A New Job For Charlie

Labor Day today and everyone seems to be talking “back to school.” I’ve been back to teaching at my college for a week and Jim starts this week. Charlie, however, doesn’t go back to school till next Monday, September the 8th. He perked up on saying “school tomorrow!” yesterday night—I hated to tell him, “one more week.” So if I’m still in sort of vacation mode here for another week, believe me, we’re all just waiting to see the yellow schoolbus pull up next Monday morning.

The reason (or the reason we’re being told) that school is starting late for Charlie is because of “new construction.”" One the projects mentioned a couple of times has been some new classrooms at the high school, including a kitchen and other facilities that would be meant only for special ed students. Our district has been preparing for a larger number of students—more than a few with autism, like Charlie—moving up to the high school and needing pre-vocational training. So assuming that the rooms will be solely for the use of the special ed program, the new construction is very much to Charlie’s benefit.

Yes, though Charlie’s only 11, we’ve already begun to think about vocational training. It’s very early, I know, but based on where Charlie is academically—-reading means working on a few individual words; math is a lot of counting and number recognition (Charlie’s been learning to use a calculator but he’s not yet doing simple arithmetic)—something like college is rather, and even simply, unlikely. A job involving some physical activity would be good; I don’t see Charlie sitting at a desk in front of a computer, but moving around and doing things: Working in a kitchen or something involving food preparation, or cleaning up something (working in a park maybe?). I suspect Charlie will himself indicate where his preferences lie.

No matter what his age or school status, we’ll keep working on reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic with Charlie; whatever age he learns these in is right on time. Charlie is a boy of few words but he notices a lot and, more and more, he makes it his job to tell us.

Sunday being the day before Labor Day with a clear, clear blue sky, we went back to the beach. Charlie’s been saying no to swimming: A chlorinated pool is no ocean, and some of the pools at our YMCA have been closed for maintenance. He did say “yes” to going to the ocean and so down the Parkway we went on Sunday. Charlie’s anxiety reached a high point at the precise place where the same had happened going back to the beach twice earlier this summer and my mom got a big bonk on the nose. We stopped at a rest stop and my mom and I switched places in the car and Charlie’s rapid, nervous verbalizations peaked and then lessened as we neared the ocean.

Charlie ran right into the water. It was warm, and the lifeguards were in ultra-relaxed mode, with swimmers going far beyond the flags before being whistled at. Charlie made his usual headfist forays straight into and under the waves and, a couple of times, headed out to see swimming on his back, headfirst and happily smiling. We swam and swam; other swimmers were worrying about jellyfish but Charlie, occasionally scratching at his back, kept turning back into the waves.

We had dinner at a favorite seafood shack and Charlie, as he’s been doing all summer, ate a roll and went through a bunch of ketchup packets, then ate his lettuce and a Jersey tomato slice when I asked him if he wanted them or not, and some bits of burger. Most of Charlie’s French fries went untouched. Because of being gluten and casein free for so many years, Charlie’s eaten his share of crispy, oily potatoes many times over and it’s ok with me if he turns his nose up at them for newer tastes.

There was some, but not too much, traffic going back home on the Garden State Parkway. Charlie smiled and bantered with me (still in the back seat) about a game called Farm Families that he used to adore and some of his older, long-said-good-bye to toys (“Remember how you used to sleep with the garbage can by your bed?” I asked, at one point). We were three in the backseat with my dad on the left and Charlie on occasion stretched out his legs in the center console of the car and almost moved the gear shift.

After that, he turned his attention to the trunk of our station wagon and said to me, “Yellow boogie board.” Last week, coming back from the beach, he’d pulled out the boogie board and, in the midst of an unhappy beach house rentrée, scratched some deep groves into it. There was n room for a big boogie board in the beack seat and I told Charlie we’d get it out when we got home. He flashed me a look and then squirmed and leaned his head into my arm.

It was past 11pm when we got home. Charlie ran in and as I was pulling out the wet towels and swimsuits, Jim said to me, “You know, I left the yellow board by the showers at the shore—-I was going to rinse it off.”

Think I’m going to have to start telling Charlie to remember to tell me, and us, certain things because he’s not going to forget—-and I think he’ll do a real good job.