Monday in Manhattan

Routine routine routine.

Schedule schedule schedule.

That’s what life raising an autistic child is like, or is often said to be like: You’re locked in a vise of always doing the same old same old, lest the proverbial “all hell” should break loose. So Monday school, Tuesday school and pool, Wednesday school and bowling, Thursday…….

Yesterday, without thinking about it too much, Charlie and I stepped right out of the ol’ routine. On the one hand, he loves it, needs it, craves The Routine: All of our Sunday was punctuated with Charlie stopping to catch Jim’s or my eye, pausing, and intoning “school tomorrow.” We would reply “yup” or “yes, school” or “school tomorrow!” and he’d repeat the phrase a few times and then walk away, satisfied.

In fact, after enough of these assurances for the better part of a mostly lazy Sunday, Charlie told me he wanted to practice the piano, swam a couple of laps in the pool after a sluggish start (he had fallen asleep in the car en route), and biked off with Jim for several miles till dusk was falling. He asked for rice and opened a cabinet and took out a bag, then sat with his right cheek on the table and a hand beneath, watching it cook. Monday morning he awoke on his own, put on what I think is becoming a favorite shirt—-it’s got turquoise sleeves and the San Jose Sharks shark—-and Jim out him on the bus. His Monday was “stellar”; he was noticeably taking more initiative in the classroom and was fine working with different instructors.

My own students had been unusually sleepy and (at my 9am class) more than a few were either late or absent. We’ve been almost a month into classes and I wondered if the reality of being back in school had really hit, and they were weighed down beneath the thought of how many more months there are till the semester ends. The second class, which is much smaller (it’s a class in Elementary Ancient Greek), was characteristically quiet as I called students to write out declensions on the dry erase board and then (to my surprise), livelier when I launched into an explanation of how to accent ancient Greek words—-it’s a dry topic and a hard one, but they seemed game. Afterwards, students had questions about applying to graduate school—-someone wanted to drop a course—an editor for the student newspaper stopped by and we proofread several articles together—I had a quick conferral with a colleague and then realized it was after 2pm and I ran out the door and got home in time for the bus, despite a lane closure on the Pulaski Skyway (which is two lanes wide) and an accident.

I got too insistent about Charlie putting away the containers from his lunchbox before he had his afterschool snack, as he informed me. I felt foolish but promptly admitted it and Jim called and I said that we’d go into New York for a visit—-not exactly what we usually do on a Monday afternoon.

Jim’s going out of town tonight to give a lecture in southern California so I figured Charlie and I would have plenty of time to do “the usual.” Monday was the nicest fall weather day and by 4.30pm Charlie and I were on the road and off to Jersey City, where we parked the car near my office and headed down Kennedy Boulevard to catch the PATH train, me with two bags one over each shoulder. One had my stuff and Charlie’s Leapster, and the other—it fit perfectly in a big navy bag—the Dustbuster. (Charlie carried it for a few blocks too.)

Yes, you read that right. My Target-purchased, cyclonic action Dustbuster. Let me just say that Jim has just finished a book he’s been working on since the time Charlie was a baby—it’s on what Jim calls the Irish waterfront—and there are lots of books and papers, plus books and papers for more projects that are being attended to, plus the fact that last weekend while I was at a lecture on talking about autism, Charlie was having a fine dinner on Jim’s desk and Vietnamese spring rolls have a lot of shredded items in them, from carrots to green onions to cilantro. Top that off with a few packs of soy sauce and ginger and some brownie crumbs (and other kinds of crumbs) and sure there is a cleaning staff for the building, but how can you vacuum the floor if it’s covered in documents that need to be where they are?

It was a job for a sturdy Dustbuster.

Charlie had another dinner on Jim’s desk and then, having recharged the Dustbuster’s batteries, Jim then I set to work on the carpet and every nook and cranny, especially around an aging radiator. Charlie helped himself to an office chair and gave himself several rides up and down the empty corridor and I scrubbed and Jim stacked, and (mindful of it being Monday), we hurried onto the 59th Street subway, Charlie running excitedly ahead into a Manhattan night towards Columbus Circle and calling ……

Yeah, school.

We made it home by 9.30pm and before you know it, Charlie had taken himself to bed with a pile of blankets and the Leapster. And the Dustbuster was all charged up for action again.