Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry for Throwing up on You, Daddy.

   My youngest child, my younger daughter, my six-year-old, Rosemary, really surprised me about this time last year when she walked in my bedroom and showed me that she taught herself to tie her shoes. She had just turned five. She mastered this life skill on her own, with no instruction from me or anybody else. She then said she planned to teach my nine-year-old daughter to tie her shoes because, as she put it, 'it was time.' 

    Rose is a doer, a worker, she's independent. She takes things apart and puts them back together, or mostly back together. She may be the brightest child I've ever made. I made two before her, a supersonic aspie son who can make an algebra problem tremble, and a lovely, talented nine-year-old middle child, Irene. 

Midterms....

   Rosemary caught a stomach bug last night, I guess last night...she started throwing up last night. She warned me, nose to nose, like a freight train blowing its horn. This big thing was gonna happen, like it or not, and I could get safely out of the way or I could be a big part of that exorcist-like stomach flu first vomit. The first toss came at me hard and fast. I made the instinctive quick jump to my right to avoid getting hit in the face. And, like always, while following her to the bathroom, I was trying to understand how all that stuff came out of that little body. Rosie continued to up and chuck all the way to the bathroom. 

      But, here's the kicker, and part of what makes her my little fighter girl. Not once did this six-year-old cry, whine, complain, or even ask me when it would stop. She got up every 45 minutes or so, all night, walked to the bathroom, and puked her guts up.... mostly dry heaving. At one point, she gave me a hand signal to tell me 'don't get up, I've got this.'  My girl manned up tonight and I'm sure I couldn't be prouder. I saw in my youngest child everything I wish I was. She was tough, deliberate, patient and most importantly, Rose accepted and played with stunning grace, the hand life dealt her tonight. 

      

I Love that Aspie of Mine

          It's Valentine's Day and I'm still trying to determine what to give my three little sweethearts. My two youngest, my daughters, nine and five, will be more than thrilled to take chocolate and stuffed bears off my hands. I'm having a tougher time deciding what to give my oldest, my thirteen-year-old son, my Aspie, my son who fights his way through a form of Autism called Asperger's Syndrome. 

      AS is an Autism Spectrum Disorder that is characterized by significant difficulties ocial interaction, along with restrictive and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. It differs from other Autism spectrum disorders by its relative preservation of linguistic  and cognitive development. Physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are also often reported.  

 The photo I've included shows him at eight. He was diagnosed the following year with OCD and Depression. Once the doctors were able to get these two debilitating disorders under control, they determined that he had AS. I knew my son was good, good to the core. I just thought it was a result of my awesome parenting. It turned out he was fighting his way through more than any adult should face in a lifetime. I could not be happier with the school he attends, but kids are cruel and ignorant of mercy. He's an easy target because he simply doesn't have the capacity to interact socially, especially in a group, especially in middle school.

     This morning he said he planned to give a certain girl in his class a Valentine's Day card. He asked, 'Dad, should I ask her out?' My heart began to break at the thought of rejection, a feeling he has faced time and again. I could not be prouder of my straight A student, my well mannered kid, my son with a heart of gold. I hope, like I always do, that today will be different, and some unsuspecting thirteen-year-old girl will realize the prize standing in front of her with a heart in his hand.