One THREE
June 4, 2009 by Jill Cornfield
Filed under Health
It’s about 10 to 7 in the morning and naturally (since there’s no school and we could all sleep late), everybody is up. That’s always disappointing, since the night before a school holiday we always rejoice in the fact that we don’t have to get up at 6 the next day. Ned and Alex are quarreling over the TV, as usual, with Ned watching “Ben Ten,” a show he claims is his favorite but which I think he wants to watch only because it happens to be on.
Photo by drcw (flickr.com)
Alex is saying, over and over with growing insistence, “One THREE? One THREE?” He means he wants to TV turned to Channel 13, our PBS station, which often shows things like “Dragon Tales” or “Thomas the Tank Engine.” I prompt him to say “thirteen,” so he starts alternating the two. “One THREE? Thirteen? Thirteen? One THREE?”
Sometimes having a kid with autism is like listening to a piece of music. Not because it’s so beautiful and transporting (well, it is kind of transporting but not necessarily in a good, floating-above-the-earth-on-a-cloud-of-happiness way) but because every minute or so is completely filled with events and sounds and comments that it changes your perception of how long it actually is.
In between checking email and mediating squabbles, I am also trying to keep Alex from running into our bedroom. Figure one of us should get to sleep late. But Jeff finally says Alex can stay, so I’m just outside the bedroom, clicking away when I hear a ripping sound from the bedroom.
When I rush in, I see Alex in the middle of tearing our blanket cover. I knew there was a small hole in it; autism means there is now a huge L-shaped rip that can’t be mended in any way. I’m furious (I loved that cover). I also knew it was a matter of time before he found it, and a hole is irresistible to Alex.
“Thirteen? Thirteen?” Alex has abandoned one-THREE as a request and is using the more correct form. He’s also saying “Sorry! Sorry!” to Jeff.
So I’m feeling irritated at Alex and scanning possibilities (find replacement on eBay? just go to IKEA and find something new?) when I decide 1) I’ll try to fix it, and maybe it will be an obvious but artistic patch job; 2) that autism is a constant lesson in letting go.
Daily I have to let go of things, actual things such as blanket covers and magazines Alex has ripped, but also of assumptions about what I thought my children should be, and what I should be as a mother.
