Counting down the days until Beth’s thirteenth birthday with a few reposts from the archives.

Originally posted: Aug 11, 2003, Beth’s age: 6

Over the years Cheryl has sometimes been a little quick to claim: “Beth is just like you John.”

She might be referring to any of a number of little things.

Beth saying something smart. Beth sitting in strange, contorted positions while watching TV. Beth exploring the limits of her abilities, improvising when necessary to achieve a goal (usually something Cheryl doesn’t want her to do). These are all examples of when Cheryl might invoke the “you’re just like your father” excuse for her behavior.

To me, these moments can be gratifying and frustrating. Seeing someone taking after you is one of the great joys of parenthood. It is a given your kids will inherit some things from you. It’s quite another thing to actually see this little person grow into their own, with just a pinch of you thrown in the mix. But just when you are patting yourself on the back for molding a precious little child… you see her do something else that you recognize – something that you don’t like. Do you put yourself in time out too?

Then there are the moments when you wonder if your child was switched at birth. Cheryl and I are both relatively quiet. We tend to shy away from attention. In school I was voted “least likely to raise my hand.” When asked about me, my former teachers recall a kid that sat in back and didn’t say anything. They may recognize my face, but I gave them no reason to remember my voice. Now here comes Beth, the original whirlwind of activity. In many cases, life is one great big performance for Beth.

What brings all of this up? We were sitting in church Sunday morning. All of the children of the congregation were called up to the front for the children’s sermon. The first thing you need to know is there is nothing subtle about Beth’s march to the front of the church for the children’s sermon. Her gait is a cross between a high-stepping march and a sprint. The echo of her stomping feet on the concrete floor, reverberating through the sanctuary, sounds as if the congregation broke out in applause. Once everyone was settled (and the clatter died down), the pastor asked all of the kids to imitate different kids of animals. Two kids went before Beth and took the obvious choices: cat and dog. Beth was called on next. Her parents waited with morose anticipation. Did we really want to see Beth at the Improv, with the symbol of Jesus’ crucifixion lurking in the background? She got down on her hands and knees and went “naaay…. nay”. After a moments reflection the pastor replied, “what a great horse your doing Beth.”

Beth indignantly replied, “I’m not a horse, I’m a unicorn!”

Never in a million years would I have thought to pick a unicorn when placed on the public spot like that.

Never in two million years would I have chosen to correct the pastor in front of a full houses.

No, Beth’s choice was not that extraordinary, nor was her decision to correct the pastor. It just struck me that it wasn’t me standing up there. It was another person, a work in progress. That person is a little of me, a little of my wife, and a whole lot of herself.

You may be thinking I’m easily impressed by the mundane. You may be thinking that I have a flair for pointing out the obvious. I’m thinking that life is 90% mundane and 75% obvious.* I think trick is finding the miracle in the mundane and working a little fun into the obvious.

* Statistical analysis with the assistance of the great Yogi Berra.

Counting down the days until Beth’s thirteenth birthday with a few reposts from the archives.

Originally posted: Jul 10, 2003, Beth’s age: 5 (almost 6)

We have been thinking about Beth’s birthday present for some time now. Tonight we took action. Cheryl called around to see which stores had the item in stock. After a couple of disappointments we found one that had it. Cheryl took off this evening after dinner to pick it up. When she returned we were both eager to open it up and see what all the fuss was about. Sitting on our bed, gathered around this thing like a couple of thieves admiring their stolen treasure, we opened it up. After dispensing with the requisite “oohs and aahs” we put it away. Just as we were closing the box Beth appears in the doorway with a question. The item was small so it was easily hidden.

“What are you guys doing?”
“We’re wrapping your birthday present.”
“What is it?”
“We’re not going to tell you.”
“Is it a Game Boy?”
“Beth! Just go to the family room and close the door.”

Well, as a general rule I don’t like to lie to the kids… but I wasn’t about to tell her the truth. However, this was one of those times I wondered if Beth was pushing certain buttons on purpose.

I thought a lot about this one, whether I wanted to keep the tone light, or round out some of the experiences we’ve had raising a child on the autism spectrum (high functioning though she may be). I wasn’t looking for a fond, proud, or pleasant moment. I was thinking about throwing in one that represented the opposite of all those things.

I finally decided on a compromise. In a way, I’ll leave it to you to decide. I’m posting a lighter post first (re: the name of this post). Afterwards, I’m including a post called “Venom,” which I’d originally intended to post this morning. If you’re not in the mood for a darker turn, please don’t feel like you have to keep reading.

“Cars, front seats, and airbags”
Originally posted: May 5, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

You might have heard that we were having trouble with Cheryl’s lemon Saturn.
When Cheryl’s car goes caput, I go to my parent’s house for a loaner. This last time the loaner was none other than THE MR-2. A little two door, mid-engine, sports car made by Toyota. My dad has a fun little manual five speed.

The next morning I realized an opportunity for some daughter-father bonding, so I suggested to Cheryl that I could take the kid to school. Since I’m the one that usually drives the loaner, this meant I’d be taking Beth to school in THE MR-2.

Beth and I walked out the door. Beth went first and walked up beside THE CIVIC. I took the route less traveled, and went to unlock THE MR-2. Beth exclaimed, “are we going in grandpa’s car daddy?!?”

“Yep,” I feigned casual.

Beth ran up to the passenger side of THE MR-2 and cautioned, “daddy, grandpa’s car doesn’t have a back seat and I’m not supposed to ride in the front.”

What’s a father supposed to say to that? I try to explain things to Beth when she asks, even if it won’t be entirely understood. I said, “well Beth, most cars have an airbag that pops out when you get into an accident, but it’s only in the front seat. Airbags can be dangerous for little kids because kids are really little, and airbags are really big and really fast. But, grandpa’s car doesn’t have airbags, so it’s not like our cars, and in some ways it’s a little safer for kids in the front seat.”

Beth wasn’t just o.k. with this explanation, she reveled in it. During the five minute drive to school, my normally talkative child uttered just one sentence:

“Daddy, this is REALLY cool!”

She sat in that seat like a queen on her throne, looking all around, unaccustomed to the unobstructed view.

Now fast forward to yesterday. We finally decided to send Cheryl’s lemon Saturn down the river. It was well past time we took a do-over, so we bought a car. (Yes, we bought; but that’s another story.) Cheryl and I left work early, but the deal still wasn’t done when it came time to pick up Beth. Since we were close, I left to get Beth and brought her back to the dealership. I brought her up to speed on the way back, and she was eager to get a close look at mommy’s new car. We went inside and walked up to the equivalent model in the showroom. Beth walked around to the passenger side, opened the front door and climbed in. She turned to me and asked in an innocent and hopeful tone: “daddy, does this car have airbags?”

Is it better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all?

Ask Beth.

– – –

“Venom”

Originally posted: Jun 17, 2003, Beth’s age: 5 (almost 6)

Camera number one shows the layout of the scene. It’s a retirement party. Everyone is saying goodbye to a Department of Corrections cohort. We are outdoors, in someone’s front yard. I am between conversations, observing the crowd from a lawn chair in the middle of the yard. Beth is walking around aimlessly, but not being disruptive. She is the only child at the party. Cameral number two (from a low angle) focuses on two women in the distance, from my seated perspective ten feet away. There are other conversations going on all around us, but the sound picks up the women’s conversation – already in progress. “…that child, her parents can keep her.” Flash to camera number three (no transition), close-up on my face; my eyebrows arch with interest. Flash to camera number two. The women resume their conversation, the previous speaker elaborates on her last statement, “I share an office with her mother. I KNOW things.” Now flash back to camera number three. There is a subtle change in my expression. Something has changed in my demeanor. There is a look of suppressed emotion on my face.

A narrator speaks:
“I KNOW that I am angry.”
“I KNOW that I have just heard part of this conversation out of context, so I must stay cool.”
“I KNOW that my mind is rushing to conclusions anyway.”
“I KNOW that people come as a package. You take some bad with the good. There are parts of my daughter’s package that I could do without, but I wouldn’t trade the whole for anything in the world.”
“I KNOW that I just spent an afternoon with my daughter that was just precious, one of too many to count.”
“I KNOW that everyone has their faults. The trick is to know what they are, and keep them in check.”
“I KNOW I have them.”
“Do YOU?”