Dance

The Son of Never Stops Eating went to his first school dance, and he liked it.

He told me that it was okay to mention that he went to the dance as long as I made it clear that he was not going to the dance because there were girls there; he was going to the dance to see his friends and eat pizza, and those were the only two reasons he was going anywhere near that dance.  He emphasized this several times, so I wanted to get that out up front.  The possibility that girls would be present at the dance was in no way a determining factor in his decision to attend.

Also, he was not going to dress up or even put on a clean shirt, and he saw no reason to freshen up by brushing his teeth or combing his hair. He'd already done all that once that day, apparently, and there was no need to do it again.  His preparations consisted of putting his shoes on and getting in the car.

I took him to the school and walked in with him so I could find out how much the pizza was going to cost per slice. I figured that I was probably going to end up buying at least one entire pizza, so I was prepared to fork over some significant cash.  I was actually somewhat in shock that he'd even expressed any interest in crossing the threshold of the middle school when it wasn't actually required of him.  I kept expecting him to say he'd changed his mind and he wanted to go home, but he didn't.

I found out how much pizza was going to be ($1 per slice: very reasonable) and I handed over some cash.  He looked at it, said "Thanks, Mom; don't worry, I won't lose it", stuck it in his pocket, and walked into the cafeteria where the dance was being held.  He didn't even say good-bye to his mother.

Let me tell you, I almost wanted to cry.

Actually, I had to resist the very strong temptation to run after him, hug him, and tell him to have a good time and then plant a huge, embarrassing mom kiss on his cheek (I would have said forehead, but I can't actually reach that anymore).  I couldn't believe that he'd just walked away from me.  So much for Mom! Now I know where I stand in the overall scheme of things: I am the provider of transportation and pizza money.

When he was first diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum, way back when he was in kindergarten, I sat in my car after the conversation with the school diagnostician and I wept.  I would watch him screaming his head off for some reason I could not discern, or see how he was falling developmentally behind other kids his age, and I would think, this is my life.  He will never have friends. He'll never do anything for himself.  He'll never learn to read, or dress himself, or go out in public without having a meltdown.   This is what it will be like forever.  It will never be any different than it is now, and I'm not sure that I can do it. 

Other, more experienced, parents would tell me no, it will get better, you'll see. Go ahead and cry and grieve for what you are thinking you have lost, and you'll get on with life because you really don't have much of a choice and then you'll look up one day and realize that you are making it work.  But I wasn't ready to hear it yet.

It never actually occurred to me that one day I'd be standing outside the middle school by myself, feeling a little old and awkward,  after handing over a fortune in pizza cash to a six-foot tall almost 14 year old who was voluntarily going to a school dance to see his friends and eat pizza (but not dance with girls), all by himself.  The kid who once wouldn't let me out of his sight had just walked away from me without looking back.

I may or may not have shed a few tears when I got back to my car.  This time around, they would have been happy tears.