “what do you want from me? I tried and he wasn’t interested.”

All these memories flooded back when I witnessed the following incident.

A month ago it was Chanukah and as part of the way each school celebrates the holiday, Judaic teachers host parties in their homes for their classes. Our son had no intentions of going, he’s far more content to sit at home and duke it out with Hobgoblins on Runsecape than to “risk” the unknowns of such an event. There might be food he won’t eat (horrors!) and games he doesn’t like to play (Terror!).

Suddenly there is a knock at the door and in pours his entire class looking for him. I soundlessly point in the direction of the computer room not quite sure what is going on. A moment later they emerge with him in tow, pull a coat on his back and drag him out the door while singing holiday songs.

Who would’ve thought there could be so much pleasure watching him get “thrown out?”

LJ

My secret ability? I am part human, part reptile.

Call me The Chameleowenstein.

It seems I’m genetically predisposed (if you know my family, you know exactly where this comes from) to absorb any identity by simply reading about it!

Give me a book on ADD and before the author finishes thanking his wife, dog and publisher, I am convinced I must have the worst case of ADD ever. I mean, did this guy write this book with me in mind? Its so uncanny and unnerving how dead-on every line is.

Same is true for depression, Aspergers and basically any other debilitating condition that explains why, given all my “gifts,” I feel like my life is going nowhere.

Of course, the truth is I have none of the above and all of the above.

Mental health after all is not a point in space, but a dot on a continuum. It is a fragile balance between having just enough anxiety to get out of bed and to work, but not so much that I collapse under the strain of my own imagination.

The trick is knowing when to access a “touch” of a disorder, and when to keep it under wraps.

Sounds straightforward enough on paper, but this simple understanding has taken me the better part of the last twenty years to begin to grasp.

At one point I just stopped reading anything on the subject of personality disorders. You know, that moment when “Self-Help” becomes “Get-Help!”

I had to, since each reading session left me feeling guilty, like I was the sole source of my kids’ problems. Admittedly, this made it very difficult doing the work of reading up on their handicaps and getting them help.

Depression? Me

Sensory Integration? Sigh… Also Me

ADD – (I begin to fidget) That sounds like Me as well

And so on…

I credit the turnaround to my wonderful life partner who is also my best critic. I mean it with the highest level of respect and endearment when I say it takes a lot to impress her (Wow! I must have really been something special at one time to win her heart).

Even as I write this piece and pause to share the “Chameleowenstein” crack, I get a stone-faced: “Is that supposed to be funny?” look.

Boy can she be tough.

But she has saved me from plunging into the deep-end after every trip to the library.

Her mantra? A steady diet of: “There is nothing wrong with you.” And: “This is just some phase; I am sure you will feel better after a hot dinner and a good night’s sleep. Here, have a cookie.”

Meanwhile, sometime in the middle of the night, the book would suddenly vanish.

After twenty years I am finally believing she is right and, as the saying goes: “When the pupil is ready, the master will appear.”

Last week I discovered a great book that we are both finding helpful.  Looks like I’ve laced my superhero boots for the last time.

Finally, an author who doesn’t feel it necessary to devote the first thirty pages to “explaining” what Aspergers is or helpful checklists to see if “your child might have an issue.”

This book is blunt and to the point:

“Hey, if you are reading this, your kid has problems. Face it. You might too, but what’s the point talking about that? It’s the kid we want to help. So sit down, shut up and read.”

Here it is, for anyone else who is looking for straight talk about a whole range of issues.

I especially love the “and More!”  tribute to Billy Mays. Now if there was ever a guy with ADD…

LJ

But first, a brief history:

It was six years ago when his then second grade teacher approached us with her concerns about his classroom behavior. Back then he was the most lovable, mushy boy with a mop of hair and a song always on his lips. He was a ray of sunshine and a bright spot in our lives whose smile would push back some of the dark clouds surrounding our then fourth grade Asperger son.

She began: “I am concerned about A. He’s clearly a bright young man, but his moods swing in all directions.”

“Well, yes” I said, “We’ve been dealing with some challenges with an older brother and I suppose that could impact him in some way.”

She pressed on: “What worries me is how he can be so happy one minute, and its like a storm cloud has rolled in the next. Its like he is two different people.”

“Mrs. S.” I replied, “Are you trying to tell us that you think our son is Bipolar? Because if you are, I don’t know what qualifications you have to be making that assessment.”

Now I was getting annoyed and angry.

Eventually she backed down from some of that language, but did not back away from getting the administration to push us into having him receive a psycho-educational evaluation.

One month and $1500 later our son now had a new label to go along with his name: NLD.

Much as had happened with our older Asperger boy, there simply wasn’t that much the psychologist could recommend about his condition. She gave us a  one page photocopy of ideas and instructions, the most useful of which was to tell his teachers that he needs to sing and mumble in class because this is part of how he teaches the material to himself; which, by the way, they did not happily accept or easily accommodate.

At least I could rub the “no signs of depression” diagnosis in his teacher’s face, and bury that suspicion.

Time and again, when things began to unravel with him, we would dutifully whip out this sheet and consult it for ideas and suggestions. It became somewhat of an oracle. We began to believe if we stared deeply enough at the seven hundred some odd words, the gods would fill our heads with inspiration. Truthfully, it wasn’t at all useful.

We did not have the funds to continue seeing the psychologist; I am still paying her off $25 or so every month, and it was either pride or plain stupidity (what’s the difference?) that kept us from asking our parents to help with the cost.

So we convinced ourselves we knew something about this condition, and tried our best to understand and figure him out on our own.

But we were not alone. Smelling the opportunity to make a buck on someone else’s misery, there finally began to appear books in the library on the subject of NLDs.

About three months ago we checked out what looked like the most promising ones and set aside two days to pour over them together. Not only did we not complete any of these books, we didn’t make it out of the first thirty pages.

Over and over again we began running smack into descriptions that simply did not make any sense.

“Poor fine-motor skills”

“Clumsiness”

“Inability to organize thoughts”

None of these describe our little whiz who transposes his favorite classical piano tunes from major to minor chords with no effort, draws intricate pictures of dragons and cartoon characters and has written between twenty to thirty pages of several books (he loses interest somewhere after the prologue or chapter one) complete with distinct characters and locations.

This time we took the lead to figure out what is really going on with him. He’s in the middle of being re-evaluated, this time by the county on their dime (I have learned a thing or two) and the preliminary reports are turning our lives upside down again.

“He does not have an NLD,” says the chief psychologist who is leading the team.

“He might have a touch of Aspergers” (oy vey) and, get this, “he might actually be depressed.”

Like they say in baseball, “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”

Hang on there Mr. Bonds, your name might not be the only one getting tweaked.

LJ

Ironic, because this latest confrontation is but another in a whole series of flawlessly executed examples of Newton’s law where the more we push, the more he seems to be pushing back.

Over the last three months or so, really since he began seeing an occupational therapist in earnest, there has been an unnerving parallel drop off in his willingness to do just about anything. He has been operating on a two to three day school week and completing homework and assignments is just not even a question. At least he doesn’t stoop to lying about it; he knows what needs to be done but shrugs us off and tunes us out. You’ve got to always be looking for those positives.

A child with an NLD is a disruption to normal family life. A child with NLD who sits around the house all day is destructive to normal family life. Not a situation that can last long without somebody or something exploding.

All the while that this breakdown is occurring, we are trying every which way to get him back on track.

Knowing how he desperately wants a laptop of his own, we made the following offer:

“From now till your birthday (in April) each day you get up on time will earn you a dollar. Each night you complete your homework and show it to us, you earn another dollar for a total of fifty a month, or about three hundred dollars.  As the ball starts rolling we beg your grandparents for a matching gift (putting my fundraising skills to work for us) and maybe throw in a few extra coins to get you a slightly better system.”

Wow, did his eyes light up when he heard this.

On cue, the following morning he was dressed, sitting on the couch with bag in hand….at 5:45 AM.

On cue, there we were smiling in the doorway as he waved goodbye and marched off to school as if the previous two weeks (or however long it had been since he started this latest shut down) never happened. We smiled to one another, heaved a sigh of relief and went about our business with a lot more optimism than we’d had in a long time.

For the next thirty days it’s one step forward and two back, but he does manage to earn a fairly respectable twenty-nine bucks. Because he can’t think of a safe place to keep his money, he brings it to school where it is, of course, promptly stolen from him.

This sorry encounter upsets the apple cart, and as the first Monday of the new month rolled around, its eight o`clock, he’s still in bed and we are starting all over again. A few more hot and cold days and we decide to modify the program to make it even more appealing.

I bite the bullet and buy him the laptop and lock it up in my wife’s closet (see my earlier post where I write how stealing has become a legitimate way to get what you cant earn). Instead of earning losable money, he now has to earn points each day. With a total possible twelve points a week (he has school on Sunday) we start him out requiring just seven points to unlock to door to paradise.

I may not be the best parent, but I might be the most optimistic.

Once again, the story repeats itself. He makes it through one week with a little fudging (I feel it is critical to start him off with a win, not a loss) but can’t build momentum.

It’s not only getting maddening, its getting expensive. Worse – I am afraid he’s getting comfortable with the notion of failing.

But of course he doesn’t see it that way. To do so would mean he’d have bought into Newton’s first law: A body at rest tends to stay at rest.

LJ

“I’m not sure…You?”

“Well, it was well done to say the least.”

In the fifteen days since my wife and I finally found the time to watch Max Mayer’s big screen tribute to living with Aspergers, we’ve had this identical conversation at least a half-dozen times.

I want to be fair. Adam was really well done. Hugh Dancy’s portrayal of Adam was dead-on, except that he was a little farther down the spectrum than our son who does know how to make eye contact…most of the time. (For the trivia minded: Hugh is married to the actress Claire Danes, who recently portrayed Temple Grandin, one of the best known Aspergians. Is there something going on there? A hidden message maybe?)

While it became clear as the film progressed that scenes were deliberately designed to showcase as much Asperger shtick as can fit in 120 minutes, it never had that over-the-top contrived feel.

And I will grant that there are even some “funny” moments I suspect elicited a laugh or two from those in the audience who DON’T live with an Aspergian in their world. We were on the verge of tears when Beth yells at Adam to “stop thinking about himself all the time!” as he wakes her up in the middle of the night to rehearse his interview skills one more time.  Ha Ha – Boo hoo. It really is like that folks.

So what then was the problem? Why are we struggling to wrap our heads around this film?

For starters, if you live with Aspergers, there isn’t much here that you don’t already know. We didnt have such high expectations, so I guess the affect just isnt there.

One point we both agree on, was disappointment with the film’s inability to answer the really big question that is polluting our minds of late: Would anyone find our son (or in this case: Adam) to be, as Beth puts it, “relationship material?”

We don’t come from the “lonely soul, might as well shack-up” world, which seems to be the best answer this film could conjure up. It would have been enlightening to say the least if Beth would have professed her love for Adam either because:

Of his incredible honesty – An Asperger man is never going to cheat on you because if he does, he couldn’t lie to save his life.

His intellect – Women love guys who can rattle off dates, facts and figures (because they know their birthday or anniversary will NEVER be forgotten!)

Or even…dare I say it? Pity. (And don’t tell me women never marry based on that.)

But the real reason I am feeling so ambivalent has to do with the film’s parting shot.

[Spoiler Alert! - Don't read this if you want to see the film. Unless of course, you have Aspergers, in which case, you might not pick up on the subtle message anyways]

As the film winds down, Adam has moved out to California…without Beth, and seems to be doing quite well. Cute girls flirt with him, he’s got a sweet job at an observatory, adoring visitors who lap up his overflowing knowledge and guy-friends who seem to get him.

What he doesnt have is “the girl” and a real relationship.

The film closes with Adam reading Beth’s new book about Racoons in Central Park. We hear her voice float in and she describes them as: “creatures from another world who have stumbled into our own.”  This is Adam’s story, but unclear if he understands that.

What’s the final word? The image that haunts you after the lights come back on?

Everyone collectively heave a sigh of pity here

…That while the Adams out there will never be normal, at least they will be happily lost in their own little worlds.

I’m not sure if I am ready to accept that view, just yet.

Its Your Turn To Share: Letting go of our dreams for our children has got to be the most difficult things a parent ever does. What have you had to let go of, and how did you do it?

LJ

During my thirteen year tenure in Miami Beach,  I was determined to live as frugally as possible (okay, okay, so the fact I was also broke most of the time didn’t help me neither). That meant no Jai Lai, no greyhound racing and, stunning as it may seem, not a single round of golf.

But as we all know, you can take the boy out of the country, but you caint take the country outta the boy. I fell for deep sea fishin, and I fell hard. Before I knew it I was spending forty or fifty bucks on day trips for tuna and dolphin (Mahi Mahi – not Flipper. Duh!), and a tad bit less for these ridiculous late night bottom-fishing trips where the customers easily drank ten times more beers than the number of fish the entire boat would catch.

Of the hundreds of dollars I sank (or better – drowned) into this hobby, I have only one fish to show for it – A Bonito.

Like its name, it is a lovely piece of fish…but that’s about all.

After my eight-pounder had been gaffed and hauled aboard, I giddily danced around the boat looking for that good ole first-mate who I heard does a great job of filleting if you’re willing to slip him an extra fiver.

“Yeah?” he grunted.

“I caught it! I caught it!” I half cried/yelped.

“So you want to eat it, do ya?” He asked me.

“Is it good?” I looked up, my face filled with hope. (Bonito are not kosher, so it was pretty irrelevant anyways – but I was intoxicated in the moment [with joy, not beer])

“All right then,” he said. “Let me tell you what you need to do. Go get yourself a foot-long piece of hickory wood and lay that Bonito on it. Cover it with olive oil, basil, tarragon, rosemary and a pinch of dill. Preheat your oven to 350 and then roast it for twenty minutes, turning after ten.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a few people with wide smiles. I guess they were remembering their own delicious Bonito dinner. I was salivating and thinking of the right white wine to go with it.

“And then,” the mate continued, “when its done, let it cool for five minutes, throw away the Bonito and EAT THE WOOD!”

Har Har Har! The boat exploded with laughter as the newest initiate earned his Sea Dog stripes, accompanied with back slaps for having given them a grand old time.

Recently, while back home from school, my eldest son turned up the pressure on his Asperger brother, determined to unlock the secret of his picky eating habits. After a few days he came back to us with the following break though.

Our son explained to him that when people say the word “Chocolate” (one of the few things he eats) – in his head he hears “Food.”

When people say “Grapes” – he hears “Grapes.”

Apparently, he has either become conditioned or is hard-wired to not associate these things as being edible, hence the lack of desire and actual disgust when they even come within inches of his plate.

My wife is very skeptical. She thinks he made that up to get us off his back. But I am willing to continue exploring this new idea, and will report back as we come up with ways of testing it for authenticity.

Its Your Turn to Share: Got any ideas for us how to conduct this test? If he is right, how do we go about reprogramming him to think differently?

LJ

Important note: Grandpa was a larger than life person who projected an image of power and success in every aspect of his life – even though we found out later much of it was a complete show.

Strolling into the Toys R Us like he owned the place, Grandpa’s booming voice let it be known to everyone that: “Grandpa was here with his twins to treat em to something special.”

With a majestic sweep of the arm, Grandpa announced:

“Go ahead boys! Pick out whatever you like!”

Spying a goofy, acne-faced clerk, Grandpa quickly pulled him in with a firm arm around the shoulder and said, in his version of a whisper:

“Anything ten dollars or less.”

Our schools have a lot in common with Grandpa.

In their advertising and public messages they proudly proclaim:

We are…

“The school whose mission is helping each individual student shine and bring out their unique qualities and strengths.”

“A warm, friendly place that captures the family spirit.”

And when you’re out of earshot, they whisper conspiratorially:

“Provided you do exactly what we say, love sports and don’t challenge our teachers.”

Any wonder why I hate paying tuition?

I was hoping that at least some common sense would prevail in the administration of the camp where our NLD son has attended the past two years – a camp that is operated by his school during the summer months.

I guess I’ve also got a learning disability – I’m stupidly optimistic.

It’s essentially a day-camp, but to give it more of a “real” camp feel, they offer an end-of-session “big trip” to some exotic locale or activity. This year the boys were given choices to decide between tubing down the Potomac, horseback riding OR (or so our NLD son told us) bike riding.

Did I mention that at age thirteen, he still does not know how to ride a bike?

Whether by design, freak accident or just plain old weariness on our part, we never saw the official camp statement that gave all the details of the trip. I should have been a bit suspicious when, two days before the big trip, our son asked where to find one of the family bikes. I should not have accepted his lame explanation that: “my counselor told me that even if I don’t plan on riding a bike, I need to bring one along anyways.”

Did I mention that at age thirteen, he still does not know how to ride a bike?

Just checking.

It was a combination of many things that allowed me to believe our horseback riding son would be hunky-dory dragging his flat, rusty ill-fitting bike along for the ride. It’ll just sit on the bus and he can walk if he so pleases – right?

So maybe I shouldn’t have been too surprised when I arrived to pick him up around 11 PM that night and was confronted by an irate head counselor.

“Did you know your son had no intention to ride a bike?” He shouted.

“I was under the impression that his activity of choice was horseback riding,” I replied.

“Well, didn’t you read the notice we sent home?” A vein now clearly visible on his face as he took on a slightly deeper shade of red. “It stated that all boys would need to ride their bikes back to the buses!  That’s why we insisted they bring them along.”

“I don’t recall seeing a notice, and anyways, my son told us his counselor requested he bring it even if he was not planning on riding.” Now I was getting angry. What kind of grand trip is this where you have to bike ride? What if a camper was wheelchair bound? Aren’t there laws against that?

Did I mention that at age thirteen, he still does not know how to ride a bike?

Oh yeah, I did.

I didn’t want to get into a shouting match late at night, so I left it at that.

The following evening I needed to leave a message for the head counselor about another matter, and here is how I began:

“Thanks again for another great summer (Hey, this is our second time around with you. Don’t you remember a similar incident and my explaining to you about his communication deficits?). With G-d’s help, I’d like to make the time to sit down so I can share with you the challenges of raising children with emotional and learning handicaps (unlike your freakishly driven, high-octane, overachieving children)….

Should I be surprised he hasn’t called me back yet?

It’s Your Turn to Share: So….How’s the system working for you and your kids? Do people really get that these children have different needs, or do they mostly hope that if they ignore them, they will go away on their own?

LJ