preparation

I remember, very distinctly, in my grief, and shock, and anger, in those early days of diagnosis - those bleak days where so much was unknown and unclear and unseen - my eldest sister (who does not have children) said to me: "God doesn't give you more than you can handle. You were meant to be this child's mother."

Now, to the innocent reader, that seems like a pretty nice thing to say.

To those of us who are in the trenches, in muddy boots and pinged helmets -

It's bullshit.

I remember wondering, moments after she'd said this, how far I could shove her teeth up her nose.

This was God's plan for me? It certainly wasn't mine. I envisioned a brilliant but quirky kid - a la Jonathan Lipnicki in Jerry Maguire - saying the darndest things and stunning us with her insight and wit. I envisioned a kid deftly excelling in the arts; legions of artistic, quirky/brilliant friends at the ready. Her name is a literary reference (both formal and nickname), and when she was born blonde and olive skinned with gold eyes, I knew that I had a star.

I was never one to envision an athelete, or a cheerleader, or a "popular" girl - just one incredible Abigail Breslin type, who exuded sophistication and wit beyond her years.

It's there, though; that desire to have my children love what I love and to sing the same songs that I do. Narcisscism, perhaps? Of course. Has to be. But doesn't every parent want that thread of connection with their child; academics surely want readers, and sports fans want a child who will watch the game with them. Surely?

I am aware, as you know, that our children are not us, and no, I never push that whole flair-for-the-dramatic thing on either of my girls.

When Miss M was identified with autism, I remember my dream not only of Jonathan Lipnicki fading away, but any hope of my daughter doing anything at all. I wondered if she would ever learn to use pronouns properly, let alone get her ass on a stage.

I felt very disconnected with who this child would be.

I think about my training as an actor - all eleven years of it - and I think about how it brought me to where I am; semi-retired from the stage, and training a new generation of actors. Passing the baton.

As a mother, I think about my mother-training, and wonder aloud, "What was that plan?"

When I was about M's age; maybe ten or so, a house across the street had an addition put on. A top floor. My neighborhood friends all watched with interest, as it was the seventies, and kids didn't watch TV in the afternoon. Months later, an older couple - perhaps in their early 60's - moved in with a large foster family. Of handicapped kids. Sort of the Brad and Angelina of the AARP/Special Needs world.

My friends were polite, but sort of stared, as the rest of the neighborhood did. My parents made it a point to talk to the family, and children, and act completely normal. We do what our parents do. I did the same.

Robby was the most high-functioning of the kids, and he sat on the stoop every morning, waiting for the "short bus". I would come out in my uniform, and we'd talk. He had a low, loud voice, and you could see curtains flutter as people peeked and listened to our conversations. He asked me what I did at my school, and why I had pink tights on at night, and why I wore those weird "onion rings" on my head. (He was referring to my ballet hair and uniform, I think) I remember that the rest of the kids came out with walkers, or holding onto aide's hands and piled into the Regional Center bus. Flora, the older Foster mother, looked tired and always a bit more ragged in the mornings. I think she spent the late morning cooking and cleaning, and was always standing at the door, ready for the afternoon drop off.

One afternoon, I came home from school and found my Barbies gone. "Oh those? I thought you didn't play with those anymore. I gave them to the kids across the street," my mother said casually. I was horror struck. I had a whole collection of paper towel dresses colored with marker in that box. Malibu Barbie? Gone?

I marched across the street. Flora opened the door. "I'd like to play with the kids, if that's okay with you," I asked, and I remember her home smelled warmly of tomato sauce and baking bread.

She smiled. "Come on in," she said, and led me into a large sun room. There were toys alright, and some kids jumped on trampolines. Others stared into space. Some drooled. Two were chewing on my Barbies.

I sat down with Robby. We played a bit; I don't remember what - but I do remember that I spent most of the time prying kids off my neck and avoiding being pinched and one girl, in particular, who I spent most of the time holding her hands. So she wouldn't hit me.

But she smiled and made noises.

"Oh, Ginny, be NICE," Flora clucked, prying her vise-like grip off me. Flora looked at me. "Ginny, she's austistic," she said. "She don't mean no harm. She just likes you," she said, stroking Ginny's tightly coiled hair. "This one over here, she's retarded, and he's Down's and we don't know what he's got exactly, but he sure is cute, huh?" She continued this abrasive manner of introduction.

I didn't know what she meant by her seventies politically incorrect diagnostic explanation, but I didn't care, either.

Flora looked at me. She had those sparkly cat's eye glasses, and I remember a little sweat mist on the top of them. "Thank you for coming by, today," she said, "everyone else in this neighborhood stares and don't say anything, but your family is always real nice to us. You come anytime."

And I did. I spent most of my time wiping and extracting pinches, but I did. And I didn't think twice about the Barbies.

Later in my life, I became adept at teaching. The prestigious theatre I worked for got a grant. Teaching drama to girls in a lock-down facility. The education director scratched his head and looked around: I was the only minority who could really teach, so he bumped my pay and sent me. I removed my jewelry and shoes at the glass doors, and a huge bodyguard sat in on class, but we made some progress. After that, I taught Improv to girls in a halfway home.

I made a little name for myself, teaching drama where no man had ever taught before.

Did my life prepare me for today?

There were clues. Flora at the moment that she told me Ginny was "autistic" - I remember thinking that this was a strange was of showing artistic flair. But I remember how Flora said the word.

I remember going to a party in my twenties, and a young girl staring at me for hours. The hostess pulled me aside and said, "Don't get freaked out; Gemma is just autistic," as I quickly spun my head around to see what "autistic" looked like. I asked what that meant. The hostess drunkenly whistled. "Well. She hears you, but doesn't answer. Stuff freaks her out, and it doesn't. She can't talk. She wears diapers, but, like, is really smart."

What to do with that information? But I remember her words.

There were tiny signs along the way; must have been, because I remember these conversations perfectly. I took jobs that no one else would take, with kids that no one else wanted.

One thing, though. When it came to my own child, it was much harder to play and walk away feeling fulfilled, as I used to as a teacher. It was, as you can imagine, personally charged.

I put in my hours, and told myself to expect nothing, and appreciate everything.

I've changed my theory.

Miss M is in a theatre day camp right now. She asks me to drop her off at the corner, and skips down the busy city street, and pulls open the door with her bag slung over her shoulder. She gives me a thumbs up, and is swallowed into the theatre. She emerges six hours later, gets into the car, puts her hands over her eyes and says, "Man, they really worked me today. We did blocking all day. Do you know what that is?" as if I were a theatrical novice. She refuses to tell me more about her day,"I'm fried, Mom," she waves me away.

She controls the CD's in the car in the morning, sitting with our huge CD book on her lap, flipping the pages. Yesterday she loaded a song. Strains of "Some People," from Gypsy played. My signature piece. My audition piece. My award winning role. It is about an obsessive stage mother who realizes that she must let her daughter live her own life, that she must be let go, that the mother must pursue her own life.

No accidents.

I never play that CD for the kids. It's my private belt in the car, my little before-kids secret. My old moment of glory.

"Where did you find that?" I stammered.

"Oh, well, Mom? It's sort of a secret, but this is my big number in the show on Friday. Shane says I've got a big presence, that's why I have this part. Listen, if you don't want to be cut, you practice. This is a cut-throat business," she said, as her strong (much stronger than mine ever was) vibrato hit the high C. No problem.

She waved her fingers like I do, air-conducting. I started to speak. "Shhhh!" she says sharply, as I do. "Listen to this part," she says, her eyes closing, as I do when I really, really like a song.

It's all in the preparation, I guess.

But you know, I'm really, really okay now if she doesn't like the things I like.

'Cause we're connected like that.