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?”

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

Originally posted: Apr 30, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

Stop me if you have heard this story before:
A little kid goes potty and has a little too much fun with the toilet paper. Three towels, two liberal applications of disinfectant, one roll of paper products, and at least half a dozen months of life expectancy later… the bathroom floor was dry again.

Every child must learn what volume of solids a toilet can handle on their own. Unfortunately for the parents of the world, it’s a trial and error process.

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

Originally posted: Apr 7, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

Beth has gone in for surgery twice in her lifetime. The first time she had a kidney removed. The second time she had tubes put into her ears. On Tuesday, she is scheduled for her third surgery, to remove the tubes previously placed in her ears. We were discussing the upcoming surgery this evening. When we reminded her that they would be taking out her tubes she asked, “Will they be putting my kidney back in?”

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

Originally posted: Feb 26, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

We have known Beth to be influenced by TV advertising for some time. When she was three years old and could barely pronounce her full name she could, with perfect TV announcer intonation, declare to mommy and daddy that she really wanted “Cinderella II: Dreams come true, now available on home video and DVD.” Now she is starting to see the commercials for Spy Kids II. She already owns Toy Story II, The Little Mermaid II, and at least one other sequel that I can’t immediately recall. Her five year old mind has taken this phenomenon to the next logical step. Now we’re trying to explain to her that we don’t even know IF there will be a Lilo and Stitch II, let alone when it will be available on home video and DVD.

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

Originally posted: Jan 29, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

In kindergarten, there apparently is a no moving around policy in the lunch room. In other words, once you find a seat you stay in it until you are done. Beth has been given an exception to this rule. She has been told that if someone at her table is eating a peanut product, she is allowed to move due to her peanut allergy. Well, I was talking with her teacher and she recounted recent story from the lunch room. It seems Beth was sitting next to someone she didn’t want to be around. Beth being Beth, she raised her hand to get the lunch room monitor’s attention. Beth advised the monitor that she had to move. Naturally the monitor asked why. Beth apparently replied, “I can’t sit next to Dino because he has lettuce and I’m allergic to lettuce.”

That little stinker.

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

Originally posted: Jan 15, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

Mommy and Daddy were having a little disagreement. Beth was caught in the middle, sitting at the table trying to do her homework. After this discussion began to wind down and mommy left the room, Beth called out, “mommy, stop being argumentative!”

“What did you say?”, mommy asked incredulously from the other room.

“Argumentative”, Beth responded.

“That’s what I thought you said, I just couldn’t quite believe it. Did you learn that word from daddy?”

It is a parents responsibility to teach their children, but my wife feels that I should be a little more selective in what I teach.

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

Originally posted: Jan 22, 2003, Beth’s age: 5

I consider it a natural law of the human experience; we tend to find more joy in the unexpected moments than in those that are more routine.

If there is anything that makes me feel like a failure as a parent, it is that neither myself nor my wife has more time to spend with Beth in her school related activities. Both of us work, so we are not often available to strike out with her class on many of their adventures in learning. One day this week I was allowed to make amends. Beth’s class was going to visit “Safety Village” and I was able to tag along. Being the only daddy was some cause for concern. I am loath to draw attention to myself amongst strangers, and nothing draws attention like being unique. The unending chorus of: “ah, it’s so sweet Beth’s daddy could come along,” kept an invisible bullseye on my soul for the whole afternoon.

So there I was, walking into Beth’s classroom one day this week, one of the parent chaperones for the trip. I immediately scanned the room for Beth. I saw her first. She was sitting “in circle,” with her back turned to me. Her teacher was handing out name tags, and each student was dismissed from circle only after they had received their tag. Beth’s turn came and as she turned to leave the circle she faced me. She stopped in mid step, initially somewhat confused to see something that did not belong – me. Suddenly, I saw the memory of our morning conversation appear as a grin creased her face from ear to ear. I cringed a little as she momentarily forgot proper classroom protocol and ran to me for a big hug.

It’s disappointing that I can’t be there for more of her class activities, but it made this morning that much more special.

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

Originally posted: Nov 13, 2002, Beth’s age: 5

Veteran’s Day is a holiday for state employees in Florida. It is not a school holiday.

Little did we know, our alarm was about to take a holiday too.

It was seven-thirty, a full hour after Cheryl and I had hoped to be up. We had exactly thirty minutes to get Beth fed, dressed and out the door. On our best morning, when post alarm events mesh with Swiss precision, we all get out the door in 45 minutes. It was a challenge we had little choice but accept.

Do you know what?

We didn’t make it.

However, I had a back-up plan. The normal routine included a before school program, since both of us work. So the answer was simple: no before school program. In fact, it turned out to be the best thing that happened to me that day. The morning was a glorious Florida fall morning, so I decided we’d walk. Beth was thrilled to do something different, and do it with daddy. We walked through the neighborhood. We cut behind the baseball fields and approached the school from the rear.

We got to the student drop off area and said our goodbyes. Beth gave me her customary triple smooch farewell and she was off. I turned, took a few steps in the other direction and turned back. She was walking off to class with her back turned to me, her pony tail swinging in rhythm with each step. She was talking to one of her fellow students as they made their way to class. They were not overjoyed, but they were not upset either. They seemed happy.

So am I.