overheard this weekend

(Cough, cough from upstairs)

Bill (calling up the stairs): "Henry?"

Henry: "Yes Daddy?"

Bill: "Are you OK?"

Henry: "Yes Daddy."

Bill: "Good. I love you buddy."

Henry: "I love you too Daddy."

That may seem like a pretty boring exchange to some of you, but would not have happened at our house 6 months ago. Bill came smiling around the corner and said "did you hear that?!"

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(Tommy is carrying around something of Henry's)

Henry: "Tommy, may I have that please?" (Said in a quiet voice, not the house-on-fire voice that you might expect.)

Tommy: "Bubba, here go." (Hands it over.)

Henry: "Thanks Tommy."

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These are the little things that autistic kids need help with. These are the things that his teachers work on all day, every day. And it's working- he's getting it- it just takes a lot of time and a lot of persistence and a lot of patience.

I've realized that a good, quick way to explain the differences in parenting these two boys is this: I can tell Thomas "oh, don't touch that Tommy, that's not safe." And he's likely to stop touching the thing and reply "not safe mommy." (That's not to say that he listens all the time, of course.)

But if I were to say the same thing to Henry, especially when he was younger, he would have responded by screaming at me. Either because he didn't understand the concept of "not safe" or because he thought he was in trouble, or because he just didn't like being told "no"... I can't say why exactly.

But parents of autistic children sometimes have to find sneaky ways to communicate with their kids. We have to pussyfoot around saying "no", or trick them into stopping the thing they're doing, or into eating something new. That's what's so exhausting about it. And hard to make others understand.

Henry and I have to go through this little ritual when he takes medicine. It's MUCH MUCH MUCH, a thousand times easier than it used to be. But still, we have to talk about how he doesn't want to take this medicine, etc. Several years ago he was prescribed some cold medicine that was purple. Ever since, every time he takes medicine, he says "which medicine do you like the best?" (wanting me to pose that question to him) So I ask him, and he responds "the purple medicine." Then he opens his mouth to take the current medicine. Why do we have to have this little exchange every time? It somehow comforts him, or makes him think all is right with the world, if we talk about the purple medicine first.

Getting in the car in the morning is similar. Bill is already at work, so every day Henry says "you miss your daddy." And I have to figure out which of the responses will comfort him today: "He's at work." "You'll see him later." "He misses you too." "I miss him too." "We'll all be together tonight." I try a couple of these and then Henry repeats the one he likes. Then I tell him I love him and shut the car door.

I'm trying to keep a notebook around so I can jot down things that both the boys say. Here's one more:

Henry: "You want some jigsaw fruit."

Kate: "Jigsaw fruit? What's that?"

Henry: "It has cherries and pineapple and peaches and grapes."

Jigsaw fruit = fruit cocktail