Homework and Hades both start with the letter H, it's not a coincidence. Want to take a brief trip to The Underworld and see what all the fuss is about? Well, then stop by our place some weeknight after 7PM, (homework is never started before 7PM) when a vague, abstract writing assignment is given to a concrete, literal thinker, grab Hades hand and talk a walk with me to the dark side.

I know even for many neurotypical parents, homework and common core math can be hellish, but, when you add a dash of autism, sprinkle on some anxiety and mix in a little perfectionism, homework burns a wee bit hotter and very few come out of the fire unscathed. 

Hands down, some of the ugliest, hottest, most infernal moments for Ryan and me throughout this autism journey have been during the homework witching hour. When Ryan gets stuck, when autism digs its stubborn heels in, and I have no way of releasing its grasp, Hades, I mean homework, is hell on both of us. Ryan gets frustrated by my inability to get it, I get frustrated by my inability to get him. This often leads to tears (from both of us), yelling (mostly me) and licking our first degree burns for a few hours as we try to recover. I wind up apologizing for losing my patience and make a promise to myself and to him that I will do better, that I will be better, then a Text Independent Anaysis of two very vague poems comes home and I find myself burning in the firey flames of Hades and guilt yet again.

It's bad enough that my brain no longer functions at 100% capacity (thank you college years), but, combine that with my ovaries also functioning at about 50% and my Homework Buddy skills have become even worse than they were five years ago, when communication was even harder for Ryan.  As I read the homework assignment for the third time trying to understand what the hell a Text Dependent Analysis even is, there sits my sweet boy equally as confused as me. Yes, he was in class the day the assignment was given, yes, he heard the teacher explain the directions multiple times and yes, he even told the teacher he understood the directions, yet, two hours after we began, his paper still didn't even have his name on it, he is still unable to tell me how or why he is so stuck and I still haven't been able to reach him. At all. It's easy to see why in those firey moments, we both feel like we are trapped in the Underworld.

Homework and Hades both start with the letter H. You don't want to end up there, but, when you do, you do whatever you can to get out. Fast. 

Here are 10 reasons why in our house, autism may be The A Word, but, homework and Hades are the mother %#*&ing H words:

1. Your kid knows he is different and refuses to tell the teacher he is stuck because "everyone is looking at me" so he sits in class for three days and tells the teacher he is "still thinking" when in reality he has no idea what he is suppose to do. The fear of looking "different" outweighs the desire to attend the end of year Honors Party.

2. When your child's thoughts are so rigid, so concrete and so practical then anything outside the realm of reality is too ridiculous to waste his "precious time" on. If in reality, a bear can't ride a bike, then "How would I know how the bear feels if someone stole his bike when a bear can't even pedal?". Touche.

3. If you help too much it's cheating. If you don't help enough, you don't care. It's a fine line that varies from day to day, subject to subject, mood to mood. Good luck walking it.

4. If you give a suggestion and it's stupid, well, you are stupid. If you give a suggestion that is great, well, you are still stupid because you didn't offer that suggestion 30 minutes ago thus wasting more "precious time".

5. If touching paper feels like needles in one's spine, then one will not want to create a collage mobile out of folded pieces of paper. If, however, you try to make the mobile, then that is cheating (see #4) and the mobile is flung at your head. Twice.

6. When history has proven a Hades like homework pattern and you ask your son if he needs help and he glares at you and says, "No because we are just going to end up in an argument because usually your ideas are ridiculous" (see #5 for further clarification), but, you go in, wearing fire proof clothing and offer to help anyway. As history has foretold, initially, your idea is in fact ridiculous until hour two when it becomes less ridiculous (see "precious time" in number #2) and he cements his theory by the assignment ending in an argument over your "mean tone of voice". Sigh.

7. When you go online to check grades and see that in every subject he has dropped a letter grade or two after you have been told he "wants to handle it on his own" and you know you need to let him, but, then lose your mind and scream that he is "Minecraft negligent" (yeah, I created that, feel free to use it in the depths of your own homework hell), open a bottle of wine and come up with your best, least ridiculous idea ever. 

8. With such a breakthrough, you know that from this time on, you will always have a glass of wine for any and every writing assignment in the future hoping your ideas aren't as ridiculous and your temper not as hot. (Wine is available in Hades. Of course it is.)

9. Out of complete frustration, you look at your child who has an autism diagnosis and part of what makes an autism diagnosis is a core deficit in communication, and say, in a not so nice voice, "You have to learn to communicate with your teachers" and realize as soon as the words come out of your mouth that another paper mobile should be thrown at your head. You quickly apologize and tell him you know communicating is difficult for him as the flames of Hades burn your heart.

10. Recognizing that no matter how burned I feel after the homework hour (or three), that no matter how hard I think it is on me, it is ten times harder on him. Which is precisley why, I keep offering to help time and time again, not matter how ridiculous my ideas may be or how bad my hair gets with the heat in Hades.

I do believe there is a way to rise from The Underworld. It may come just when the fire is as hot as it can be and you believe there is no escape from the heat.

For me, it happened when my son looked at me through tears and said, "My brain feels like it's on fire because it just doesn't work that way due to my disability" and then your own tears begin to fall helping to put out the fire in your own brain. It was in that moment, that the firey flames turned to embers. It was in that moment that I had to remind myself that no matter how hot the fire feels to me, I must never lose sight that it burns much hotter for my son.

My son looks to me to douse the flames in his brain with patience and understanding which is precisley why, when in Hades, Mommy sometimes takes a time out from the fire and the Text Dependent Analysis (I still have no idea what the hell that even is) and returns refreshed and calm and sometimes carrying a glass of wine.

He needs me to get the hell out of Hades (is that redundant?). So I do. That doesn't mean I won't occasionally feel the homework flames and start to slip back to the Underworld, but, the pull from my son above ground is stronger, so I grab a fire extinguisher and the wine and Google "text dependent analysis" and we get the job done. The homework binder is then closed....until tomorrow night, but, next time I will do better. I hope.   

There is always THE group. THE crowd. THE posse of friends that have such a tight circle surrounding them that very few "get in". We can all regress for a moment back to our teens and picture THEM standing in their circle. Maybe you desperately wanted in, but, refused to admit it. Maybe you tried unsuccessfully to penetrate the impenetrable fortress like walls of this desired circle, only to be rejected time and time again. Maybe you were one of the ones afraid to try, admiring the circle from a distance as you watched one person after another bounce off those tightly enclosed circular walls only to walk away dejected and embarrassed for even making an attempt. Or maybe you were the minority. The one who didn't want "in" the one who thought being "in" was so "out". Bravo to you.

​Regardless of which category you fell under, chances are, you knew which circles you belonged in and which ones you didn't. These so called social circles start as early as grade school and last well into adulthood. I'd imagine even in the nursing home there is a coveted circle that the elderly desperately want to get in. I think the hardest time to find your circle though, has to be the early teen years when you are trying to figure out exactly who you are, and if a circle is even the shape you are looking for, which one fits you best.

As a teenager, there are many circles, each one having their own size, their own walls and their own people occupying the circle. Some circles are easier to get into and some are not. There is the athlete's circle and unless you can catch, throw, run, jump, skate, or dance, chances are good they won't let you in. There is the geek circle that only allows kids with a certain GPA and a specific number of Honors courses on their transcript to break through these walls. There is the rich kids circle and entrance to this circle is based on the clothes you wear, the car that drops you off in car line and the neighborhood where you hang those clothes and park that car. There are endless circles each with specific entrance criteria. Sometimes the circle fill up quickly and chances are if you weren't in the circle before the circle closed, you may not ever get in.

​What if, as a parent, you had a child that you thought didn't even know the circles existed? A child whom you believed didn't see the circles at all, therefore, never really felt bad that virtually every circle was closed to him and he was left standing alone outside the circle. That because of an autism diagnosis, and his diminished social awareness, you hoped and prayed he wasn't aware that the people standing within the various circles didn't believe he quite fit into any one. What if the circle's inhabitants saw your child as a square whose different edges would not allow him to fit within the confines of any circles, but, because you believe he didn't see these differences, you thought it was no big deal?

​Then one day, you realize he has seen the circles...across the cafeteria, standing around the lockers, hanging out at the high school football game and he has wondered what it would be like to be in, but, recognizes he is out. He is older and wiser now and understands what he has been missing being alone on the outside of the circle. He recognizes that his differences make it hard to even know where to begin to try and break through any one of circles to find one that fits. Then everything you believed, everything you held onto crumbles and you begin to wonder if you were in fact blind to the circles, not him. You may even begin to wonder if you were blind to him and the circle he has spent years building around himself.

​When Ryan was little, I use to worry that he wanted friends, that he wanted in the circle, any circle. Then one day, he told me, he didn't have any friends and that it didn't make him "sad at all". So, I stopped putting my wants for him in check and started seeing the circle the way he did, a nondescripts shape that he had no desire to enter.

​I spent years trying to help Ryan make friends, then I spent years believing he didn't really "want" friends. Until two weeks ago when someone opened a circle and Ryan clearly wanted "in". He just needed to know how to step through the open circle and somehow make it feel like he fit. We practiced what to talk about, what to say, how trying to "fit in" might feel and all the things about him that made him worth being a part of any circle. It took an invite to a party and the conversations that followed to make me finally see the circle that mattered the most. The circle that Ryan created. A circle big enough for only one.

​Ryan spends every weekend alone. I'm not telling you that to garner sympathy for me as his mom or to make you feel sad for him, it's just a fact. It's hard to know if Ryan prefers to be alone or if being alone is just easier. I think it is a mix of both. Over the years, I have tried to intervene. Sometimes with success (short periods of time with a specific plan and a "safe" friend) and sometimes with less success ("When is he going to leave?").

​Ever since we first heard The A Word, I have lived with the fear that Ryan will spend his life alone, no circle ever opening for him and never letting anyone in the circle he created for himself. Ryan is protective of his circle because when he lets others in, it gets confusing for him. There are social nuances, slang, facial expressions and body language he doesn't quite pick up on and that makes him feel like the circle is closing in on him thus making his circle feel unsafe. However, in recent months, I have watched him take risks and step outside his circle. I see him looking in to other circles and wondering if there is one that will make room for him. I also see him considering making room for others in his circle.

​I understand now that Ryan has always seen the circles, but, until he was ready, the circles didn't hold much shape for him. From things we have discussed and changes in his behavior, I believe now more than ever, Ryan longs to break through a circle and find one that fits. The desire to be included is there. 

​It's easy to point the fingers at others and say, "they won't let him in", but, Ryan and I have discussed that maybe the first thing he needs to do to find a circle, is to let someone into his. To open his self-enclosed circle long enough to let someone in so they can see all that is amazing and unique inside his circle. It is only then, when he finally lets others in, that they may reciprocate.

​I know that Ryan is considering opening his circle. I believe he will open it, if and when, he is ready. And I know that as his mom, the one person he occasionally allows to enter his circle, that no matter how hard it is, I need to step away from his circle and let him decide who is worthy to enter. Not too far away though. Never, ever too far away.

If only I heard those words ten years ago. If only I believed those words ten years ago. If only I tattooed those words backwards on my forehead ten years ago so every time I looked in the mirror those words would not only have hidden my deepening frown line, they would have hidden the fear in my heart from the only person who saw it, me.

But I didn't, because I wanted "now". "Later" felt too late.

I heard those words loud and clear just a few days ago when Ryan got invited to a Super Bowl Party. His first invite by a classmate in almost ten years. To say Ryan was ecstatic is an enormous understatement. He had to fight back the tears when he shoved the invitation in my face! It doesn't matter that when I asked who the invitation was from that Ryan momentarily forget the lovely young girl's name (facial recognition is something Ryan struggles with), what mattered most was that this nice (momentarily nameless) girl handed an invitation to him. Yes, him.

On the Sunday night before the big party, Ryan jumped up on my bed and reminded me where he would be "seven nights from tonight". Then it was my turn to fight back the tears. My beautiful, 125 pound, 14 year old son looked at me, somewhat sheepishly, and asked if I would help him "practice" some things he could talk about with the party guests. I was flabbergasted. For YEARS we have tried to role play, "practice" and rehearse various conversations, what if scenarios and what to expect moments to which Ryan often refused. However, on this night he said, "I don't know what to expect at a Super Bowl Party and I want to be prepared".

After I recovered from the shock and AWE once again that this kid bestows upon me with increasing regularity, I told him there was nothing I would rather do. He then jumped off my bed bounced away and shouted, "not now, but, later". And there it was. Such a simple concept in four short words. Four words that could have saved me such worry and heartache had I only trusted those words for the past decade, had I only trusted him. Because AWEnestly, that is pretty much how this autism journey has been going.

"Not right now, but, later" could truly have been the mantra, the theme, the words to live by for my son. As I watched him happily bounce out of my bedroom a few short nights ago while humming the latest Minecraft music buzzing around in his head, I realized, he has been "saying" those very words for years. I just wasn't listening.

"Now it's time to learn to use the potty" I shouted, screamed, begged and bribed. "Not right now, but, later" was what Ryan was trying to tell me all those years ago when "now" was not the time for him. "Now" his brain was not quite ready to understand the signals his body was telling him which is why it took him longer to toilet train than most kids his age. "Later" worried me though because it felt way past "now", yet, when he was ready, "later" came, just like he knew it would.

"Now, I want you to learn to tie your shoes so you are ready for kindergarten", right after we read this book, practice with this pretend shoe in the book and after your big brother Kyle shows you how he does it. Ryan struggled, became frustrated and chucked the book past my head. "Not right now, but, later", because it didn't matter how cool the book was with the fake shoe on the front or how much he idolized his brother and all his cool abilities, Ryan's fine motor skills weren't on board with all the other kindergartners, so "now" was not the time for shoe tying (or shirt buttoning). "Later" came, later.

"Hey buddy, now I want to hear Ryan talk instead of (insert any character on TV he was scripting non-stop at the time here______). I like Ryan's voice soooo....much better", I cajoled. Ryan went about his latest script in his latest voice as if he hadn't heard my request time and time again. The thing is, that WAS Ryan's voice. He was communicating with me in the only way he knew how and if I would have heard "Not right now, but, later", it would have sounded remarkably like Dora the Explorer, but, I wasn't listening. "Now" I do hear Ryan's voice, along with the latest Minecraft YouTuber he is obsessed with, and no matter who I hear, no matter what is said, I listen.

"Wow! I can barely see your eyes because your hair is so long, we have to go for a haircut now", I whispered in his ear while he was almost asleep so I could live with myself knowing I told him, but, hoping and praying he didn't really hear me because I didn't have to listen to the cries, the worries and the fight to get him in the car until "now" actually meant now. The tears, the cries, the heartbreaking "no, no, no" with every piece of hair that floated to the ground was Ryan's way of telling me, "not right now, but, later". The snip, snip, snip of the scissors was loud in his ears. The pieces of hair falling on his neck felt like shards of glasses poking in his skin. The different comb, the chair that lifted up and spun around, the numerous conversations happening in the salon all were too much for his overloaded sensory system. "Not right now, but, later." And as always, "later" came, with Ryan flopping in the salon chair and barking, "just give me the usual" because now he is prepared, now he knows what to expect, now he is ready.

"Now that you are older, maybe you should wear clothes like a lot of the other middle schoolers", I tried (repeatedly) as Ryan walked out the door in silky track pants that I have such a hard time finding now that he wear men's size pants (apparently men do not wear satin pants to work out in these days). The same clothes day in and day out was Ryan's way of telling me, "Not right now, but, later" because those clothes made him feel comfortable and the predictability of how those clothes felt on his body was one thing he could count on not to change throughout his day. Then one day after a shopping trip from the mall, other words came that I was NOT expecting, beautiful words of self-awareness. "I wish my body wasn't such an 'arsehole' and I could wear different things. I really want to, but, my body won't let me. My brain is highly connected to my sensory system...more than it is for my friends". I was dumbfounded, but, able to recover enough to take in this beautiful moment and remind Ryan of all the things that came "later" for him, when his body was ready.

And just two weeks later, when he felt his body was ready, a request for khaki pants and a declaration that his "brain is stronger" now and ready to try them. "Later" came today as he walked into school wearing American Eagle khaki pants and a brand new Hollister shirt. "Not right now, but, later" on his terms, in his way, when HE was ready, not me. And that is exactly how it has been all along and exactly how it should always be.
​
"Not right now, but, later" has proven true time and time again. "Now" was what I needed, what I wanted, at a time I thought it should be happening. "Later" was what my boy needed, what he wanted and what he was telling me all along. Ryan may have never said those exact words to me until just a few days ago, but, he has been telling me for years. I just hate that it took years for me to hear him, to understand him and to respect his time frame. I hope that one day he forgives me and understand that "not right now, but, later" has rung true on this journey for me as well.

Better late(r) than never, right?