Fifteen

Image via WikipediaTomorrow he turns 15. Tonight he talked.
The Dude (aka Elmer) (previously, Diver) instigated the conversation himself, asking me to come to his room. There he remarked on the oddness of not being excited about his impending day. And everything else under the sun. He reminisced about previous birthdays, remarking on the number of toy fixations that have passed. He remembered more than I. He talked about how pleasant it is to reminisce. Then he asked if I remembered when he couldn't do more than request yes or no questions.

I remember. And here he is, chatting away introspectively like an adult. Without autism.

What is this but a miracle?

It's the law

Image by conner395 via FlickrWhat could make this lazy anonymom blog after so long?

The Dude packed his meds.
All by himself, without my asking, he took out the multiple bottles and counted out four days worth of everything into a portable pill case. In my absence.
He's off to the four-day state conference of police explorers, which has taught him something strongly resembling discipline. He's a kid who never even tucked in his shirt, now spci-and-span in his pressed uniform and shined shoes. The non-nonsense, military structure appeals to him - a lot.

And today he packed his meds.

Milestones

Image via WikipediaThat stone I've been carrying uphill these 15 years?
He's making his own now.
On the cusp of 15, the Dude has a wallet, a check card and a cellphone.
He needs me less and less. Tells me less and less. And teaches me lesson after lesson.
Today he came home from school and planned his evening: "I need to take a bath before Explorers, so I'm gonna play some xbox, then take a bath."
He's going to take a bath voluntarily?
"Do you need anything from me?" I asked.
"No."
And in short order, he played Xbox, took a bath, dressed, ate, packed his gear, screwed his courage to the sticking point and went to Explorers (currently a source of both pleasure and anxiety). He had a brief moment of panic when he realized he'd forgotten a permission slip, then took a breath and muttered, "Next week."
So he organized himself, took responsibility for his hygiene, managed his anxiety, and went out into the world.

Regent of the Interregnum

Image by Eva Ganesha via FlickrWith history as my guide, I was worried about winter break aka the interregnum; that loosey-goosey period between regularly scheduled activities. Yet one week in, we're doing just fine. We've weathered two feet of snow, three days snowbound, the cancellation of an uncle's visit, the absence of volunteer opportunities, friends or family, and still, we're all right.

Anyone with a child on the autism spectrum knows the importance of routine. Our kiddos don't like a hair out of place. So in the past, school breaks felt like being on an ocean liner in a storm-tossed seas. Ay-eee! The Dude's frustration and discomfort cast a pall not unlike Darth Vader's.

Now, at 14, he is managing just fine. Doing more of the cooking. Taking care of the animals. Working the phone solo in search of volunteer opportunities. And maintaining TV-free dinner conversation. (Cue the angel choir!)

Today he's putting in his teens-are-only-allowed-1-shift-a-week volunteering at the food shelf while I soak up Mozart and sunshine at a coffee shop.

Days like today give me hope. I'mm'a hold onto this for the next time I approach despair.

Manly Man

Image via Wikipedia"I haven't had one shaving cut," announced the young man formerly known as Elmer*.

He's only shaved once. But the 6'2", 200 lb 14-year-old is the picture of young manhood. The peach fuzz covering his cheeks and chin was getting out of control, so after a few day's urging, he took razor to cheek and did the deed.

Today he picked up shaving gel; "I'd better get two cans," he announced, "I'll be shaving again tonight."

"Shaving what?" I wondered, but did not say.

Because he is no longer *Elmer, the tween Looney Toons fan who wanted a pseudonym like MamaEdge's boys, Taz and Rocky. He is now Dude McDude; Dude, for short, a whisker-growing, deep-voiced, young man.

24 hours later

What a difference a day makes.

Last night, in tears, I told Elmer he had to go to school in the morning. He didn't have to like it. He just had to go.

And this morning he went.

Oy in the Vey

Image via WikipediaThere's only so much supermom -- or superkid -- can do.

We've been doing a rapid ramp-up to a new school. Today was to be Day One.
Elmer has been masterful at managing his anxiety; naming it, claiming it, coming up with coping strategies on his own. Even after a tough time sleeping last night, he scrambled to be ready for the bus at 7:20.
Which didn't come.
At 7:40, I called the bus company, which admitted and apologized for their error, and promised to have a substitute bus here ASAP.
Meanwhile, anxiety is eating away at Elmer like bedbugs; a worried face, intestinal distress, diarrhea and more diarrhea. When the bus finally arrives (30 minutes later), he is still in the bathroom. The bus idles,the gut churns, Elmer gets as far as the stairs; then anounces, "Nope. Not gonna' happen."
And so the best laid plans of Anonymom succomb.