Thursday, September 13, 2007

little rewards


All of my children were home for dinner tonight for the first time this week. I made tomato soup from scratch and served it with grilled cheese sandwiches made from crusty French bread and gruyere. We sat around the table and talked about our day. My girl told us she needs a pair of character shoes for her play. Not knowing what character shoes are, I asked for a description. It was then I realized she was describing a pair of heeled dance shoes, the ones with straps that you wear for jazz or tap. After dinner I went into my closet and pulled down a pair, Capezio, buff colored, size seven. I can't find the remote for the living room television set, entire categories of my linens are missing, and I just found the junk drawer yesterday, but I can lay my hands on a pair of dance shoes in under two minutes. I could also dress her as a cheerleader from that closet, head to toe including letter jacket, in my high school colors. Or produce the lovely cream taffeta dress she wore in her Aunt Samantha's wedding -- when she was not quite three. I truly think I might need to reconsider my priorities.

The boys both had little to say about the school day, but loads to share about their afterschool skateboarding, scooter riding, sword fighting, and frog hunting exploits. I cleaned up the dinner dishes while the little man had a bath and the older two did algebra homework and test prep. Hubby played with his new ipod (a gift from his boss) and shared an NPR podcast with me about an amazing parrot that died this week.

We sent everyone off to bed. I jumped into the shower to wash off the day's grime, accumulated from changing light bulbs, hanging curtains and pictures, and cleaning bathrooms. I thought about the differences between my girl and my boys. She supplies me with a level of detail that could stand to be whittled down. The boys tell me they cut, bruised, or banged something when I notice an ugly wound and ask if they require medical attention. After my shower I went to the other side of the house to kiss my children goodnight and tuck the little one in. I found him crying in his bed.

Even though he is still relatively little, my baby does not really cry much, so I was a bit alarmed. I sat down on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his damp hair. Wet lashes and red, slightly swollen eyes told me he had been crying for a while. When I asked why, he told me about a boy named Ethan who sometimes joins his class. I didn't understand what he was telling me at first. He was sobbing, and little boys tend to tell things in rushes of words and blurs of sentences. There was something about a finger puppet named Elmo that is special, that calms Ethan down, and how Ethan might have his feelings hurt if other children make fun of him. "He would know, Mom, even if they whispered, because Ethan can hear a train TWO MINUTES before you or me. He can hear them in the whole school." I asked him how he knew Ethan could hear so well and was told that his mother shared this with the class because Ethan's disease makes him special.

He used the word "disease", my eight year old boy. He couldn't remember the name but it started with an 'a'. I immediately supplied "autism" which he recognized as the right word. My little boy was crying over the imagined hurt feelings of a boy in his class with autism. I was dumbstruck.

I explained as best I could what I understand autism to be. We talked about mainstreaming and IEPs and special teachers. We talked about someone in my family with Down's and what his life was like. We talked about differences in perception and the special abilities that some people with autism display. I told him that Ethan's parents want the same thing for Ethan that we want for him: to have a happy and fulfilled life. I talked to him about the difference an education can make in the life of a child, special or ordinary.

I suspect other children are making fun of Ethan. I told my son it was okay to say something if he hears others saying unkind things. We decided he should say he doesn't think it's cool to laugh at others in a mean way. "I will tell them, Mom. I just didn't know what to do and it made me sad." I was thankful we were sitting in the dark.

I left his room with wet cheeks. His sensitivity and tender heart touched me and astonished me. I am sad and proud at the same time. And I am aware that some things just cannot be taught that well. My little boy is just like his father.

24 comments:

wakeupandsmellthecoffee said...

What a lovely little man and big man you have. I have wet cheeks now too.

Crystal Jigsaw said...

Your little boy is a beautiful and sensitive child. Bottle him up and keep him that way. As you know, my daughter Amy is autistic. We are fortunate because there doesn't seem to be any other children making fun of her - she's the tallest in the whole school and I don't think they dare! But if I ever found out she was being made fun of I would be in the school like a flash of lightening. Your boy will have many friends throughout his school life and from the sounds of it they will be true friends, the best kind. What an absolute darling.

Crystal xx

laurie said...

this brought tears to my eyes, kaycie, and that is pretty rare for me. what a sweet and good boy you have, despite the swordplay and frog-hunting (or maybe partly because of). i wanted to hug him tight after read this, and that is pretty rare for me, too.

on another topic, you were a cheerleader? uh oh. i might have to rethink our friendship. cheerleaders and i never had much in common.....

the rotten correspondent said...

These are the moments that make it all worthwhile, aren't they? Makes up for a lot when you see a side to your child that touches you so much.

What a fabulous kid. And, if he really is just like his father, lucky, lucky you...

Kim said...

Thank you, WUASTC. I think they are pretty special.

Crystal, I thought of you last night when I wrote this as well as when I talked to my son. I wondered what you would say to him about kids with autism. He really is a sweetheart, thanks for your kind words.

I'm touched that you got a little teary, Laurie. Yes, I was a cheerleader, but I also played basketball, was the drum major and a writer for the yearbook. I might have been the nerdiest cheerleader in the history of the world. But I could yell like nobody's business, do a killer C jump and a flat split. (Saying flat split hurts me now.) Friends anyway? :)

Kim said...

I think those are the moments that keep us going, RC. He is the spitting image of his father at that age. If something involves children, animals, or the underdog, my husband is a goner. Yes, I am a lucky girl.

laurie said...

ah, you were on the yearbook staff! me too! that makes up for everything else.

friends, totally.

laurie said...

(plus, my little sister was a cheerleader. so i can't really be hating on them.)

the rotten correspondent said...

kaycie - I'm leaving you basically a carbon copy of a message to laurie, so forgive the laziness. I'm in a big work time crunch.

If you get a chance today go to the link for Jo Beaufoix on my page. She did a post yesterday for a group she's part of called cre8Buzz. I joined up yesterday and it's very interesting.

take a look..

laurie said...

kaycie--i meemed you.
you have to stop by my blog to see what it's all about.

the rotten correspondent said...

kaycie - and there's an award at my place.

lady macleod said...

That little one is going to break your heart and make you believe in angles. I know a Bodhisattva when I hear about one. Precious child.

I know EXACTLY where my size 71/2 black Capezio tap shoes are! :-)

Kim said...

Laurie, I will stop by and take a look.

Thanks, RC. I'll be over directly to collect it.

Lady M, he is a tender hearted little doll. I'm glad to know someone besides me is a little OCD about their things. ;)

Fire Byrd said...

That's a lovely story, it makes your heart sing when our children show us something wonderful like compassion that we're not even aware of having taught it them in the first place.
He'll go far that boy.
pxx

Kim said...

That gave me a big smile, Pixie.

wakeupandsmellthecoffee said...

Kaycie, Having read everything you did in high school, I wonder if anyone else went there. I mean, you did everything. You truly got the most out of your high school experience.

Kim said...

Well, it is a very small school, I think there were 60 or 70 in my graduating class. If we didn't participate, we didn't have anything fun to do. Plus, my mother was a teacher and always encouraged me to do anything I showed even a passing interest in. As a result, I was incredibly busy in high school. It was fun, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Jo Beaufoix said...

Hi Kaycie, saw you on RC's page on the buzz, and at her site.
I love RC so I thought I'd say hello as I figure if she likes you then you must be a star.
This post is so gorgeous and I feel so sad and happy for your little boy.
Sad because he was so upset, and happy because wow, he's amazing.
I have worked with autistic kids and he got it just right for someone so young.

Take care
and see you at the buzz.

:-)

Kim said...

Jo, I'm beaming. I love RC, too. I'm so glad you stopped by.

Cait O'Connor said...

I love tomato soup with toasted cheese sandwiches and home-made tomato soup sounds wonderful.
Well done on having those shoes, you have your priorities right I'd say.
You have been blessed with a sensitive and loving son who will grow up to be a fine man.
A lovely blog.

Kim said...

I do, too, Cait. I love to make the soup from scratch, with a nice shot of cream. Yum.

I suppose it depends on how you look at it; I should probably figure out where the linens and the remote are before I start arranging my shoes, dontcha think?

He is a blessing, Cait. Thanks so much for stopping by.

Luisa Perkins said...

What a lovely story. Of course, you had me at crusty bread and Gruyere. ;)

Iota said...

What a lovely child. And how impressive of you to be able to find all your special put-away things.

Kim said...

Welcome, Luisa! I am glad you enjoyed it.

Thank you, Iota. I think he's lovely, too.