That's my boy

Last night at bedtime, Diver lamented, "I'm jealous of Andy. He gets to start school tomorrow."

Ironic, isn't it? Kids are trudging unhappily back to school. Most would be jealous of someone with another week off.

But Diver like school and loves routine, so the week ahead was yawning like a chasm. All of my brainstorms had been rejected when Diver came up with one of his own. Might he help at the drop-in child care franchise he occasionally attended when he was younger?

Brilliant boy.

This morning, I called the manager, who was amazed that an older kid would even set foot in her door. But she remembered Diver and said, "Bring him over."

That boy had a good day at work. On a scale of 1-10, 10 being amazingly awesome, Diver called his day a "7".

Which is pretty impressive for a day at work.

He was not paid. In fact, I paid the standard $8/hour. But it was money well-spent.

"You're an impressive boy, Diver," I told him.

"I know," he replied.

"You know what I want?"

"To go to school."

From the mouths of babes, and smart aspies.

Diver knows exactly what he needs: routine. Routine of camp is over. Routine of camping trip is over. Routine of school doesn't start for almost two weeks. Oh, pain and misery.

Doesn't want to go to Fair. Doesn't want to see movie, play splatball, or go to Air Guard Museum. Just wants to go to school.

Sigh.

The icing on the cake

Diver lost 22 lbs during his 7 weeks at camp.

T-6 hours

His swing has been moved. The angle of the big screen adjusted. I've been sitting in his chair. There are new slipcovers on the couch. There's a different powercord for his laptop. A new toothbrush in his cup.

Diver will notice all of this and more. Minute alterations to the house that I'd never note in a million years. It's a blessing and a curse and I haven't thought about it for 7 weeks. I'm already anticipating his reaction and ways to prepare him; preparation, as we auti-parents know, being key to success. On the way home from the airport, I'll mention how we'll both need to adjust; to change in the house and each other.

The prodigal son

Diver returns tomorrow.
I'm nervous.
I've been solo for 7 weeks. And while it's been lonely, I've become accustomed to it.
Diver has been at camp for 7 weeks, in the heart of the place he loves best, with structure, routine and community that meet *all* his needs. He's become accustomed to that.
I can't provide it, which I regret. Like all kids on the spectrum, Diver likes routine and structure. Despite my best efforts, I have never been able to match what he gets at camp.
School doesn't start for three weeks. We will survive, but it will be precarious.