I admit it, I'm pretty superstitious. I don't walk under ladders, I turn and go the other way if a black cat is about to cross my path, if I spill salt, you better not be standing behind me because a pinch of that salt is getting chucked over my left shoulder (never the right) and if you are walking down the street next to me and I see a penny, I will knock you off the sidewalk to snatch that penny up so all day long I'll have good luck. Sorry about your luck. Maybe when I push you off the sidewalk and face plant you in the grass you will find a four leaf clover then your luck will change too.   

With my belief in all things supernatural, you can sure bet, I am not a fan of the unlucky number 13. I never pick the number 13 when I play the lottery. I think it's horribly unlucky to get out of bed when the clock flashes any number:13. In fact, I'm so superstitious about the number 13 that even childbirth can't get in the way of my crazy beliefs. 

Ryan's big brother Kyle was born on Thursday March 12th at 10:28 PM. Once I finished watching Friends and Seinfeld (my gosh, I love epidurals) and discovered how close I was to delivering my poor baby on Friday the 13th, I pushed Kyle out in less than 30 minutes so he wouldn't spend the rest of his life cursed. And even though 80% of the world's high rises do not have a 13th floor, if my bad luck found me in one of the 20% of high rises that had a 13th floor, I would sleep in a cab instead, as long as the cab number wasn't 1313. 

Clearly, I am not alone in my Triskaidekaphobia, the fear of poor unlucky number 13 (if docs give such fear a name, than by all means, that fear is the real deal), since many folks go to extreme measures to avoid 13 in any way they can. 

Many airports skip the 13th gate because AWEnestly, who wants to ride on an unlucky plane (I think the fact that those monstrosities can fly in the air in the first place is pretty darn lucky)? Many airline companies take the fear of 13 so seriously that they do not include a 13th aisle on their planes for fear those seats would always be empty. Apollo 13 is considered the only "unsuccessful lunar mission" since it did not land on the moon. Coincidence? I think not. 


Those incredibly superstitious Italians omit the number 13 from their lottery, and in the streets of Florence, the house between number 12 and 14 is designated 12 1/2. Many cities do not have a 13th Street or a 13th Avenue, and here is a little superstitious food for thought, if you have 13 letters in your name, it is said you will have "the devil's luck". Guess who had 13 letters in their names...Jack the Ripper....Charles Manson...Jeffrey Dahmer...and Theodore Bundy (I counted, they really do have 13 letters). Have I given you Triskaidekaphobia yet?

Rumor has it, the number 13 got a bad rap when Judas Iscariot was the 13th man to take his place at the table with Jesus during The Last Supper and well, we know how that turned out. There is also an old Norse legend that tells of 12 gods sitting down to a banquet when an uninvited 13th god shows up and kills one of the other invited gods. Clearly, whether you have Triskaidekaphobia or whether you are a Christian or a Norseman, it is not wise to invite a last minute, newly divorced, single neighbor to your dinner party of 12, no matter how charming they may seem. 

For as superstitious as I am, today, of all days, I do not fear the number 13. Today, 13 does not feel scary, threatening or supernatural. In fact, today, August 29, 2014, the number 13 feels very, very lucky.

You see, today, this squishy faced, looks like I gave birth to him under a pile of rubble, boy, turns 13 years old. And even though the word "teenager" is enough to make the least superstitious mom shudder just a wee bit, today the words "thirteen" and "teenager" do not have me crossing myself or wearing a large rabbit's foot as a pendant (a rabbit, by the way, does not feel lucky when you carry his foot around). Instead, those two sometimes scary words, have me feeling nothing, but, good fortune and joy in my heart today.

When I think back to that day so many years ago, when we heard The A Word, at the time I wondered, "How did we got so unlucky?". I had spent my entire superstitious life not walking under ladders, avoiding black cats, throwing spilled salt over my shoulder, and staying away from the number 13, how did one word change all my luck? Did I not pick up enough pennies? When I tried to cheat and paste a fourth leaf to a three leaf clover, did I reverse the good luck to bad luck with my deception?

I never once considered myself unlucky to have Ryan as my son, but, my friend Denial had me believe that autism was just a case of bad luck and there was nothing I could do about it since it was just the card Ryan was dealt. "Sorry about your luck", Denial said as she rubbed her rabbit's foot hoping my bad luck would not rub off on her.

It turns out, The A Word, like so many things, had nothing to do with luck or superstition. Autism did not seek my son out due to some spilled salt I inadvertently threw over my right shoulder instead of my left, or because in some drunken college day stupor, I failed to see a ladder and staggered right under it, autism has nothing to do with being lucky or unlucky. Just like that penny you find on the sidewalk, picking that penny up isn't what determines your luck, it's what you decide to do with that penny once you own it, that determines your luck.

Autism has made some things in life harder for Ryan and there are moments where I may think, "autism....of all the luck", but, most days, most moments, I feel like I have found a rare four leaf clover hidden among hundreds and hundreds of ordinary three leaf clovers. It took me a long, long, long time, to find that four leaf clover in the field of autism, and some days it's easier than others to see it, but, once I stopped feeling unlucky, once I saw that a four leaf clover, although different, stood out in a way that was not odd, but, beautiful, I recognized my good fortune. 

Instead of worrying about the funny faces Ryan makes and the silly scripting that he does, I find myself in AWE, and I smile and feel pride at how lucky Ryan is to have such a phenomenal memory. Instead of feeling my heart break every day Ryan chooses to be alone, I feel lucky that he is able to entertain himself and find peace in such solitude. When I worry about Ryan being different and not "fitting in", I realize how lucky he is to just be himself and to believe and feel that he is "amazing" with little concern about how others see him. When Ryan tells me that he doesn't really have "too many friends", I feel lucky that Ryan has one friend with whom he can script away and feel safe being exactly who he is, exactly who he was meant to be. When I get frustrated that autism makes some things more difficult for Ryan than for others, I feel lucky knowing that things could be so much harder for him.

For 13 years, I have had a healthy, beautiful, funny, intelligent son who brings joy and love to my life. Life is full of cracks in the sidewalk that you step on, ladders that you just can't avoid, and black cats that come out of nowhere, but, it's your perception that determines your luck. Some folks may believe that Apollo 13 was a "failed mission", but, to the astronauts who survived that mission and to their familes who were so grateful for their safe return, there was nothing about that mission that was unlucky. And although a handful of evil people who had 13 letters in their name, may have had "the devil's luck', and committed unspeakable acts, fortunately, there are millions of people whose names are comprised of 13 letters who have done nothing, but, good, for this world such as, Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi (I counted them all twice, for good luck, and yes, it's lucky 13).

So, even on your worst day when perhaps you are too busy texting on your phone and you fail to see that you and a black cat are about to walk under the same ladder, you can either pick that cat up and walk under that ladder together, and make your own luck, or you can run away and hide in the bushes, hoping that lucky rabbit's foot you are rubbing will bring you all the luck you need (the rabbit, says pick the cat up and run under the ladder). It's the choice you make that will determine your luck.

Am I still superstitious? Yes. Do I still suffer from triskaidekaphobia?Undoubtly yes, since I waited until 6:14 to get out of bed this morning, but, today, as I post my 100th blog on my son's 13th birthday, I feel nothing but good fortune. 

Since starting this blog I have had many comments, emails and phone calls from people telling me how lucky Ryan is to have me for his mommy. Funny thing is, I disagree. First and foremost, if we want to give this over to luck, than I am the one who is lucky, not Ryan. For some reason, I found the elusive four leaf clover and every day for 13 years, I have been able to marvel at my good luck. 

For someone as superstitious as me though, I don't believe my relationship with Ryan has anything to do with luck at all. I was not destined to be Ryan's mommy because of luck, or fate, or because I could "handle it". The bond that Ryan and I have formed has nothing to do with a rabbit's foot, spilled salt, or an averted black cat, it is quite simply the love between a mother and her child. And although I still will avoid walking under ladders or getting out of bed at 6:13, one thing is for sure, when it comes to the love between a mother and her son, there is no such thing as "unlucky in love".

Happy 13th birthday my beautiful boy, I sure am lucky to have you.

Next Monday school begins and no one is more excited about that upcoming date than Ryan. He longs for the feel of a freshly sharpened wooden pencil (#2 Ticonderoga only please) held securely in his hand, as well as the soothing, steady hum of the fluorescent lights (please Mr. and Mrs. Custodian replace any blinking, flashing bulbs as well as any super loud buzzing bulbs) and the smell of the freshly waxed classroom floors drifting through the hallways that within hours, will be replaced with the stench of hundreds of teenagers wearing fall back to school clothes on an 80 degree summer day. The routine of routine is just around the corner for my soon to be seventh grader and he will breath a big, sigh of relief having survived another "boring" summer.

Yes, as my beautiful boy happily enters the hallowed middle school doorway, movin' on up as a seventh grader, Ryan will not look back to sixth grade days gone by.....ever. I want to apologize in advance to all his former sixth grade teachers, the 6R Team, but, just like George and Louise (aka, Weezy) moved to that "deeeeluxe apartment in the skyy-hii-hiii" after they finally "got a piece of the pie", their old neighbors in Queens, Archie and Edith Bunker, became a distant memory. Ryan will remember you all fondly, but, now that he has moved on up to the East Side, chances are he won't ever look back down. Yes, in this scenario you are The Bunkers and sorry, but, chances are also good that you won't make a guest appearance in a later episode.

Try not to take it personally, you wonderful teachers who so willingly and eagerly helped my boy feel at home each and every day, this sort of love 'em and leave 'em pattern has been going on for quite some time. 

Sometimes I think this behavior is a result of autism's hold on Ryan's brain and he sees little benefit in a long term relationship with someone who has fulfilled their purpose. He needed you last year, you did your job so well last year, that he no longer needs you this year, so, sayonara, end of story. 

However, sometimes I think this love 'em and leave 'em attitude has nothing to do with autism and Ryan's brain, but, more to do with his heart. As I have watched my boy love and leave so many, I believe this attitude has more to do with protecting his sensitive, beautiful heart, than his atypical social and communication skills. Good byes are hard, pretending he never knew you is easier.

Ryan cries at the end of every school year, rejoicing in his success at getting closer and closer to finding his piece of the pie, but, sad that it is once again, time to move on up. Ryan truly loves the folks who helped serve him his piece of the pie, but, it's easier to just toss his pie plate aside waiting for the next bigger piece of pie than it is to get caught up in remembering all the ingredients it took to make that pie. It's not that Ryan doesn't realize the sugar, the butter, and the milk is what made his pie so sweet, it's just that eating the pie and tossing the plate aside is a lot less stressful on his overtaxed brain and a lot less painful on his ultra sensitive heart.

It has happened year after year, Ryan will pass his former teachers in the hallway and they may occasionally get a grunt or a halfhearted trying not to smile smile, but, chances are much higher that Ryan may completely ignore them. Some of Ryan's most beloved teachers have come to me at the beginning of the next school year, gripping their heart with a look of confused bewilderment in their eyes, and before the first syllable starts to from on their trembling lips, before the next beat of their abandoned heart, I know exactly what they are going to say, "Ryan just ignored me....again."  

As for you sooooooooo....last year teachers, still hanging out in the 6th grade hallway of Queens, sorry, but, you are no longer needed and you have quickly been replaced since my boy has moved on up. Ryan may occasionally allow his doorman to let you visit, but, chances are you won't get a key to his new place. 

I know it's hard not to take his love 'em and leave 'em attitude personally, especially for a student who has so few friends, who often stands alone in the hallway or on the playground, who for 180 days trusted you, relied on you, needed you, above anyone else, to allow you to fade away as quickly as summer break, is difficult to understand, but, inevitably, it still happens. Ryan doesn't really mean to leave you behind in Queens, it's just that Ryan struggles to find a place for the past, while he puts all his effort into movin' on up, because for kids like Ryan, it takes "a whole lot of tryin' just to get up that hill".

Trust me, this summer more than ever, I have felt the love'em and leave 'em attitude as my almost teenage son has decided he no longer needs me to tuck him in at night, snuggle him or kiss him when "WE ARE IN PUBLIC". Just last year, before he moved on up, as a 6th grader in the Queens Borough hallway, I bragged about Ryan walking hand in hand into school with me, giving me a big "I love you" hug at the bus stop and not giving a hoot about what his fellow neighbors in Queens thought about his public displays of affection with dear old mom.

This summer, I have felt more like The Bunkers, staying behind watching my boy movin' on up. Standing in the shadow of Ryan's new high rise on the East Side, as he moves on up without me...just as he should...just as I want him to....just as I feared he never would. And yet, as much as I hoped this day would come, I can't help, but, feel a little like Archie Bunker, pretending I don't care even though watching Ryan movin' on up as he repeatedly pulls away from my snuggles and kisses, feels like getting hit by the 7 train traveling from Queens to Manhattan.

I know that part of growing up means moving up...without me...yet I know that I will always be a part of Ryan's life. And on the days where I feel more like Florence the housekeeper than good old mom, I will keep in my heart the days gone by when a little hand warmed mine as we walked down the street ("IN PUBLIC"), I will touch my cheek right where his sweet little lips use to hurriedly brush across as he ran to the bus ("IN PUBLIC") and I will remember the AWE in his voice as we watched popsicle sunsets on our front porch back in the good old days in Queens, before Ryan moved on up. 

So, come Monday morning, I will happily watch Ryan run, bent over, wearing new, uncomfortable not yet broken in clothes, charging at the bus like a bull, holding my cold cheek where his kisses once left my cheek warm and smelling of toothpaste. No doubt, I will shed a tear...or two. Not for my own selfish needs of hugs and kisses, but, for this AWEsome boy who is becoming more and more independent....just as he should be....just as I want him to....just as I feared he never would. 

As for you glorious 6R teachers, still hanging out in the Queens Borough Hallway, remember that alone, you may have been the 2 tbs of butter, the cup of sugar, or the 1/2 cup of milk, but, combined together, you, along with every other teacher Ryan has been blessed to have, all helped my son get that elusive piece of the pie. 

So, if you catch a glimpse of my boy movin' on up, through the seventh grade hallways on the East Side, keep saying hello, keep trying to reach him because I promise you, you have made an everlasting mark, even if you are ignored, you have not been forgotten. And if you keep trying, I promise, one day, you may be given just a tiny little crumb of that pie you helped bake, in the form of a smile or a quick hello, which may not be as filling as it once was, but, I hope it will still be equally satisfying.

As for me, well, just like Archie Bunker watched his former neighbor George Jefferson move on up without him, I will grumble and complain about being left behind, but, inside I will be beaming with pride hoping that one day, my boy remembers who was always by his side helping put all the necessary ingredients together before he finally got a piece of the pie. And selfishly, like any mom who loves her son and never, ever wants him to move on up without her, I will constantly remind Ryan that "as long as we live, it's you and me baby, there ain't nothing wrong with that".

We just returned from four days at the beach. The beach....it's great to say the word "beach", type the word "beach" and think of the word "beach" and smile a real, genuine, feel it in your heart, smile. The word "beach" always makes me smile, however, for a few years, my smile went on a brief vacation to Siberia whenever The B Word was mentioned.

My smile didn't head north because I don't love the beach, oh no, I am, and always have been, a beach girl at heart...as long as it's not raining and the water is above 76 degrees and shark free. I have always loved the sand, the sun, and the waves, and believe me, I've got the wrinkles and sun damage from my carefree, SPF free days to prove it. However, once you have kids, days at the beach change. Carting kids and kids' beach essentials make the carefree beach days, not quite so carefree anymore. 

As young, carefree 20 something, I use to laugh at all the crap parents toted to the beach when I happily stepped onto the sand with a chair and a towel. Then I became one of them, sort of, in a way...not really. When you add a dab of autism to the sunscreen, swim diapers, shovels, pails, boogie boards, beach chairs and endless please keep them from whining, bribe them with anything regardless of the sugar content snacks, the once cool ocean breezes can feel as fiery as the gates of Hell.

When Ryan was little, The B Word, was almost as bad as The F Word. The sun, the sand, the wind, the sticky sunscreen and the shrill, ear piercing sound of the lifeguard's whistle was more than my sensory overloaded boy could take. You would think as a mother I would feel so badly watching my son meltdown as quickly as his overpriced Ice Cream Man popsicle, that I would have scooped him up and taken him back to the safety of his temperature regulated, sand free, ocean breeze free beach house, but, I didn't. Remember how I said I LOVED the beach? Well, come the fiery gates of hell or storm surge high water, this beach girl was determined to make my son love the beach too.

Year after year, as we endured tears and whining, bribes and threats, and after exhausting each and every possible distraction that would not make the sand feel so sandy, the sun feel so sunny, and the wind feel so windy, I would think, "Next year, he will learn to love the beach. Next year". 

Yes, each and every year, as the car was packed up and the beach gear was dragged up from the bowels of the basement, with the remnants of sand and dried tears (both Ryan's and mine) covering the shovels, the pails and the boogie boards, I would silently pray, "Let this year be the year my little man finally gets what all this "down the shore" fuss is about. Amen.".

For many years, my prayers went unanswered as I sat on my beach chair holding my sand covered boy in my lap as he burrowed his head into my chest and grinded sand into my second and third layer of skin in his attempt to protect himself from all things beachy. 

As I futilely attempted to remove each and every grain of sand from Ryan's stressed out body, I would see those "other mothers" and I can AWEnestly say, I kind of, sort of, really hated them. Those "other mothers" who sat in their beach chairs happily watching their children frolic in the surf and bury their siblings neck deep in the sand. 

Those "other mothers", whom I believed took for granted the perfect beach day. The mothers who stood along the shore, camcorder in hand proudly capturing such beautiful moments so that in their golden years they could reminisce these perfect child rearing memories in the years to come. As I stood by, tears streaking my sand covered face, silently and selfishly hoping a giant sand sinkhole would swallow those "other mothers" and their perfectly recorded memories up. Yep, I hated them.

Ryan oblivious to my tears, because he was literally blinded by his own sunscreen infused tears, would rub his eyes, which of course only made his wails of "burn, burn, burn" grow louder, didn't even know anyone else existed on the beach, let alone his feeling sorry for herself, trying to suck it up, mother. Ryan was too busy trying desperately to survive the onslaught of sensory stimuli, while I shot daggers at mothers I didn't even know and Ryan's big brother Kyle jumped in the waves....alone, hoping one day his little brother would join him. 

Little did I know, that my time, as a mom happily enjoying the beach with all her children, and Kyle's time (having a brother body surf the waves) was coming, we just had to be patient and wait. I hate waiting.

Being the beach lover that I am, as much as I wanted Ryan to frolic in the ocean like a dolphin and scurry across the sand like a crab, in terms of sea life, my son was more like an oyster than a dolphin or crab. 

Like an oyster, Ryan had a hard to penetrate shell that he used to protect himself from things unfamiliar trying to enter his safe, closed off haven. Over the years, Ryan has slowly allowed unfamiliar and foreign stimuli that are horribly irritating to him, inside his protective shell. And just like an oyster's natural reaction to a foreign substance entering it's shell, is to cover up the irritant to protect itself, Ryan too tried to protect himself by closing up to all things beachy. 

However, just like a pearl takes years and years to develop inside the shell of an oyster, over time, that once irritant that broke through Ryan's shell, has no longer become something to fear, but, something to behold. In an attempt to protect himself from outside stimuli, Ryan was creating something beautiful within the walls of his shell, something that I couldn't see from the outside. The beauty that lied within the shell needed time to grow and develop so that it could turn into something so exquisite and so rare, that was absolutely worth the wait. 

Finally this year, my oyster revealed the beautiful pearl that had been forming within. Yes, he whined about how long we were on the beach, and yes, the water wasn't his desired temperature, and yes there were too many "annoying people" around, but, this year, I sat on my beach chair like all the "other mothers" and smiled as I watched all my kids enjoying the beach. Unlike those "other mothers" though, I recognized the rareness of the moment and although we captured it with digital media, those moments are forever ingrained in my heart. Moments that were definitely worth the wait. 

Turns out, I wasn't the only mom harvesting oysters on this particular beach trip. Right down the beach was a group of mothers, who, chances are, at one time or another, hated all those happy smiling "other mothers" with their beach loving neurotypical kids like I did.  It just so happened that the same week we were at the beach, so was Surfers Healing http://www.surfershealing.org/, an organization that provides surfing opportunities for kids and adults living with autism. 

I watched as these kids who fight so hard to keep anything from seeping in between the cracks of their shell, open up just enough to experience something AWEsome. Many kids went into the waves closed up tightly and protecting themselves because they were afraid and unsure, but, they all came out shining beautifully to the applause and cheers of an entire beach. Yes, that day, I watched the shoreline shimmer with beautiful pearls who found pride and joy in the ocean waves while standing up on a surf board. While their parents looked on at the precious and rare gem that outshone any other.

Ryan may never love the beach like his mother, which will probably decrease the signs of aging and his risk for skin cancer, but, for this beach girl, there was just something different about this beach trip. There was a peacefulness about what is and not so much concern for what could be. Maybe when I finally stopped worrying so much about my little boy's protective shell, I could finally see the pearl that had been forming and growing inside all those years. I just had to sit back and wait. 

And just like a string of cultured pearls that takes a single grain of sand an entire decade to form, only time enables the exquisiteness of such beauty to shine forth and be appreciated in the precise color, shape and size it was destined to be.

Once upon a time, a very, very, very long time ago in what feels like a kingdom far, far, far away, a young 20 something year old princess lived in a castle, I mean, a single bedroom apartment, on her own. One night after returning home from a night of revelry, with other princesses, the princess approached her castle door to turn in for the night. Little did the princess know, that on that evening, her very own Prince Charming opted to replace his prince hat with a court jester hat. In Prince Charming's attempt to bring joy and laughter to the princess, he decided to hide in the bushes right at the doorway to the castle, I mean apartment, and scare his future queen.

Prince Charming jumped out of the bushes and nearly scared the princess to death. The princess found very little humor in such entertainment and she quickly went all ogre on his a**. The princess, who at the time was performing her less than royal duty as a juvenile probation officer, fortunately was not packing heat that evening, for if she had been, Prince Charming may have laid alongside Snow White in a glass bed deep in the forest.

Sorry, we've been watching a lot of Shrek this summer and AWEnestly, Ryan makes a much better Donkey than Eddie Murphy himself.

Yes, one summer a long, long time ago, Dan thought it would be funny to hide in the bushes, jump out at me and make my heart stop beating for a millisecond. Needless to say, this princess almost soiled her pants, which would have been very undignified behavior for a princess. As I approached my apartment, I certainly was not expected someone to be hiding in the bushes, no matter how many horror movies had prepared me for that exact scenario over the years. So, when the unexpected happened, I was not the least bit prepared for it and my bodily functions reacted as poorly as my future husband's role as court jester.

Whether it's your creepy fiance (I did not kill him and yes he still enjoys scaring me) hiding in the bushes, or your boss showing up at your office door to tell you that the deadline for that report you have been stalling on has been moved from next week until tomorrow, being ill-prepared for the unexpected can make you feel, well...ill. 

Your pulse may quicken. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest...in your ears...and in your brain. Your mouth immediately goes dry and you feel like you may hurl your breakfast all over your new shoes. Then suddenly, your brain no longer works. You are momentarily frozen and at a total loss for words. Then finally, your fight or flight goes into overdrive and you either wind up running or swinging. When your body is so incredibly freaked out, it makes preparing for the unexpected very difficult.

Yes, the unexpected, can do a number on a person. Whether the unexpected is something wonderful or something dreadful, your body may still react the exact same way. An unexpected surprise birthday party, an unexpected marriage proposal, or an unexpected fortune bequeathed by a long, lost relative (does that really ever happen?) are all wonderful events, but, your brain just may not see it that way initially. If your brain didn't see it coming, your body reacts accordingly to such an unexpected event.

For Ryan, and many kids with an ASD, the unexpected, be it good (a surprise visit from the Ice Cream Man) or bad (a thunderstorm knocks out the cable five minutes before the new Gumball episode is about to begin) is not expected, so their reaction may not be what you or the family sitting next to you at the restaurant where they just removed grilled cheese sandwiches from the menu, expected either.

This week, Ryan is attending a Vocal Camp at a local music center. I did a poor job preparing him for the unexpected. I showed Ryan the website online, but, we did not do a drive by for him to get a visual of the music center. Ryan has been looking forward to this camp all summer as he loves his new found "instrument", his voice, so, he eagerly got up early, got himself ready and out the door we went. Ryan happily scripted Shrek and Donkey on the way to camp and all seemed right with the world, until the unexpected happened.

As I parked on the street outside the music center, the scripting stopped and the worrying began. Ryan quickly surveyed the music center and in a not so happy, more ogre, less donkey like voice, he grumbled, "This can't be it. This is not what I expected." Turns out, in Ryan's mind, a music center for a vocal camp should be held in a school or a church, not in a turn of the century house...where there is an unexpected dog and an unexpected window air conditioning unit that blows his hair and freezes him to death.

You could physically see Ryan's body react. His latest sniffing tick became more rapid. His eyes darted around inspecting this unexpected location for perceived danger. I swear if that boy had his driver's license, we would have been back home where it was safe...where everything is as he expected. It took some persuading to get Ryan to accept the unexpected, but, he did and he is LOVING vocal camp....in a house, not in a church or a school with a dog who just lays around and does not jump on him unexpectedly.

Some days, when Ryan is not expecting the unexpected, opportunities are missed. One day last week, Ryan's friend called and invited Ryan over to his house to play video games. I wasn't sure what to expect, at this unexpected invitation, but, I had a pretty good idea. "Hey Ryan, your friend wants you to go hang out at his house." "Great, when?", Ryan asked. "He wants you to go over now." In an utterly dumbfounded and amazed voice Ryan bellowed, "What?! Right now? Oh no, no, no, no, I can't go now, I wasn't expecting that. I will go tomorrow, when I am expecting it." Unfortunately, Ryan's friend wasn't expecting a play date for the next day, and already had plans, so, the play date didn't happen. A missed social opportunity because Ryan wasn't expecting the unexpected.

The unexpected is difficult for Ryan because processing too many things at once is hard for him. When he knows what to expect, he is better able to prepare his body for the sensory overload, he is better able to anticipate social interactions, and he is better able to develop a script in his mind about forthcoming conversations. Ryan's brain just needs a little more time to process the unexpected. A little more time, helps Ryan better prepare for the change coming at him, a change that may seem ever so subtle to you and me, but, to Ryan feels like an unexpected person hiding in the bushes that immediately transforms him from a sensitive, kind, little boy into a grumpy, "get out of my swamp" kind of ogre. 

Just like all of us, the unexpected can be quite an assault on our system, so, don't we all function better when we are prepared? When the system is taxed even harder by autism, it makes perfect sense that Ryan would rather avoid that assault altogether by playing it safe, regardless of missed opportunities.

Ryan continues to work so hard to expect the unexpected in order to keep the ogre at bay, but, in his world that is filled with so many things hiding in the bushes, it is hard for him to throw down his pitchfork and let his guard down. As Ryan gets older and develops more scripts, more scenarios and more "what if's" in his constantly building repertoire, the unexpected will become expected and although the ogre may always hide deep in the recesses of his brain, Ryan will have the skills that will make him more "prince" and less "ogre".

I may not know how Ryan's fairy tale will end, but, one thing I can promise you is, that if a fair maiden ever catches Ryan's eye, chances are high that my little prince will never lie waiting in the bushes to scare the daylights out of her because Ryan will never see the humor in such unexpected entertainment. No, this unknown, 20 years in the future, fair maiden will never have to worry about expecting the unexpected with my little prince. Chances are, she will always know what is lying right around the bend and what, or who, will not be hiding in the bushes by the front door. 

Now, as for what this fair maiden can expect from her future mother and father-in-law, well, that's an entirely different, completely unexpected, yet relatively entertaining fairy tale. I just hope she doesn't pack heat.