magical thinking

We were at the local Tokyo desert shop near our house. They serve Pinkberry yogurt, bubble teas, Teriyaki chicken on a stick. They have bubble machines filled with Pokemon figures that you can buy for a dollar, and, best of all, a huge claw-grabber stuffed animal machine gleaming in the corner. The girls and I stop by for tea, or a yogurt, and I read the paper while they agonize what to spend their dollar on, or simply watch Sailor Moon on the huge flat-screen TV in the sitting area.

It's a pretty cool place.

One warmish evening, the group trudged down to the Tokyo Stop en famille, with strict instructions that each child would be given $2 each spending money. The girls immediately blew $1 on Pokemon eraser tops. Roxie buzzed around the claw machine, looking longingly at the stuffed animals (the one item that will fell that child quicker than Samson and his damned hair). Sitting at the table, sipping on my coffee, I offhandedly tossed over my shoulder that "those darned machines just eat your money" and discouraged her from spending her last dollar on a wasted turn.

Roxie set her plump little lips in a determined line. "No. I'm pretty sure I'll get it." She stood before the machine, feet shoulder width apart, standing as if she were going the throw a discus. "Daddy," she said, all business. She held out her dollar. "You do this for me." My husband told her that he didn't want to take responsibility if she didn't get anything. "Nope," she said, "I'm pretty sure that I'll get something really good."

My husband took the joystick and concentrated. One the first descent, he went for a smallish animal on the top of the heap. It slipped through the claws like a grain of sand. Roxie stood by, watching intently. On the second descent, the claw went for a large heap. And miraculously clung on to a large Winnie the Pooh in an inner tube, conspicuously the largest toy in the case.

It hung on until it hit the exit chute, and slid easily down. Roxie calmly opened the door, took her toy, and smiled at me.

She came over, her cheeks pink. "Mommy," she said, "See? It's like this: Whatever I want to happen, I think like it already is true, and it just comes to me."

I was confused. A little nervous.

I didn't want to crush her confidence. Didn't want her to think that life hands her things on a silver platter. I made some noises about not presuming things, and patted her on the head.

A week later, we were at a county fair. Again, we found ourselves in the god-forsaken game galley. She surveyed each booth carefully, taking in the toothlessness of the carnies, the difficulty of the games, and of course, the quality of the prizes. She settled on a booth with 5 foot plush animals. It was the booth with the nicest merchandise, and again, the most difficult skill level.

She nodded at her father. "Okay. This is the one. Do your stuff." She handed him her bill from her clutched group of five. He again opened his mouth to prepare her for disappointment.

She held up her tiny, cotton-candied hand. "Don't worry about it. Just do it."

My husband tossed a red ring towards the impossibly arranged milk bottles. The ring centered on one, then skittered off. He turned his back and started walking away. "WINNER WINNER WINNER!" the carnie yelled, as we turned to see the ring still spinning and ultimately land on a neighbor milk bottle. The move, my friends, was near impossible.

Because the disc was red, it was the highest level of prize. She won a 5 foot soft and elegant Bassett Hound. (I know, right? What are the chances of the toys being any good?)

Roxie threw the dog over her shoulders like a miniature gladiator and walked around proudly. She would be the sole winner of that caliber that day. She smiled and gave nodding passerby the thumbs up.

It would be easy to say that Roxie is spoiled, or feels entitled.

But in true Drama fashion, my kids ain't easy.

She isn't spoiled (well, I mean no more than other kids her age. We do have our penchant for pretty dresses and yummy deserts). She doesn't presume things. She gives as good as she gets.

She's a magical thinker.

Roxie sees things as absolute. There is no black or white. Do or do not. There is no try. (Okay, that's not Roxie, but Yoda. But still good, right?)

She performed at summer camp last week. She was in the youngest group. Watching her, she possessed a calm and maturity unlike any other kid onstage. She knew all of her steps and spoke in a loud, clear voice. She cued the kids around her who began to crumble. She nodded encouragement and gave them thumbs up. She beamed, and threw her head back, pink cheeks like creamy cupcakes.

Afterward, I asked her how she felt. "Well," she said, chewing thoughtfully on her spaghetti, " I was nervous and had butterflies in my tummy...but I figured that we worked so hard on the play that I should just go for it. Otherwise, why bother?"

I've been thinking about Roxie a lot lately. She fully experiences everything. "Wow! Cheerios!" she'll crow in the morning.
"Yessssss!," she'll say, pumping her fists. She high fives. She remembers people's names, and makes it a point to personally address them. She makes pictures and projects for the neighbors, and compliments the mail carrier on her new haircut. She has dance parties for one after school. She sees experiences as opportunities to connect. Where her sister surveys the world and makes discerning choices, Roxie embraces it all, sucking joy out of the marrow of life. She drinks it down to the last drop. She's good natured about it. "Hey, that's your pierogi," she'll say, bastardizing my use of the word prerogative, but somehow, charmingly, making it all her own. Her brain doesn't have time for doubt. She is too busy thinking good thoughts, expending good, even, happy energy.

The world responds in kind. People gravitate to her. The universe yields.

Today, I took my first formal voice lesson. It was expensive, and I wrestled inwardly about whether I should spend the money at this late stage of my career. As a kid, I wanted voice and piano lessons, but my mother told me that my ballet classes cost money, and that I could have one thing that I was good at.

I was trained to be limited.

I sang, wobbly at first. As the hour wore on, I worried that I was wasting my money as I visualized and employed my diaphragm. Then Roxie came to me. I should just go for it. Otherwise, why bother?

I finished the lesson with marked improvements. I wasn't perfect, but better.

It seems that my children are constantly and tirelessly teaching me. It looks like authenticity has two different faces in this family.

And that magic comes in many forms.

authentic

Hello, you.

You're looking good. Lose some weight? Change your hair?

I know what you're thinking. Slacker, Drama Mama. Nice of you to show up.

Thanks for scooting over on the sofa.

I could bore you with the details of this last semester; how I am working on setting boundaries with my family, friends, students, and work - how I am learning to say NO, how I can't save the world, how I am seriously overworked, and because of that, see prior statements regarding boundaries.

So. Yeah. Whatever. It's been miserable.

What I DO want to tell you about are my kids. You've met them, haven't you? Miss M, who continues to grow at a quantum pace, who is so elegant and self-possessed that I'm starting to feel like a schlub around her. Roxie, who is taller, stronger, and smarter than I'd ever realized.

So even though I've sort of been neglecting my garden, my flowers bloom. I think I set a good foundation.

Or use good fertilizer.

So. I know you autie mommies want to know about, you know. The one. The one who is not neurotypical.

I'm asked frequently - especially from moms whose kids are younger - what to expect. What does ten look like? What do you see ahead?

It's been unbelievably easy. Occasionally rough.

The day that she was blown off by her best friend from early childhood had me palpitating in the car. Let me explain.

Miss M had a sleepover at her best friend's house. She came home at noon, exhausted, and retreated straight to her room. They'd been up all night. I took Rox and her friend to see UP, a charming but otherwise quasi-depressing animated film. We stood in line. I noticed a gaggle of girls about ten, and recognized a few from Miss M's old school. And there, in the center, her former best friend. I'd been calling her mom, trying to set up playdates, but our schedules didn't align. This kid has a lot of extra curricular activities. Or so it would seem.

I realized, by a quick calculation, that it was Emma's birthday. We were witnessing her birthday party. The first one that Miss M was not invited to. It didn't really register with me. Until her mother saw me and turned beet red. She stammered. "Oh, uh, hiiiiii," she said. "Uh, you guys seeing UP?" she said, forgetting that it was the sole feature at this landmark theatre. "Uh, uh, I wanted to invite you to our 4th of July thing - I , uh - " I nodded politely, told her to enjoy the movie, and sat the girls down.

It wasn't that Miss M was excluded. It was the reaction. Did she pity my daughter? Did she realize that Miss M had had a sleepover, a totally normal thing to do - with her friend?

I sat in the theatre, thinking. No matter. No matter how I rationalized it, how it really didn't matter, it still hurt. Her embarrassment became my own.

The movie started. I started to sob. Huge, wracking sobs. I didn't realize they were audible. Roxie peered at me. "You okay, Mama?" she said, her tiny hand in mine. "Oh, this movie," I said, "I feel so sorry for the old man. He's lonely," I lied. She didn't buy it. She climbed into my lap and rubbed my belly.

I had a hard day. I had to call people. I needed intervention. It wasn't about doubting Miss M; it was the rest of the world. We're a cool, inclusive group - but everyone else? Not so much.

The storm passed. It always does.

A week later, Miss M came down the stairs in her new skinny jeans. She is tall. Coltish. A knockout. She wore a sort of mod t-shirt with the jeans, and I scarcely hid my shock at her burgeoning maturity.

Her waistband pooched out. Her waist was too small for the pants.

"Here, M. I got you a new belt for the pants," I proffered the plain, brown thing that I had to scour around for. Miss M does not like a lot of ornamentation.

"Ugh. Mother. Not to offend you, but I find your taste somewhat -er - gaudy," she stage-whispered. "Please don't buy my clothes anymore."

A small voice yelled from inside the bathroom. "I LOVE the gaudy clothes you buy me!" she said, keeping the flow of sparkles and pink coming her way.

So I sit on my hands. And true to Miss M's way, she's paraded down in tasteful ensembles each day, each quietly elegant and muted. She likes neutral colors, soft, organic fabrics, and clean lines.

I step back, getting out of her way. Choices are all hers. I love the way she chooses fruit over desert, classics over trendy books. The way she likes no excess. How she has to pack waste-free lunches for herself every day.

On Father's Day, Drama Daddy had a work emergency, so I took the girls here, with our new membership. We hadn't all been there at the same time together, but Miss M had been there with a friend before. (Did you catch how casually I put that? Friend? Yup. And it wasn't Penelope, either. Another friend.)

Miss M lit up. She expertly got the map and checked for lectures. She demonstrated all the exhibits to her sister, and read the postings. Other parents around us complimented me on such a smart and friendly girl. "She's amazing," one mother noted, nodding toward Miss M explaining tide pools to a group of young children. We passed the teen interns, in their orange baseball caps. "Someday, mark this, I will work here," she said, determination in her eyes.

I nearly burst with pride watching her. I remembered how she used to run in circles as a child. How crowds were too much. How I had to hold her in my arms to explain about the penguins, so that she'd focus. Here was a tall girl, with glasses perched on her nose, her "Going Green" canvas bag slung on her shoulder, looking, for all the world, like an extremely cool preteen.

At lunch, I spied some other girls close to Miss M's age. They were eating burgers and fries. I asked my two if they were hungry. "I packed some trail mix and apples, but let's see what they have," Miss M consented gingerly. In true San Francisco fashion, the food court offered gourmet international foods at different steaming stations.

A huge smile broke on Miss M's face. "Pho Noodles! Banana leaf tamales!" she hurriedly went from station to station. "Mother," she said slowly, "I realize how expensive each entree is, but I'd like to know if I may try these dishes. They are irresistible," she said, studying my face. She doesn't like to ask for things.

"Rock out," I said, hefting a tray. She filled up on Pozole, Tamales, Pho Noodles. Guacamole. Spring rolls. She waved off the deserts, claiming that they were "empty calories".

I noted one thing. She asked the staffer at the Mexican station if the food was authentic. He smiled, showing his gold teeth. "Pos si," he said, ladling extra soup into her bowl. "Su hija es muy preciosa," he said to me, and I nodded.

She asked the Vietnamese staffer if the broth was meat-based, or vegetarian.

She is discerning, my girl. Knows what she wants.

We sat down to her feast, and she ate everything. Got her sister trying things, too.

At the gift shop, she spied a black yoga shirt with the galaxy emblazoned with (subtle) sparkles on it. She lingered there for a moment. I knew she wouldn't ask.

"I'd like to get this for you, if you want it," I said.

"Oh yes," she said. "It's extraordinary."

On our way out, the three of us stood on the sustainable, solarized roof of the museum. Miss M looked out at the expanse of Golden Gate park. "I'd like to see the King Tut exhibit next week, if I may," she said, looking at the posters waving in the breeze.

"Of course," I said.

We walked slowly back to the car, holding hands. All three of us. The girls chattered about the Rainforest.

I realized something. That my crystal-ball predictions have been useless. That the IEPs are done, the special services are done. Nothing left to do.

What does ten look like? What to expect?

She is one incredible, thoughtful and brilliant girl. She has far more going on that I can fathom. I need to step back and enjoy.

Authentic.

That's what she is.

decompression

In case you've been wondering where I've been, I've been doing two things, well, three, really.

Working.

Parenting.

Getting therapy.

And not necessarily in that order.

Here, on the precipice of the final true workweek of the year (well, that's sort of false, because teachers never really stop), I emerge, sort of like The Swamp Thing, out of the earth, dripping with uncorrected exams and lame excuses, needy parents, and sleazy school officials who want to squeeze that one last thing out of you that's not really in your job description, but they need you to do it anyway, and, with, well, sweat.

I've had students pelt their vitriol, love, hate, resentment, and utter apathy against my office door.

I've endured lame assistants, a fabulous gay best friend, and a whole lot of people that I'd otherwise have nothing to do with, other than we work in the same building.

I know I say this every year, but this time I mean it: I am done. DONE.

Cannot look at or help one more nascent, pimply adolescent one more day.

I know you'd like to think that teachers are immune to challenging or hard-to-love students. I'd like to.

But we're not.

I'm not talking about our kids - you know -the ones who have good reason to be challenging. The ones, you know, with the interesting wiring? I could never, EVER, not love those kids.

It's the ones who feel entitled, the ones who think that I was hired just for them - the ones whose parents call me up and insist that I must make Binky's graduation party - because he loves you so - even though I've explained it's the first Saturday my family has had me to themselves in two months.

The ones who don't say thank you.

Or try when I go out of my way to help them.

But I digress.

It's about time management, really, and feeding the soul of the mother, the teacher, the worker - the creative side, the quiet side, even the side who needs her toes did and hair streaked.

My therapist looked at me today, in her neutral-yet-slightly-passively-judgemental-way and said, You don't have the time because you are not making the time for yourself. You don't want it badly enough.

I wanted to slug her.

It was like some Kung-Fu episode gone bad. Little Grasshopper, in all earnestness, is working her ass off trying to get better, feel better, be her authentic self with what resources she's got...and to be told that she doesn't want it enough?

Bullshit.

It was insensitive, and a little ill-informed of my well-intentioned, but no-kids-no-spouse therapist.

You know what I'm saying.

My therapist helpfully suggested that I quit my job - you know, the one that pays half the bills? - and get this:

Land a national commercial. Or two. That'd pay the bills for a year.

Um. I think that a few people have had that idea?

Like three million? I mean, really. Where do you think waiters come from?

I'd like to do my suggested one hour of meditation a day, my half hour work out, my hour of reading and hour of "connecting" with my spouse.

I would.

I would like to avoid collapsing in front of the TV at nine o'clock, after the school prep, girls' homework, dinner, and bath are over, but gee, I'm too busy drooling on the sofa, watching Jon and whats-her-name obliterate their marriage before the cameras.

Women get a freaking bad rap. To be one with yourself. To work. To parent. To wear a bikini and groom the various hairs around that area. To not show gray, and to keep the teeth white. To eat clean. To connect with the husband. To lovingly read the books to the kids. To be thin. Tan. Smart. Be a good financial manager. To have a Girls Night Out, throwing the head back, wearing the perfect pair of expensive jeans with some sassy heels, forgetting that all you really want to do is take a long fucking nap.

Those of us with special kids know. We've been to the puppet show and we have seen the strings.

You do what you can, the best way that you can.

And frankly, our kids have schooled us on this - you can't really look over and compare yourself to the neighbors next door, because, well, that just doesn't work.

We're our own thing.

Sometimes, we don't have the luxury of picking and choosing what needs to be done.

So, this is my plan - my scale-it-down-be-your-best-self-SELF-magazine-feel-good-plan:

Take it easy.

Go easy on myself if I miss that workout. Or meditation. Or whatever.

It's okay to simply watch TV with the kids, and if Mama falls asleep during iCarly, so be it. At least I'm in the same room.

Champagne is sometimes as good as meditation.

It is okay not to monitor the engagement-meter of Miss M. At this point, I'd say we're good, thanks.

It's time to stop self-critiquing my self-critiquing, and well, just, let it be.

I'm counting on you, my village of mommies, to help me

keep

it

real.

rip van winkle

When Miss M was little, and we were going through identification, diagnosis, and receiving our Scarlet A stamp, Mama was going a little Cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs.

I've written about this before. It's not news.

I was losing my bloody mind.

I was sobbing in the broom closet during the passing times at school, and then, remarkably, lecturing for 50 minutes, then as soon as the next bell rang, sobbing again in what seemed an endless cycle of tears.

I was pacing the house alone at night, talking to myself.

Calling my sister at four in the morning.

I couldn't touch books about Autism, or even google the damned word.

I threw up each time I picked her up from preschool and the teacher made a remark about her behavior.

I used to sob and say to myself, "If I could just have one day without thinking about autism...just one day where I saw Miss M for who she is."

Then, it seemed impossible.

The years seem to have slunk by, and now we are sitting happily ensconced in TEN. Puberty beckons.

Where the time went, I do not know.

How this marvelous child has developed and grown into such a beautiful and special young lady, I could not tell you.

I don't know where I was.

Going a little crazy, I guess.

Somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to raise a polite and empathetic girl with a killer sense of humor, a tremendous moral code, and goodness oozing from her every pore.

Where have I been? I often wonder.

What I marvel at, and what I gratefully thank the heavens for every day, is that I am awake now to enjoy it. My fear was that I would never retrieve myself from my pity spiral, and miss her formative years.

Somehow, suddenly, she stands before me, a fully realized person with thoughts and feelings and so much love to give -

and, thank God,

I am here to accept it and return the favor.

It's a little like A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge wakes on Christmas Day to discover that he still has time left, that there is still much love to be doled out, that life is not over.

It ain't over.

Not by a long shot.

After homework tonight, we all piled into my great fluffy pink bed and watched the end of Hook, the sappy Spielberg movie about Peter Pan. It is fraught with psychobabble metaphors, seemingly innocent story points becoming suddenly very significant and deep.

Miss M, of course, got every single one of them.

We know this about Miss M, you and I. We know that she vibrates on another plane.

That isn't what got me.

It was the way Roxie was draped around her sister, both of them entwined and smiling. Cracking jokes. Miss M explaining the psychology of the film to her sister. Miss M had her arm snaked around her sister, and she rubbed my shoulder.

Later, she rubbed my feet, smiling at me. Her eyes met mine easily, and we shared a silent moment.

I go days, even weeks, without thinking of autism now.

I just see her.

Really see her.

And it's not too late.

changed for good

Who can say if I've been
Changed for the better?
I do believe I have been
Changed for the better

(Glinda)
And because I knew you...

(Elphaba)
Because I knew you...

(Both)
Because I knew you...
I have been changed for good...

From Wicked, music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz

I'm on Spring Break this week with The Fabulous Roxie, whilst poor Miss M toils away in her expensive and oh-so-perfect private school. She had break last week. Jesus had to hang on the cross before we parochial school slobs caught a break.

Anyway.

Rox and I have been hanging out - planning extravagant, educational days (the Academy of Sciences, the Exploratorium, the MOMA) only to have our plans fall away, and find ourselves, say, waxing my eyebrows or getting a pedicure, or maybe, an hour in a bookstore with a coffee and extra-large BrainQuest book for her.

Roxie is easy. Beyond easy. She is a delight and fits my agenda like a glove. I'm not saying this because she's my daughter. She has it.

It follows her every where she goes.

The Starbuck's Barista gives her a marshmallow treat because she could just "eat her in that darling school uniform."

Her ballet teacher heaps solos and praise on her because she's so "special".

I have no idea what to do with her Student of the Month, Citizen of the Month, Lighting the Way for Others, Busiest Bee and the Good Neighbor awards - they are a little excessive and I worry about how Miss M might feel with the Roxie Hall of Fame lining the hallway.

I tuck them away.

It couldn't be easy to be her sister.

Right now, we are dealing with another little girl in her class being very jealous of Roxie for these very reasons. She wants her piece of the pie. And the harder this kid tries to lash out at Roxie, karma steps in and somehow makes Roxie rise above it, to be even kinder and more lovely to this kid.

Roxie had her lower lip protruding the other day; the kid threw a marker at her eye. The teacher disciplined the kid, while her classmates gathered around Roxie, giving her attention and concern. It backfired on the kid, and it made her even more wild. Rox unfurled it all in the car. She couldn't understand why this kid has it out for her.

Miss M sighed heavily.

"Roxie, Roxie, Roxie," she said, slowly shaking her head. "You can't know what other people are going through. You can only try to put yourself in their shoes.And try to be compassionate. Who knows what her life is like?"

I suppose the Social Thinking classes are kicking in.

I've stopped worrying about the possible rancor between the two kids - because, quite simply, it won't happen.

The relationship is symbiotic.

Where Roxie can so easily become spoiled and conceited, her experience with a special needs sister keeps her genuine and true.

And having a mercurial, demanding little sister has pulled Miss M inch by inch into this world and into her born role as teacher. Aside from that, Miss M studies her sister. Inflections and intonations creep into each other's patter, and often, I forgot who started doing what when.

Miss M's friend, Penelope, was over again the other day. Penelope has Asperger's. She stutters and stammers alot, she repeats herself and whispers to herself. Admittedly, she is hard to listen to. We're used to it. The girls were doing a large puzzle in the living room. Penelope was trying valiantly to get a thought out. She went on for a long time, stuck on half of a phrase. Miss M and Roxie sat patiently, faces waiting. Miss M murmured gently, "Mmmhmmm," a learned appropriate behavior to show the other person that she is listening.

Roxie's eyes studied Penelope's face. She said gently, "Take your time, Penelope," and handed the girl a puzzle piece.

Later that day, I took the girls to the local market to pick up marshmallows for the Rice Krispy treats we would make later in the afternoon. Penelope was talking loudly in line, perseverating on Pokemon. Miss M nodded and listened, asking polite questions. At one point she said, "Uh, Penelope... (whispering) inside voice."

Two men, a couple, stood behind us in line. As Penelope yammered on, I saw one man roll his eyes at the other. The other man mouthed "Jesus Christ" to the other, as if this child were offending him. Luckily, Miss M and Penelope missed the exchange. Roxie didn't.

As Miss M and Penelope rushed ahead to look at the DVD rental kiosk, I gathered my bags. Roxie looked solemnly up at the men. "She can't help it," she said, her eyes huge and dark.

The men flushed.

I've thought long and hard about what to write about Autism Awareness. I wish that I could be an advocate, a speaker, a fundraiser. An author.

I'm just a mother.

But I am a mother who knows this: That the experience of having my daughter-on-the-spectrum makes my family far richer, far more compassionate and interesting than not having her. Because of her, our immediate surrounding community thinks differently, and if they don't, then, Miss M or Roxie lets them know.

Believe me. They let people know.

In our small way, this is Autism Awareness. See others. Treat as you would like to be treated. Let other people know.

Simple.

The girls love a certain Broadway musical about the witches of Oz. They were arguing the other day about which witch was better.

Roxie: I'm Glinda. She's popular.

Miss M: Well, it's obvious that I'm Elphaba, because she has so many hurdles to overcome. (Yes, she is ten.)

Roxie: Glinda's costumes are prettier. She has a tiara.

Miss M: That's true. I can't deny that.

Miss M thinks for a few minutes.

Miss M: It's true that everybody loves Glinda, and that she is far prettier. That's her. But Roxie? Elphaba flies. She defies gravity, like the song. So guess what? We both win.

Indeed.

my fair little lady

We were snuggled on the sofa the other night, watching My Fair Lady with the transcendent Audrey Hepburn. Miss M was riveted by the film, listening intently for most of the three hours - a little too much Shaw for me, but if you're Miss M, it's pure heaven.

Henry Higgins berated Eliza Doolittle for something - her diction, a spoilt diphthong - something. Miss M slammed down her pillow in protest. "Excuse me, but he is just a sexist pig," she proclaimed, pointing at the television. Usually, I ask questions about how characters are feeling, what their faces are saying - but this time, she told me. "You know, I was with him when he wanted to help her," she started, pausing the scene, "but this stuff of having her change who she is - why, that's just wrong. Ugh. And the way he talks down to her," she shuddered, snapping the remote for more torture.

We talked a bit about the film after it was over. Miss M was aghast that someone would have to change for someone else -to not be their "authentic self". Miss M shook her head, "You know, she was an original the way she was."

I imagine that it resonates with her on a subconscious level a bit, because, in a strange way, that is what her life has been. We, along with every other teacher, therapist, and doctor, have asked her to bend for us, to go against what is natural for her and to be more, well, like us.

We ask for appropriateness. We make bids for shared attention. We jump and run and exercise to quiet the body so that she can ground herself, and attend to the myriad things we need her to attend to.

I imagine that it must be a little like Pygmalion - being rebuilt into a new iteration of oneself.

Our intentions, of course, are good. We have helped her in innumerable ways to cope with the world she was born into, given her relief with those things that gnaw at her, that make every day chores difficult.

But I've always wondered about the words. Intervention. Intervening against what? More autism? Whew - better stop now before it gets worse? Remediation? The definiton says that it is the act of correcting a fault or evil.

Huh.

I don't wish to correct my daughter. I do wish to help her be able to nimbly cross between both worlds - mine and hers - so that the bigger, noisier one is a little less jarring each time she steps foot in it. The more time she spends in it, the easier it is for her to make the transitions.

She has friends. I suspect that most of them are on the spectrum, judging from my interactions with them, but I do not know for sure. I do know that Miss M is starting to notice things. She worries about her friend who passes gas in public and seems not to notice anything wrong with it. She worries about another friend who picks her nose, and well, sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking, munches on a booger or two. ("I don't think she realizes that I can see her do it," she says, eyes wide) Just today, her friend was over and the children were snacking at the kitchen table. Roxie asked the friend a question, and when she did not get an answer, repeated the question. The friend went on and on with her topic. Miss M shifted her eyes from Roxie to the friend. "Um, Friend? My sister is trying to get your attention, " Miss M said quietly and sweetly, trying to be helpful.

Over time, unbelievably, she has started to absorb all of the gentle and not-so-gentle cues and suggestions we've given her. I see it now; I see her seeing it in other people. It is her shared experience that makes it so sweetly acceptable; that she is helping others navigate this very, very confusing world of signals, connections, planes and trains.

My hope is that she does not feel, like Eliza Doolittle, condescended upon, dissected, or examined.

I do want her to feel glorious, to wear a gown and feel free, to want to dance all night, to make connections, and, frankly, when she needs to, hang out with the things and people that make her the most comfortable.

I just want the road between the two places to be less bumpy, and more easily accessible.

And you know?

By George, I think she's got it.

golf claps all around

Happy Tenth Birthday to the extraordinary Miss M.
You've surpassed all my expectations.

It's your cue, baby. Take it!