Diving

The other day, at the pool, the Son of Never Stops Eating decided that he wanted to learn how to dive. 

He climbed out of the pool, stood on the edge, leaned over with his hands in the air, and belly-flopped in.  Not bad for your first try, I told him. Diving into a pool seems like a skill I've always known, although I'm sure at some point in the far reaches of the past someone had to have taught me.  The neighborhood pool I went to as a kid had two diving boards, a low one and a high one. I used to dive off the low one  pretending that I was an Olympic diver. In my head, I'd announce myself:

And now, the reigning world champion, representing the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Cue wild cheers and bald eagles screeching in the background. I'd dive into the water, believing myself to be as graceful and elegant as a swan.  The diving judges in my head would give me 10's across the board, and I'd quickly prance on tiptoe over the hot as coals pavement to get back in line for another go at Olympic glory.  It's probably a good thing that no one had smartphones or YouTube back in 1983. 

My son tried to dive in several times but he just kept falling into the water, laughing most of the time.  Clearly, some vital connection was missing, but I couldn't tell what it was.  Finally, I decided he needed an example.  Maybe if he saw me do it, he'd figure it out.  So I stood next to him and told him, watch me.  I ignored my brain reminding me that I hadn't dived into a pool in years.  Muscle memory is a marvelous thing.

I plunged into the water, graceful as a middle-aged swan. Just as I surfaced, I realized I had both ears clogged up with water. 

The Son of Never Stops Eating shouted at me, "Like this, Mom?" and he proceeded to flop into the water again, feet first.  

One of the lifeguards got into the lesson.  Try kneeling down on one knee, he told my son.  One knee on the ground, push off with the other foot.  My son tried it.  He landed in the water sideways. Better, we encouraged him.  That was better!

I got out of the water again, deciding he needed to see someone else try the kneeling trick.  I knelt down on one knee, my knee cracking in protest.  Hey! my left knee yelled at me.  What do you think you're doing here? I thought we had an agreement! You don't kneel on me and I don't start hurting!

Also, my ears were still clogged with water.

The feet-first sideways landings into the water continued.  At least he was laughing about it.  I would have been getting frustrated.  In fact, I was getting frustrated with my own poor diving teacher skills.  I even tried incentivizing with a snow cone.  That click in the brain that would get him in the pool head first just wasn't activating.  Finally, he decided to give it up and try again some other time.  He didn't seem worried, or bothered, or discouraged.  It was just time to move on to something else. 

Meanwhile, I had chlorinated pool water sloshing around in my brain and my left knee was cussing at me and threatening to sue me for breach of contract.    But yeah, I still got the diving skills.  Such as they are.  If the Olympic diving team calls, I'll let you know.

Five Minute Warning

Hey, kids! This is your five minute warning!

Actually, it's more like your four weeks warning, unless you are a marching band kid, in which case it's more like a one week warning, because marching band camp is about to start.  That's right, kids. If there was something you wanted to do this summer, now would be the time to do it.  The clock is ticking!

A few days ago, I told the Son of Never Stops Eating that it was time to start figuring out if he needed anything to start school.  He stared at me for a second in a panic, and then ran out of the room, like I'd just told him that I'd sold his LEGO collection and the buyer was coming to pick them up.  I followed him into his bedroom, where he was attempting to hide in his closet. 

No, seriously, I said, do you need anything? Like new socks, or underwear?  What about school supplies?  How about shoes?  I bet you've outgrown your shoes again.  I don't want to find out on the first day of school that your shoes don't fit. 

Shoes are a sore subject with the Mom of No; several years ago the Teenager told me on Easter Sunday that her new Easter shoes were too tight and she'd told me in the store that they fit so that we would leave and go do something fun. Now, I'm always dubious about claims that the shoes are fine.

Mom! Stop it! he said, through the closet door.  Stop talking about school! It's summer! Kids don't want to talk about school in the summer! And they don't want to talk about socks!

You aren't looking forward to seeing all your friends again at school?  I said, through the door.

Mom, he sighed, with infinite adolescent weariness, I don't need to go to school to see my friends.  I Facetime them on my iPad.

So I admit I have ambivalent feelings myself about school starting.  All summer, I've been getting up early to go to work while the summer vacation slackers in my house have been sleeping in, so when school starts I can laugh as they groggily complain about how exhausting it is to have to get up early. 

However, school also means more work for me, the parent. I've been eyeballing the pile  of paperwork from last school year that I have yet to sort, recycle or shred.  Even before school starts the paperwork- both real and virtual- begins, and I still have stuff from last year.

Then school actually starts, and the offspring start wanting things like five-section spiral notebooks that must absolutely be red and can only be purchased at office supply stores during the full moon on months that don't start with the letters "A" or "S".  And then the fundraisers start, and it's time to start making nachos in the band concession stand again, and crumpled forms come home that must be filled out that night or horrible things will happen.

So listen up kids- you think you suffer.  You don't know about suffering.  Your parents are the ones suffering.  We're the ones forking out the big bucks because you outgrew the shoes we bought you five weeks ago, and driving around all over looking for some binder that you are very insistent about owning.  We're the ones filling out fourteen forms about allergies and trying to figure out which of our friends won't be too annoyed with us if we put them down as an emergency contact and then they actually get called.  Meanwhile, this subtle but increasingly insistent voice is whispering, enjoy it while you can; the day is coming when you won't be doing this anymore.

So anyway, kids, you still have about four weeks, unless you don't because you are in some kind of activity that starts early like band or dance team or football.  So enjoy all that free Pokémon Go time while you can, because those days of sleeping in are coming to an end.

Future Fears

This week, I lost something.  I'm not sure if I'll be able to find it again.

Up until this week, I admit, I have been focused on preparing my son for adulthood, for living in the community, for independence.  I haven't given a considerable amount of thought to whether or not society is ready for him; I had, perhaps naively, assumed that most people would be supportive and understanding of an adult individual with special needs.  Now I am not so sure.

Perhaps part of my error was that I have been thinking of him as a kid.  It's normal for a child to operate with no filter; people often think it's adorable when a child says something completely blunt and honest. It's normal for a child to walk around with a favorite toy.  However, this week, I was standing next to my son while we were looking in a mirror; he's obviously taller than I am.  He's not shaving yet, but his voice is changing.  In a few years he will look like a man, but developmentally, he will probably still be carrying around his Lego toy, checking out his favorite hamster book from the children's section in the library and operating with no filter. 

If you're not familiar with autism, one trait is that individuals may become fixated on certain things: TV shows, dinosaurs, astronomy, train schedules.  This is true for my son.  For a long time, he was fixated on power lines and road signs.  An orange street sign sighting was cause for great excitement, which actually worked well because we live in a perpetual road construction zone. Every trip was filled with joy .  His current fixations include the show "The Loud House", his next LEGO acquisition, his hamster, and his dislike for a certain orange-toned national public figure.

Since he has no filter, he might bring this up with anyone, at any time.  Normally, I don't worry too much about his obsessions,  but given the political environment right now, I have serious mom angst about this particular one. I've had conversations with him about this subject, which I suspect leave him confused. He has the right to his opinion, but I'm not sure these days that I trust the self-control of other people.  In the volatile climate we live in right now, I am not certain that it is safe for a 13 year old autistic adolescent with no filter to voice political opinions.

About 100% percent of the time, he carries around a toy- usually a LEGO vehicle he's built himself.  It is often a great conversation starter; even neurotypical adults like LEGOS, or if they don't, they're great at faking interest. I had not given it much consideration until this week when there was an incident in Florida involving the shooting of a caregiver who was trying to help an autistic adult; someone had misread the situation and thought that the autistic adult had a gun.

That autistic individual was carrying a toy. 

I felt slightly nauseated and dizzy when I read it.  I could absolutely imagine someone seeing my son, as an adult, carrying a toy and other people making an incorrect assumption about what it was and what he was doing with it.  After all, what adult man carries around a LEGO fire truck with him wherever he goes?

My point here is not the suitability of the orange-toned candidate, or how the incident in Florida went down, or even that we can apparently no longer have rational conversations about controversial subjects.  My point is that I am afraid for my adolescent son, well on his way to manhood, in a world that operates under rules he doesn't fully understand.  I'm afraid about the assumptions people will make when he speaks, when they see a fully grown man in the children's area at the library, when he walks around with his newest LEGO creation in his hands.  I'm afraid that one day something will happen to him because someone came to the wrong conclusion.

This week, I lost my confidence in the idea that the community was ready for my son. I had always been more concerned that he was not ready for the community.  Now, I wonder if I've always had it backwards.

Pokemon What?

Earlier this week, I started noticing a bunch of Facebook posts about something called "Pokémon Go".  At first, I had no idea what it was.  I had some vague recollection of the Teenager having a rather extensive Pokémon card collection when she was younger, but it had long left the premises of our abode. 

I asked the Teenager about it, and after a brief discussion of how, due to the particular limitations of her available technology, she could only use her iPad and she could only go Pokémon hunting where there was WiFi, I discerned these nuggets of information:

A Pokémon is a little digital monster. Apparently they are all around us, like in an alternate universe somehow blended with our own.  You can only see these Pokémon with a mobile device.  You walk around and attempt to locate them while trying to avoid real life hazards like cars, falling off cliffs and becoming envenomated by copperhead snakes.  You also have to find something called a Pokestop, which is apparently like a grocery store for Pokémon, and you look for gyms, which is evidently where they fight for supremacy over other Pokémon at the direction of their human trainers.

And there you have it.  That is the extent of my Pokémon understanding.  Oh, and one other thing- one of them is named Pikachu.  That's it.  That's what I know.

Here is where I admit that certain people who claim that I am slowly turning into the Grandpa of No, who can be somewhat cranky and who enjoys comparing the perpetual bliss of the good old days to the never-ending chaos of the early 21st century, might have a point.  My first reaction was something along the lines of "When I was a youngster, we didn't need cell phones to go outside, and we certainly weren't allowed to use all our data on looking for some virtual monster.  In fact, we didn't even know what data was, because it was the 1970s."  I will also own up to some middle-aged mom eye rolling.

Then I found out that not only were people going outside, they were doing it with other people, like their friends and even their siblings and their parents!  As in, a group activity!  Maybe it's not all bad, I thought.  Anything that can pry an adolescent on summer vacation off the sofa and into the great outdoors must have some redeeming value to it.

I'm actually getting a bit of a laugh out of it now, because I've been participating in a program called iNaturalist for about two years now, which is similar to Pokémon Go in the sense that iNatters, as we call ourselves, go outside looking for things.  However, we are looking for real living things like plants and critters and fungi and not digital Pokemon.  Then we upload the findings to iNaturalist, which is somewhat like Facebook but for nature nerds, and other people then verify the findings.  So all these Pokémon Go players are like, "hey! Look! Something new!" and I'm like, "Ha! I've been out wandering around in the outdoors for years looking for wild creatures!".

<Cue the SNL Church Lady superior dance>

I bet you had no idea the Mom of No is so cool, right? Actually, I'm hot.  It's broiling hot outside.  So as a mom, and as someone who spends a lot of time outdoors seeking out nature observations, I have some safety suggestions for the intrepid Pokémon hunters:  Wear closed toe shoes, not flip flops.  Stay hydrated while you are walking around looking for Pikachu or a Pokestop.  Bring a hat.  Use sunscreen. Watch out for and respect the wildlife. Stay out of the poison ivy.  Tell someone where you are going.  Be aware of the terrain.

Have fun with it.  I still don't really understand this Pokémon Go, but I'm not going to roll my eyes at it, especially if it gets people outside and talking to other people.  Just don't use all your data at the Pokémon gym, and look around at your surroundings every now and then- the outdoors can be pretty cool even without Pokémon Go.

Parenting Books

From time to time, the Mom of No checks out a parenting book from the library.  I don't read these books because I am looking for parenting help;  I read these books because I often find the advice contained within them entertaining. These books always make solving the hardest problems seem so easy; all you need is more time, more money, a very understanding employer, or a combination of all three.  It's also apparent to me after reading a few of these books that my personal bar for parenting success is pretty darn low. No one in my house has invented some life-changing device or started his or her own million dollar company before turning 13, for example, but they do make their own lunches, so there is that.  Also, it is clear after reading some of these books that I am absolutely, without a doubt, one of the worst parents in the world.

I just finished reading a parenting book which proposed that the reason kids these days are so snarky and whiny is because parents have abdicated their parenting role.  Parents these days are too nice and over-accommodating to the whims of their offspring. Clearly, the author of this book has never set foot in the Household of No, where requests for cell phone upgrades and unlimited data plans go unanswered and the suffering is beyond measure.

As an example, the author of the "Parents are Just Too Nice" book describes an observation of his: a mother whose kid demands donuts right before boarding an airplane.   Instead of telling the kid no, she hands over the donuts.  Ergo, bad mom.  Ergo, we're all bad parents.

Sarcasm alert: We're all at our parenting best when at the airport, after waiting in the TSA line and about to board a sardine can in which we will be squished together with complete strangers.   It should be against the parenting advice rules to use examples of people parenting badly in airports to prove anything.

Also, I once snuck goldfish crackers into a church during a close family member's wedding to keep the teenager, who was then a toddler, quiet. Yes, there was a sign that said "No food or drink in sanctuary". My mind mentally amended that sign to read "No food or drink in sanctuary unless you are the parent of a toddler who can't sit still". So, who am I to judge?

The other parenting advice often given is to eat dinner together as a family.  I can respect that.  When we eat together at our house, it can turn into a hilarious affair.  But it doesn't always happen.  I suspect that none of these parenting experts have ever talked to marching band parents about dinner time.  I can imagine that discussion with the band director:

Me:  I know evening practice starts at 7, but the teenager can't be at band practice until 7:30. She has to eat dinner with the family first.
Band director:  HA HA HA HA! This is a prank call, right? (hangs up phone)

When you have a marching band kid in your household, it is essential to understand that you are not in charge.  The band schedule is in charge.  Your role as a parent is simply to facilitate absolute and unquestioned compliance with the logistical requirements of the marching band.

When my kids were younger, I would be perusing magazines in the dentist's waiting room, or in the checkout line in the grocery store, and there would be articles like "Top Nutritionists say: Start off the School Year with Fun and Nutritious Bento Boxes!". Inside, there would be cute pictures of sliced cucumbers made into cats or slices of free-range turkey made into origami swans.  Then I'd go home and remind the offspring that they were responsible for making their own PB sandwiches (neither one likes jelly, so no J).  I'd suggest carrot sticks as a healthy snack, but find out later that they went for the Cheetos, probably under the premise that both are orange and crunchy, so close enough.

It's a parenting expert's worst nightmare, I am sure.

Hard Conversations

Here is something that you don't hear about when you are pregnant for the first time, glowing with joy and anticipation and looking forward to endless days of parenting bliss:  Eventually you will have to explain difficult topics to your children.

You will have to explain that a pet has passed away, or that a beloved grandparent is very ill, or that a parent has lost a job and money will be tight.  Eventually, you will have to explain events in the world outside your front door, and that can be a difficult and scary experience for all involved.   How much you choose to reveal to your kids and when and how is one of the many great parenting debates. 

I don't believe in rolling my kids up in bubble wrap and guarding them ferociously from learning that the world is not always a happy place.  I wouldn't let toddlers watch The Walking Dead, but part of growing up is learning how to recover and adapt when things do not go well.  With a teenager who is 13 years old but developmentally delayed, it can be a challenge to explain why the world is not always full of sunshine and happy butterflies.  However, I don't believe that I am doing him any favors by being overprotective. 

Also, this is not really a subject covered in the comprehensive guide to parenting we are supposed to have memorized.  This kind of experience is the Australian outback of parenting- minimally charted territory.  It's even harder when you're also trying to process the event yourself.  It can be quite a challenge.

This past Thursday, five City of Dallas police officers were killed and seven were wounded while on duty by a sniper. Since we live in the area, the news coverage started almost immediately.  I had been out to dinner with friends, and when I walked in the door, the first thing my son said to me was, "This isn't the zombie apocalypse, is it?"  He had been watching the news with the Dad of No and the Teenager, and he was worried.

Further questioning the next day revealed that in addition to the police officers being shot, which upset him because one of his favorite people is the student resource police officer at his school, he was worried that he might get shot the next time we went to the Dallas Museum of Art. The museum is one of his favorite places.  He likes to go there and look at his favorite art and then go to Klyde Warren park to hang out and pester the Mom of No to buy treats from food trucks.  He was worried that the art had been damaged.  He had a lot on his mind.

Several years ago, one of the kids' grandparents passed away.  Right after that, I received some advice from someone that actually proved useful.  When bad things happen, I was told, kids want to know that they are going to be okay and that they are going to be taken care of.

The museum is okay, I told him.  Nothing happened to the art.  And you know that we will always do everything we can to make sure you are safe.  His father and I gave him reassurances and hugs.  We've been talking about what happened and why.  I know he's still processing it, but I also know that he's not as scared as he was on Friday, because he spent most of this morning pestering me about his newest heart's desire Lego toy at Target (a police chase set). 

We need to make a visit soon to the museum, and to the park across the street, so that he can see that it is safe, and that the museum is okay, and that while there are some bad people in the world doing evil things, and that sometimes these things happen close to home, they will not stop us from living our lives.  Parenting is not always easy, especially when you are parenting a teenager with special needs, but as Theodore Roosevelt said (kind of), we do what we can, with what we have, where we are.

My Appliances Hate Me

Apparently, the Household of No has offended some great cosmic force that oversees the well-being of household appliances.  I'm not sure if I should smudge my household with sage or conduct an exorcism, but it is clear that something has gone awry.

A few weeks ago, our washing machine bit the dust.  At first we thought it was related to a plumbing issue, but the plumber came out and said no, the two problems had nothing to do with each other.  So we called an appliance repairman, who informed the Dad of No that the washing machine would cost $800 to repair. 

So, off we went to our local home improvement store to buy a brand new washing machine.  The shiny new washing machine was delivered. The old one was taken away. All was well.  The universe appeared to be at peace. 

Alas, no.  We did not know it at the time, but forces beyond our understanding were conspiring against our household.

I came home from work six days after the delivery of the brand-new washing machine to find out that the Dad of No had been on the phone with the manufacturer of the washing machine because it was flashing some error code he couldn't find in the owner's manual.  When you can't find the code in the owner's manual, that is a definite indication that something has gone horribly wrong.  Even the manufacturer's call center representative didn't know what the code was.  They had to go look it up.

Apparently something went wrong with the circuit board, or the mother board, or some really important washing machine component.  Also, the door of the machine was locked shut, and our laundry was trapped in there.  Did I mention that this washing machine was six days old?

My parents had the same washer and dryer for about 30 years.  The appliances were virtually indestructible.  But now we have planned obsolescence.  Nothing lasts 30 years.  You can almost hear the manufacturers snickering amongst themselves: We'll make the darn things more expensive to repair, and use cheaper parts, and they'll have to keep coming back for more! <insert diabolical laugh>.

So, back to the home improvement store.  A new washing machine would be delivered. All would be well. All we had to do was return the defective washing machine to the store, and no worries!

Envision this: the Mom of No attempting to place a washing machine in the trunk of her car.

A visit with the store manager set that straight. Two days later, a brand new washing machine was delivered, and the defective one taken away.  We are eyeing the second new washing machine with cautious optimism; hopefully the second one will be trouble-free. I'm also wondering if I'll ever get my trapped laundry back, or if it will be held hostage by the defective machine forever.  Fortunately it was just bed sheets and not my underwear or the Son of Never Stops Eating's favorite shirt.

I hope this is the end of the washing machine saga. I don't have time to mess with the washing machine anymore.  We have just found out that our dishwasher is now malfunctioning.