And then it hit me

SO it all started when I swung into the gas station to fill up the guzzler that we are borrowing from my bro and sister-in-law (my poor sweet minivan is down in the tranny and my 28-year-old self is having minivan withdrawals- WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME). So anywhoo, we're at the gas station, and Waylon hopped out of the vehicle. Oh snap.
There is this feeling that an autism mom has when your child makes a sudden movement in a parking lot, it's sort of like staring at a ticking bomb that has two fuses: I might be able to dismantle the autism bomb and safely contain him. Or he might detonate right here and now in this very parking lot.
Eeesh. So many behavioral strategies running through my head.
But I'm feeling confident today. I say and sign, "Help me, Waylon!" and he proves all of my fears wrong. He helps me unhook the nozzle and plug it in the car. He is thrilled to be allowed out in the daylight- flapping his arms and eeeeeeeing his approval. For just a second I think my chest puffed out and my head swelled and I thought, "Look at me, teaching my special needs kid all these life skills and stuff!" Too soon, Lindy, too soon.
Rose hops out then, too. She starts singing about pumping gas and other silly things. The grumps at the pump next to me were less than pleased about the chaos unfolding. So when I turn to give her the devil-mom stare and say GETINTHECARNOW through my gritted teeth (I mean she is singing and dancing in front of a ticking bomb, remember?), he darts. Of-freaking-course.
But you know my sleek autism mom skills (i.e. cat-like reflexes) nabbed his hood just a few feet from the vehicle. Good thing, right? Right. He was safe from traffic. It just also means that I was next to the bomb when it detonated.
The grumps at the other pumps are highly unappreciative of how impressive an autism bomb can be when it detonates.

And then it hit me (no pun intended).
She just wanted to sing.

There was a time when Rose did everything Waylon did. It was very difficult to teach the toddler Rose right from wrong, when she was copying every move of Waylon's- who was still not talking at all when his younger sister was telling stories. It was a stressful and emotional time, trying to potty train my toddler when my four year old was still wearing diapers.
Once, when I wrote about the naive one, I didn't realize how fleeting her naivety would be. She isn't naive anymore.
She knows.
She knows she has an exceptionally awesome brother.
She knows she has been blessed with a healthy body and healthy mind (and that not everyone is so fortunate), and I have no doubt she will use them to do wonderful things someday.
She knows firsthand what it means to give freely of yourself for someone who needs you. Impressive.
Perhaps most importantly, she knows she is special.

These things are true for Caden, too. He was and is Waylon's first friend, first mentor, and first therapist. And Lucy- I can already see her watching Waylon, and Waylon watching her, and I can't wait to watch their connection grow. (At the current moment it's kind of stuck at a "her slobbering on his puzzle pieces and him screaming at her" phase).

So tomorrow morning- I am squirrel hunting with Caden (gross). Tomorrow afternoon, lunch date with Rose. I need to remind them how awesome they are. As if they don't already know.
They totally are.

That's my boy

His eighth birthday has come and gone, and as usual, I find myself measuring him up against other kids his age.

Talking. Reading. Making friends. Playing sports.

Why is it that I always seem to measure Waylon by what he is not?

...............................................

Waylon is:

Happy. Loving. Non-judgmental. He holds my hand and gives me kisses and takes out my trash every day (even if it's empty). He does not bicker or argue. He is never rude. He loves his family more than anything in the world (except maybe Lightning McQueen). He did not ask Santa for a Kindle fire or an iPad or a Playstation. He only wants my love and Nacho Cheese Doritos.

.............................................

How does your eight year old measure up? 

That's my boy.