outside/in

Because of Miss M, I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the film, The Little Mermaid. No, we are not Disney Princess people, per se, nor does Miss M perseverate on Disney movies, as many of our friends do. Nothing you'd expect.

You see, I've always seen her as Ariel.

When she was a wee echolalic tot, she didn't have her own words to express what she was feeling, so she'd borrow Ariel's. When she was frustrated, she'd intone, "Daddy! You just don't understand!," with the same inflection as the sweet teenaged mermaid. This is not news to many of you, my friends - I'm sure we are all well-acquainted with echolalia. She used lines sparingly, and in perfect context, and she always elicited a chuckle from us and we marveled a bit at how cleverly she compensated her lack of pragmatic verbal skills.

The echolalia resolved itself fairly quickly. Ariel would pop up every few months or so in other ways. Once, we were at the zoo and passed a large boulder. She climbed up on top and mimicked Ariel's famous emergence from the sea, positioning herself on the rock just so, tossing her hair back.

Just a few months ago, she expressed her feeling of freedom and exhilaration of attending her new school by comparing herself to Ariel's feelings of independence at the acquisition of her new legs.

So, suffice to say, she's had The Little Mermaid floating around in her head for quite some time. Just occasional glimpses. In there somewhere, you know?

At her recital the other day, her teacher had her sing the song, Part of Your World, the lovely ballad that Ariel sings when she expresses how she longs to be part of the human world.

The irony was not lost on me that my beautiful daughter with autism would sing about longing for and joining another world. Her teacher couldn't know what the song meant to her, to us. He just knew that her voice was sweet and well-suited to key.

Last Saturday, the historic and beautiful Castro Theatre, which houses some of the best vintage cinema around, opened its big gay doors and hosted the Sing-Along-Little -Mermaid. Hustling the girls and their friends through the legendary Castro district, we ushered into the theatre, received our sound effects goody bags, and settled in with our popcorn.

Looking around, scads of gay men wore tiaras and pearls and clacked clackers next to little girls doing the same. Everyone sang and hooted and cheered and jeered, and, of course, my favorite part was watching my girls watch the movie.

Miss M was rapt, paying careful attention to the directions and cues given by the ersatz Ariel in costume. She sang along beautifully, eagerly blowing bubbles and clacking and applauding when given the cue. She corrected me when I sang a wrong lyric, and downright snapped at me when I was supposed to use my clapper and not clap with my hands.

I watched her and the other children enthusiastically providing sound effects and dancing, and had a mini-epiphany, in that darkened theatre, that afternoon. People want to be included. (Most) people want to have that community, that feeling of singing in unison, the experience of a joint experience, clapping and clacking and whistling at the same time. Of all of the children I observed, Miss M was the most willing participant - the reason, I believe, is her strong desire to be part of that world, and having the added challenge of trying to figure out how. Events such as this are a delight to Miss M, as the expectations are laid out for her. There is no guesswork to contend with.

I noted that the parents around us smiled and nodded at their children, while Drama Daddy and I sang loudly and whistled and clapped and barked like dogs when Max the Sheepdog appeared. Autism has changed us, I thought, as I noticed the lines in my husband's face. There is no polite reservation in our family; it is our honor and charge to be wholly and organically present at all times.

A day later, back at school/work, I was in a meeting with a very large, morbidly obese teacher who was breathing heavily next to me. She was complaining that the majority of her students were "learning disabled" (they're not) and asked why she had to get all the "hard ones." In an aside, she leaned over and said to me, "They give me all the retards."

The room spun. I couldn't respond. The word shocked me, repulsed me, and suddenly the credibility of this otherwise fine teacher disappeared. I assembled retorts and responses and lectures in my head. I took in this woman, herself disabled by her own self-infliction. She wheezed, and struggled to sit up in the special extra-wide rolling chair she uses.

I stared at her, not with anger, or pity, but in disbelief. She looked at me, her eyes hard in her porcine face. She was challenging me. Baiting me. Making a twisted bid for my attention - hoping that I would see her. "I'm sorry, Drama," she demurred, "I forgot how you are about that stuff," she said, and hefted herself up. She struggled out of the meeting, clutching her keychain that I've seen so many times before. It features an acrylic framed-picture of her severely disabled brother.

Some might call him retarded.

As she walked away, I thought about her story; why she might have used that word, why she would slowly kill herself at 500 pounds, why she chose me as her unfortunate confidante. What was her story? Why so angry and sad and hurtful?

I might be out on a limb here, but I do think that my Little Mermaid experience had something to do with the morbidly obese teacher, her unfortunate use of the word retard, and perhaps the longing of one person wanting to belong to another world. Maybe she needed to be seen? Is that the reason for her grotesque claim to space - so that she doesn't disappear? Is she eating out of grief for her brother?

Let me make this clear: She is not to be excused for her repugnant use of the word.

But it does give me pause. And has me wondering.

Does she need to be lambasted? Absolutely.

Does she need to be included? Embraced? To be part of something whole - a bigger community to meet the vastness of her feelings?

Yes.

To be part of our world. Somebody's world.

I'm thinking that's why people grasp at base, primitive, ugly words.

Unlike Miss M, they haven't the grace to use someone else's words until they find their own.

to work

Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me a pervasive sense of concern and - worry, perhaps? - among the circles of special needs mothers I know as we steer closer to the start of school. In the supermarket, fellow mothers approach me and surreptitiously ask questions about placement, IEPS - is that teacher autism friendly? - within seconds of our perfunctory greeting. I receive furtive emails fraught with question marks from mothers who just want their kids to keep up and not suffer.

It is different this year because finally, at last, Miss M is blissfully ensconced in a loving and supporting environment, IEP-free, beholden to no district laws, and given the finest educational opportunities that our many dollars can buy. I no longer sweat the teacher, or the playground, or the lack of birthday invitations.

That doesn't mean that I don't remember,or feel your pain.

Just this morning, the unsinkable Miss Roxie began her first day of Kindergarten. To observe her, I understand the meaning of Kindergarten readiness; the social and academic perfectly measured and ready to go. In spite of her verbal pyrotechnics and saavy, Roxie was anxious. Nervous, even. She arose this morning, chattering and charming, modeling her uniform.

She vomited three times on the walk from the car to the school yard.

As she leaned over, careful not to hit her shoes, she sighed heavily and said, "Mom. Look. I know that I am going to do great at this. I'm just nervous because I don't know what is going to happen. Do you think you can understand how I'm feeling?" as she daubed at her mouth with a tissue.

And then she skipped into the ornate gates and proceeded to smile, hug teachers and wave goodbye.

The anticipation of the unknown. Roxie knew that her outcome was going to be great; she just needed to know the set up and flow.

I returned to work today. As I was walking through the courtyard, the mother of one of our top scholars approached me. Her seemingly "perfect" daughter was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa last week. Understandably, her mother is devastated.

She squeezed my arm. "You have no idea, Drama," she said, wiping a tear. "It just comes out of nowhere - and this damned disease is so pervasive and insidious. It just colors your whole family." She proceeded to go on about her concerns that her child would have to drop out of school, that she'd fall behind, that she won't recover - her worries were well-founded and not surprising.

And familiar.

I walked away and empathized with the mother. To receive a shocking diagnosis. To not know how to proceed. To worry that your child will never recover.

We know these feelings, yes?

Growing up is hard. Development is uneven and messy, and seemingly, challenges parents until children are well down the road to adulthood. (Okay, who's kidding?) Or beyond.

As parents, we wish to spare our children pain, to provide the answers that will allay fears and ensure success.

There is no magic bullet.

Instead, we must walk through the fire with our children, leading, guiding as well as we can, but truthfully? I don't know the path much better than you do; my knowledge is shaky at best, and my kids - most of the time - are far more facile at figuring out the paths and shortcuts.

I've been thinking alot about mission and purpose lately, and like Michelle O'Neil, I am certain that my daughters are here to do great things.

I used to think, for Miss M, that her "great things" would be in the future tense; that I sort of couldn't wait to get through this autism thing to get through to what she was really meant to do.

I realize now, that her great things are here now; the way that she challenges and inspires me, her perceptions and the way, quite simply, she has made me a better human being. A deeper human being. A human being who, yes, suffers and worries and whispers to my fellow comadres my darkest fears - but a human being who is, at the very least, living the unexamined life with two very, very astute teachers.

I have no good advice for you, or comfort, really. We move through it, softly or fiercely, but the point is, we do it together.

We get them through.

All is well.

miracle

Do me a favor.

The next time you are sitting in an IEP, a teacher's conference, a diagnostician's office, or someone looks at you the wrong way at the local playground...

Watch this video.

And remind yourself

that

your child

can

do

anything.

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.

the endless cookie baking is about to commence

The day started out with my mother calling at 8am. I won't tell go into the nature of the call; just know it ended with my mother sniffing, "Well, if you ever find the time, call me some time."

I said two words during the entire three minute conversation. She wakes me up to guilt me out? She's got mad skills, that one.

It set the tone for the rest of the day; it was intermittently happy and fun - we took the girls swimming - and then I'd plummet into anxiety and uneasiness. I worry about the tiniest things.

This isn't about my mother, though, bless her, she has done a consistent and excellent job of alternately loving me and mentally beating me up all my life. She's just the geriatric catalyst.

No, this is about the anticipation of the unknown - the school year is about to begin - and I am paralyzed with the amount of work before me. I have a new position with many more responsibilities and management, as well as my staggeringly busy job of running an entire department serving 100 plus students.

It takes a lot out of me, and the thought of going back to the grind - early mornings and shuffling the girls and making my way home at 6pm, picking up the slack at after the girls go to bed - -

It's overwhelming.

I suppose it's a little like tonight, after a day in the sun and swimming and exercise, Miss M broke down in tears as she was reading to me. "It's just too much to read with feeling," she snapped at me, as I sat silently next to her.

No one asked her to read any which way.

The expectation was on herself.

I suppose that today, this weekend, as I press my lips together until they hurt, my shoulders knotted, my fingers stroking my fingernails over and over - the tension is about the fear of the anticipation and the pressure to perform.

I imagine that is what autism can feel like at times - bracing oneself for the barrage of sensations, not knowing what to expect, and the insurmountable pressure on oneself that results in stasis.

I understand, intellectually, what is going on.

It's not helping the lip twisting, or the nail stroking.

And can I be honest with you?

It's hard to parent when I'm like this; unsettled and anxious, looking ten paces ahead and distracted beyond measure.

I get a little tired of the whole 24-hour-a-day parenting thing. I'm surly. Sulky. And not patient.

Of course, I then begin to judge my parenting, and that sets off a new cycle of worry and anxiety.

I have pared down my duties tonight; to do nothing but try to relax and breathe through this. I have but two duties:

Stay out of the kitchen.

One minute at a time.

perrrfect

Not long ago, the girls and I attended the end-of-year picnic for M's school. Some mother I'd never seen before introduced herself, extending her well-manicured hand to me before I was blinded by her 3 carat Tiffany ring and matching earrings. She introduced her son, who attends the school, and continued talking until she laid her eyes on Roxie. She audibly gasped. "Is this yours? She - is - perrrrfect!", to which Roxie went all Puss-in-Boots (Shrek reference), her eyes twin brown pools of warm chocolate. "I always wanted a beautiful little girl like this, look at her in her swimsuit and her adorable little hairdo, oh I am so jealous of you, Drama Mama!"

What does one respond to this?

I noticed that Miss M and the poor son of this - er- woman - stood quietly by our sides. I made noises about how great they were, then shooed everyone off to play. I nodded politely at this woman, and then quickly beat my ass away from her as quickly as I could.

Who says those things - especially at a picnic for kids who maybe aren't so perfect?

How does my "perfect" child react to this? How does it shape her thinking? It is unfair really, since there is so much more to this little being than "adorable" or "perfect".

It's true. Roxie is adorable. She, as I've told you, is the kid who has a social calendar to rival a gay man; who gets invited to the parties of the siblings of her friends. If I could syphon off some of her social grease and distribute it to the autism community, I would.

On to my point. So. Roxie.

I got some calls a few months ago from parents asking me to put Roxie into day camp with their children because their children just "loooove" Roxie.

They wanted me to send her to this fancy schmancy Day School Day Camp we'll call "Overpriced Bullshit Camp".

There is a back story. Years ago, Miss M's friend - who also has PDD-NOS - was admitted to Overpriced Bullshit Camp's elementary school. He was expelled a month into the school year because "He was not a productive member of the community."

Um.

Hello.

I was not eager to place Roxie in this camp. However, I decided to place her with her friends, and not penalize her neurotypicalness.

How nice of me.

Perhaps I had a chip on my shoulder the other morning as we entered to a lovely classroom, classical music playing, children calmly doing puzzles, playing with Flubber, doing the water table. Sheep bayed outside in the school farm (yes, I said it) as some of the children worked on their spanish lessons.

The children.

Perfect. Politically appointed in the latest, hip gear, with names suggesting another time and place. Or piece of agriculture. No one spoke out of turn, spoke in loud tones, or even had grubby fingers. Roxie walked in and was immediately hugged by 3 of her friends. The lead teacher reminded them to wash so that they could make organic quesadillas with salsa from our garden for snack.

Puke.

The mother next to me spoke to her friend: "This is really just the perfect school, isn't it? I mean, everything is just spot-on?"

As, you know, I do, I chewed on that statement for awhile. It followed me to my coffee haunt, where I always order my 5-shot Americano prefaced with "Don't judge me, but I'd like..." I sat. I thought.

Why does it have to be perfect? Why does everything in life have to be according to our impossibly high yuppie standards - children included? This perfect school accepts only perfect children, thus ensuring its perfection - where is the challenge? The interest?

The learning?

My God - those poor children traipse around the earth thinking that everyone is like them. And then they make another generation of children. Like them. Is there no end to the perfection?!

Perfection is pervasive. It peppers my daily speech. My Gay and I search for our perfect Bloody Mary. We try on clothes and coo "Perfect" to each other. In our work, we often tell each other that something isn't going through until "it's perfect".

As an artist, my life centers on the aesthetic, the effect, the outcome. I like crisp direction and simple yet stunning designs.

The secret, to any masterpiece, is the thing that is off-centered; the errant stroke, the tiny detail of interest that you might not notice at first, or even second viewing.

As my Rumanian mentor always told me, (after he said that I bit life in the ass) - and I will impart this to you, my good friends (but only if you read it with a heavy eastern european accent):

It is the crack that makes the bell.

It is the unexpected that takes our breath away; it is the thing that we haven't considered before that makes art art.

Where have we gone, as a community of parents and people? Must everything be pretty and perfect and quiet and well-behaved all the time? Isn't life sloppy? Isn't that the fun - making something out of what you're given - making something unexpected and beautiful? Isn't that what makes a teacher a teacher - eliciting things from the kid that no one has any expectations of?

If you ask me, we have gotten very lazy in this country of convenience.

We need to look harder. And longer. And look again.

customer service

I've had this post burbling up inside for a week or so, but, well, life has been busy having its way with me.

So here I am.

I've been wanting to write and tell you about our vacation, and how the personal, as it always does, became political, how I nearly beat a cartoon character to death, and how one slip of paper spun my head a bit.

To begin. If you are coming in late to this drama, know that my husband and I took our two children to Disneyland for a 5 day vacation. Now, for some people, the thought of taking a child on the spectrum to The Most Stimulating Place On Earth might be cruel, thoughtless. But if you've been following the story, my daughter in question digs the place, and well, that is where God speaks to me and like any good pilgrim, I have to see the signs, or at the very least, the face of Christ in a tortilla - er - a Mickey Mouse pancake.

Besides. I really, really like the rides.

So. My husband. I guess there are a few things you should know. He is an amazingly circumspect guy, very frugal in his feelings and with money, he is honorable to a fault, and expects nothing from anyone. For growing up mightily entitled, he has no delusions about entitlement or due.

He saves that for me.

So when my daughter was being identified so many years ago as special needs, or having PDD-NOS, my husband was the guy thanking the Unified School District for the requisite hour of speech therapy, while I was shaking my fist and demanding more, wheedling every bit of anything I could get for my daughter. I demanded things, while he was sure that she'd "come along on her own time" and patiently did our home exercises and therapies, but my friends, he left it up to me to be Cassandra-with-her-hair-on-fire.

When we got to Disneyland, there was a mistake with the nice hotel we use, and we were treated to a double suite with four bedrooms and six beds, two bathrooms and four televisions. This pleased my husband to no end, (like I said, he's thrifty) and I took it as an omen when I found two $20 bills furled in front of my hotel door, like a gift, as I entered.

On the first day, I carefully monitored Miss M, what with the killer heat, crowds that resembled passages to Dauchau, and the constant parades, fireworks and confetti thrown into our faces. Miss M was lovely, pleasant, engaged - and I can share with you that this is what dysregulation looks like at nine years old:

"Mom, I think it's time to go back to the hotel for a swim and a rest."

So there you have it. OT and fun all at the same time. Done.

My husband and I plotted the days like the pentagon, with maps and plans for the least amount of waiting or stimulus possible. We did fireworks from far away. We went to documentaries when it was too much (those air-conditioned theatres were a treat, and Miss M loved the information about the genesis of Disneyland. I, on the other hand, thought about the Churro stand out front) Miss M was game for everything, and took very good care to take care of herself, wearing a baseball hat and drinking water, chewing gum - little things that took the edge off of what must have been an assault to the senses.

I slyly mentioned to my husband that my online friends had mentioned a "French" pass (that is, a pass for children with special needs, coded with our little term co-opted by Mom-Nos, who lovingly refers to our kind as the people from France) My husband was aghast, and said he'd feel bad taking the pass away from a kid who really needed it. I agreed that Miss M was doing brilliantly, but she had to work so hard at it; wouldn't it be kinder to just give her the break from the crowds and take the shorter, less crowded separate entrance for the rides? It was truly one of those moments where we could sit and analyze whether or not Miss M qualified for "special needs" anymore, but as I've mentioned, we were on vacation and I wanted to play it cool. So, like I always do, I said (through gritted teeth) that we could discuss it later.


The next day, Miss M had one request: "I know that I'm very spoiled and you both did so much to get us here" (I'm not kidding, she talks like this) "but I would be ever so grateful if I might buy an autograph book and go to the character breakfast."

No sweeter words ever spoken. I quickly mortgaged our house and made reservations for four at $30 a piece and brought my camera.

We entered, and the girls got their mouse pancakes. We were seated in a corner atrium. We were told that the characters would approach every table; there was no need to bum rush the animals. And we watched as the other children received balloons, buttons, stickers and took pictures like the British paparazzi. My children, on the other hand, sat amiably. Waiting.

I got up to refill my watered down Nescafe, and passed the floor manager. He was nineteen or so, with a fine peach fuzz on his chin, and he nodded companionably. I began returning to my seat, when I stopped, mug in hand, and said sweetly but passive aggressively, "May I change our seating location?" The young man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and squeaked, "No, ma'am. Company policy mandates that - uh, is there a problem?"

I flexed my toes in my high heeled sandals and did a little kick that I hoped was charming. "Oh, well, I'm just wondering when someone will come to our table. My kids are almost done -"

"Ma'am, the characters go to every single table."

I looked over at the other tables. The characters were having a freakin' orgy with the other kids, while Miss M clutched her autograph book. Waiting. I thought of her experience at her old school. I thought of how fucking hard she works every single day of her life to integrate, to belong.

I could feel the heat rising on the back of my neck. I became acutely aware that I was dressed ridiculously, in two Pocahontas braids, high heels and shorts - something that no self-resecting 42 year old woman should do.

"Well,sir, I just know that I have been sitting there and I only got one god-damned animal over to see my kids and that's because I asked and dragged his behind over to our table." I was sure he was looking at my coffee-stained teeth.

I was positively Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, trying to get the dying Debra Winger her last dose of morphine.

The boy manager got steely. "Who? Who went over? I need a name." He was all business now.

"Eeyore. Eeyore was the only motherfucker with the decency to stop by," I said, and as I walked away I added, "I'm sure Walt didn't have this in mind when he called it The Happiest Place on Earth," to which I realized I'd gone too far.

I went to the restroom to splash water on my face and returned to find a small crowd of characters at our table. There were characters I'd never seen before. Who knew Goofy had a son? I thought that he was pansexual. My children got buttons and balloons and stickers, and I found Roxie nestled in Minnie Mouse's lap with a lollipop. Miss M was gracious and polite to each character, thanking them profusely for stopping by. On our way out, the boy-manager gave the girls special Tinkerbelle straws, and me, a very tight smile.

My husband looked at me.

I shrugged.

He smiled.

We got outside, after our personal Disney orgy, and my husband put his hand on my back. "Whatever you did, I'm glad you did it," he whispered, before I fainted on the pavement and mopped myself up. He pointed at Miss M and made a thumbs up to me. "She deserved that," he said, and we held hands for the first time in a year.

We vacationed happily, with the girls wanting for nothing (I might be a little excessive in the treats-and-be-merry department) and, more interestingly, asking for nothing.

There were a few attractions that, no matter how I strategized, I would be unable to get us on without 1) heat 2) crowds and 3) a loooong wait. Miss M volunteered to wait, pulling her hat firmly on her head and reaching in her bag for earplugs, which I hadn't seen in at least 2 years. She and I were on our own that morning, as Roxie and Drama Daddy were sleeping in. "Come with me," I told Miss M, as we navigated our way through the crowds. I stepped up to customer service and I told our story. The woman nodded and handed me a pass engraved with an arrow pointing straight ahead, and a curving arrow indicating a detour. That's exactly what autism is, I thought, as I thanked her and tucked the pass into my bag.

We met up with Drama Daddy and Roxie, and over waffles, I said, "We'll be going on Toy Story Mania," casually, as Drama Daddy caught my eye. The girls cheered and finished their breakfast, and we headed for the handicapped entrance. The employees let us in immediately, and with a big smile, and never once looked askance at why this normal-seeming family might be needing special assistance. The girls loved the ride, and we used the pass only once more, for the submarines.

I would have used it a lot more, if we had needed to. I suppose that special needs means a lot of things to a lot of people, and sometimes, the lines can be blurry. What I know is that one girl worked extra hard on her vacation to play by everyone else's rules; wasn't it just balancing the scale just a little to give her a free ride pass for just one day?

But friends? The power knowing it's in your pocket? The power? The knowledge that someone has your back?

Heady stuff.