Front Row Seat

     It was a normal, boring Saturday of laundry, mopping, and vacuuming.  Buttercup, in her autistic world, was entertaining herself with all manner of toys, dishes, and odds and ends.  As I began folding yet another load of clothes, she came to find me.  “Mama, come.”  She pulls my hand and beckons me to follow her.  Truth be told, I really wanted to finish the laundry, but she seemed so insistent that I obliged. 

      The living room was set up with a pretend microphone by the couch and an audience of dolls and toys lined up in the middle of the floor.  She pointed to a spot in the “audience” and pulled me to a seat.  With a huge smile on her tiny face, she made her way to the microphone and faced her crowd.  “Welcome to the singing church.  You need sing music.”  I noticed a slip of paper on the carpet next to me and picked it up.  I laughed softly at the squeezable cuteness of scrap paper, lovingly adorned with musical notes in bright crayon.  Evidently, this was the music du jour for services at “the singing church”.  She stared at me with a slight smile on her face, which I understood as non-verbal communication that now would be the time to start singing.

     Evidently, “Jimmy Crack Corn and I Don’t Care” wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.

     Before I could get halfway through my song, she put her hand up with a stern, yet polite, “OK, that’s ‘nuff.”  I bit my lip to keep from laughing.  This was, after all, a church service.  After putting a stop to “Jimmy Crack Corn”, she made an announcement.  “Now is time for get married.”  I couldn’t wait to see this.

      She quickly chose two audience members.  “Outdoorsman” became the groom and “Princess Purple Dress”, now adorned with a tissue for a veil, became the blushing bride.  I was enjoying the preparation process immensely, so I was surprised when she handed me a flashlight.  “What should I do with this?” I asked.  She took my hand and showed me how to use the flashlight as a spotlight on the happy couple.  This was just too funny.  She solemnly made her way to her pretend microphone.  “OK, time for get married,” she said slowly, deliberately, with due reverence for matrimonial pomp and circumstance. 

      She picked up an old novel she had discovered on the bottom of a book shelf and slowly opened its pages, spine creaking in protest.  “Ow-side man,” she began, “You takin’ kissin’ Pwincess Purple Dwess?”  She hastily squatted to make Outdoorsman nod his head.  “Pwincess Purple Dwess,  you takin’ kissin’ Ow-side man?”  Back down she squats to make Princess Purple Dress nod her veiled head.  The two lucky audience members shared their nuptial kiss in a shaky spotlight held by the officiant’s mother, barely containing her composure.  As the kiss ends, Buttercup throws the happy couple in the toy box, says, “Show’s over”, and leaves the room. 

      There I sat, “spotlight” in hand, laughing like a loon. 

      It was singlehandedly the best show I had seen in years.  Not only did I have a front row seat, I was invited to be a small part of the production crew.  Suddenly, folding The Yankee’s underwear seemed like the most trivial, unimportant task on earth.  I had attended a church service, witnessed a wedding, and helped out with a first-rate dramatic production, all in one sitting. 

      This little girl, this adorable, affectionate, artsy little miracle of mysteries had come bouncing into my life at just the right time.  She pays little attention to the societal parameters around her.  She plays without reservation, she improvises without irritation, and she loves without hesitation.  She had reminded me once again why she is the best sidekick a mother could ever ask for … and I nearly missed it for a load of laundry. 

      It was the best church service in history. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Objects In This Mirror Aren't As Grouchy As They Appear

     So I was frying bacon last week.  It’s a little thing I do when the mood strikes, and this particular Saturday begged for bacon.  Buttercup was coloring a picture at the kitchen table and seemed to be in a world of her own.  My trusty iron skillet and I were frying away when *POP* … hot bacon grease spattered on my arm.  I yelped and took a giant step backwards, rubbing my wound the whole way.  Buttercup emerges from her imaginary world, “Are you OK, Mama?”  I looked up at her and said, “I’m fine.  The bacon popped and hurt my arm, but I’m OK.”  She turns back to her crayons and says, “You’ll live.” 

      I wonder where she’s heard that before. 

      Buttercup is autistic.  Part of her special thought process involves a phenomenon called echolalia.  It is a process by which autistic individuals repeat phrases they have heard before and insert them into general conversation.  These phrases are usually accompanied by a dead-on impression of the person who originated the phrase.  And “you’ll live” sounded just like me.  It’s not the first time I’ve heard myself in Buttercup.  I remember the time she picked up a pretend phone, hastily shoved her fingers through her hair, and yelled, “I don’t care if your supervisor is on the phone with the UN, go get him!”  I slowly closed my eyes and promised not to contact the morons at the mortgage company in front of her anymore.  Another time, she pretended to fold laundry and said, “Thank God I went to college.”  I was beginning to realize I sound far grouchier than I feel. 

     Echolalia can be fun, though.  I love being greeted with, “Hi Darlin’!” since she’s heard me say it before.  I could just burst when she likes dinner and says, “Oh, Mama, you’re my special girl”, exactly as I praise her.  I think it’s funny when she says, “It’s just too good to be true!” with a sarcastic tone, although I have no clue where she heard that one.  Seriously.

      I know children reflect their parents in many ways.  My brother, Moose, looks exactly like Dad when he turns his head to the side.  My best friend, Pocahontas, and her daughter, Blondie, could be twins when they get irritated and say, “Excuse me?!”, ponytails swinging in unison.  Buttercup is the spit and image of The Yankee, but she certainly sounds like me.  As hilarious as it is, her echolalia gives me cause to stop and think about what I say and how I say it.  It’s a scary proposition knowing that you will always have a little record-keeper following you around.  Scary and funny.  And humbling.  And scary.    Her renditions of my grouchy quips have forced me to be careful what I say and constantly think, “Do I want this to be repeated in front of God and everybody?”  There is nothing more “in your face” than hearing your voice, your personality, your words come out of a tiny, perfectly pink mouth.  As carnival mirrors go, this one has to be the most frightening.  (Except for that one mirror that made my legs look bigger around than the pecan tree in Nanny’s yard.  The nightmares about that one are down to once a week now.)

      I finish frying my bacon and make myself a sandwich, still thinking about the things I say.  Would I be so cautious if echolalia weren’t a part of our lives?  Would I think to soften my words as often as I do if I didn’t have someone there to remind me how I sound?  Those are questions I can’t answer.  My life is what it is and speculation about a different arrangement is nothing more than a fun mental exercise.  I sincerely believe that everything we need is provided for us if we just have the wisdom to look around.  As I look around, I see a husband sent to teach me patience and a daughter to keep me lighthearted about it.

      Now, if I could just find a way to squeeze, “My mom is hot” into casual conversation.  

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: What Not to Say to the Parents of an Autistic Child

     Having lived with Buttercup’s autism for some years now, I have heard just about everything anyone could possibly invent.  Some helpful, some kind, a lot stupid.  (I will warn you in advance: given the circumstances, you must forgive me a bit of excess snark.)  Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the What Not to Say to the Parents of an Autistic Child list:

13) “He/She can’t have _________? (fill in the blank with gluten, tomatoes, dairy or whatever exacerbates your individual child’s autism symptoms)  I could NEVER do that to my kid!”  Newsflash: I’m not doing it TO my kid.  I’m doing it FOR my kid.  If you knew that one food item caused your child to lose bowel control, the ability to form sentences, and the peace to sleep through the night, you would be a fool to feed it to him anyway.       

12) “I think that ‘autism’ thing is totally over-diagnosed.”  How do you “over-diagnose” something that is staring you in the face?  All tests, observations, and instincts point to autism, ergo, it’s probably autism.  How would you like it if you told me your mother had breast cancer and I said, “I think that ’cancer’ thing is totally over-diagnosed”?  You could knock me in the floor and there isn’t a jury alive that would convict you.  Have a little courtesy.

11) “Don’t scold her for hitting.  She’s autistic and can’t help it.”  Call her disabled.  Call her handicapped.  Call her different.  Just don’t call her helpless.  We have to make some allowances, but violence is not one of them.   

10) “If you’d just spank her once in a while, she’d stop repeating herself over and over and over.”  Wow!  Gee!!  Why didn’t I think of that?!!!?!  And while we’re at it, why don’t you spank your kid for saying “I wuv you” instead of “I love you”?  Like Nanny used to say, “That’ll learn him, dern him!”    

9) “Did she just hug you?!  Autistics can’t feel emotion!”  No, you’re confusing my child with your mother.      

8) “She can’t have autism!  Only boys get that.”  Thank you for your insight.  You might also be interested to know that men can’t have breast cancer, women can’t have biceps, boys can’t cry, and girls can’t do long division.   

7) “What do you mean I shouldn’t talk about him where he can hear?  He doesn’t understand anything.”  Yes, he most certainly does understand what you are saying.  He understands that you are talking about him in an unkind and unnecessary way.  He also understands that your manners could use some spit and polish.

6) “Those autism parents - they can’t wait to blame their bad parenting on something.”  You’re right; just like your child’s glasses are a manifestation of your refusal to feed her enough carrots.  And that kid in the wheelchair?  His parents were too lazy to teach him to walk.  And don’t even get me started on those useless hearing aids ... 

5) “Don’t be so hard on her.  It’s OK if she eats with her hands.”  I really do appreciate you trying to be understanding.  Truly, I do, but manners are a requirement of everyone.  She will not make it very far in life if she eats like a resident of the city zoo.  And I’m not “hard” on her; I am gently firm.

4) “I don’t think it’s fair for my child to be required to play with your child.  Your child’s behavior is so odd.”  If my kid has to put up with your kid picking his nose, screaming at the top of his lungs, and incessantly droning on and on about every nut and bolt that holds a train together, I see no reason why your child should be bothered by the fact that mine sorts his chicken nuggets by size before he eats them.       

3) “If I throw a box of toothpicks on the floor, can she tell me how many there are?!”  No.  Can you?   

2) “Autism is fashionable right now.  Just wait a few years.”  Wait.  Autism … is … fashionable.  Did I hear you correctly?  Because I’m sure you did not just stand there and call me an attention whore.  I’m certain that you have enough brain matter to realize that autism is not a fashion statement.  I am absolutely positive that you did not just tell me that the hours I have cried over my child’s struggles with bowel control and the inability to communicate were because I’m keeping up with the Joneses.  And wait a few years for what, pray tell?!  Until she comes to me one day and says, “You know, Ma, all those times I wanted to tell you I love you but couldn’t make my mouth say the words?  It was all a joke!”?  Oh, yes.  Autism is so en vogue.   

1) “No kid of mine would ever act that way.”  I sincerely hope not, because that would mean your child is autistic.  And from what I’ve gathered by our brief exchange, you aren’t strong enough to be a good parent.    

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.