Last night I was nauseous. You know, the light-headed dizzy, break out in a cold sweat nauseous. It wasn't a result of undercooked chicken (that NEVER happens in my house...only dried out, definitely killed all the salmonella chicken served here) or the stomach virus that is running rampant. Nope, it wasn't food poisoning or anything contagious, just an hour or so of middle school orientation for my Ryan. What?! How did we get here so fast? Wasn't is just yesterday that I offered the devil my soul if Ryan and I both survived kindergarten (he did survive and since the devil and I didn't shake on it I got my soul back...I hope)? Nope, that stupid thing we call "time" had transported my boy and I from kindergarten to middle school orientation in the blink of an eye. As I was trying to keep my quesadillas in my stomach, there across the crowded auditorium I spotted my old BFF Denial hanging with the "in crowd" and suddenly I felt like time had transported me back to middle school. As I listened to the principal cheerily shout out words that made me tremble like "change", "organization" and (gulp) "independence" that all comes with being a middle schooler, I deperately wanted to plug my ears and run across the auditorium and sit with good old, reliable Denial again. Fortunately, I had one of my Bronze Star Medal wearing girlfriends sitting right next to me who would squeeze my arm every time I tried to stand up and join Denial and her cool friends.
Yes, middle school is the pinnacle of trying to be the round peg sliding nicely and unnoticed into the round hole. My boy is super smart, super AWEnest, super lovable and super square. And I can tell you that regardless of how big the hammer is, my uniquely beautiful square peg will never fit in the super popular round hole. I should know because as much as it hurts to admit it, I have swung the hammer numerous times and I have the scars on my calloused hands to prove it. When your child is "different" than most kids their age, it doesn't matter if they have a diagnosis or not, as a mom you worry, obsess, and go slightly mad wondering how this "difference" will effect him, how other kids will perceive his "difference" and if you are AWEnest, how his "difference" will effect you. Yes, regardless of how much more informed I am and how much I have grown and come to accept that autism is a small part of who my son is, I still want him to "fit in". Back in the day when my BFF Denial was not sitting across the auditorium with me, but was in fact sitting right next to me, I tried to "help" my square peg fit in the round hole of childhood. Oh, how I wish I had the super power of hindsight.
Almost every mother who lives within a 40 mile radius of our home registers their child for soccer as soon as their child is standing on his own two feet or at the very latest, upon entering kindergarten. Soccer, seemingly, has become a rite of passage in childhood. Well, I certainly didn't want Ryan to miss out on this rite as it may impact every avenue of adulthood. I didn't want Ryan to be "different" than all the other kindergartners. After all, Ryan watched his big brother play soccer and "he" (certainly not me) thought he might like it too. Well, this was one rite of passage we should have skipped.
I have two words for you. Shin guards. When you have a child who is resistant to change and has heightened sensory awareness and despises anything tight, strapping a pair of clunky, plastic shin guards on him was as horrifying to him as swabbing him with syrup and throwing some red ants his way. Then toss in the awkward, stiff cleats, high tight socks and never wore anything remotely close to it uniform top and voila, you get one whiny, fussing, miserable, could care less about soccer, soccer player! Ta-da! What the he** was I thinking?! Well, for one thing, Denial and her soccer star son were so cool and they both really seemed to love soccer, so surely Ryan would get use to the uniform and love it too, right? Fat chance.
I have two words for you. Shin guards. When you have a child who is resistant to change and has heightened sensory awareness and despises anything tight, strapping a pair of clunky, plastic shin guards on him was as horrifying to him as swabbing him with syrup and throwing some red ants his way. Then toss in the awkward, stiff cleats, high tight socks and never wore anything remotely close to it uniform top and voila, you get one whiny, fussing, miserable, could care less about soccer, soccer player! Ta-da! What the he** was I thinking?! Well, for one thing, Denial and her soccer star son were so cool and they both really seemed to love soccer, so surely Ryan would get use to the uniform and love it too, right? Fat chance.
Once Ryan endured the battle of suiting up in his soccer issued uniform, then he was told to go run on a field with 10-14 other pushy, shovy, yelling kids all fighting for one soccer ball while a ref blew an ear splitting whistle. AWEnestly, I should have been arrested. Poor Ryan had no idea what was going on. He'd walk off the field when he was suppose to be playing, he'd run the wrong way and smile while thinking of Mario while he did it and he would cover his ears when the ref blew the whistle. The other soccer star moms sitting with my friends Denial and Clueless would make rude remarks or roll their eyes when Ryan's performance wasn't as stellar as their olympic hopeful children. I hated every single one of them. I still see the biggest eye roller occasionally in the grocery store and I tell you it takes all my strength not to ram her with my cart. Then roll my eyes, of course. The soccer moms were certainly worthy of a good old fashion grocery cart ram, but it was the coach's reaction to a harmless mistake that will forever be emblazoned in my hammer banging, stupid mind and my terribly careless heart.
It often took bribery of the coveted halftime snack to get Ryan on the soccer field. I understand that there are plenty of neurotypical kids who are equally more interested in the snack then the game. One big difference for kids on the autism spectrum is that many of them have difficulty with sequencing and organization and if you have ever watched a soccer game, you know there is a lot of both. It was difficult for Ryan to remember what to do next. He didn't know if he was suppose to be on the field or on the sidelines, if he was suppose to defend the ball or steal it, if he was suppose to kick the ball in this goal or that goal and more importantly, if he didn't really care about soccer then why the heck was he there in the first place. For years, my little rule following literal boy was told not to shove, push or take other kids' toys. Now his lunatic parents were screaming, "Get him Ryan!" or "Take the ball RyRy!" and "Kick the ball directly at the rude, obnoxious soccer star mom's face!". Oh, wait, I'm sure I didn't scream that last one.
Following one very good first half of me screaming and Ryan trying his best, he scuttled off the field gloriously happy for his snack. You could see in his face he was pleased with his triumphant performance. No, he did not score a goal, but he stayed on the field AND ran in the right direction! After the halftime snack, Ryan happily trotted back on the field only to be told by the coach in a really frustrated, not so nice voice, "No RYAN, not YOU....go sit down!!". The happy face on my "trying so hard to be a soccer player" boy quickly went from joyful to crestfallen. I swear to you I will NEVER, EVER forget that confused, embarassed beautiful face as he stumbled off the field. I know the coach had no idea the damage he had done, any more than I did when I registered him for soccer, and it certainly was not intentional, but that still didn't keep me from wanting to sidekick a soccer ball at the coach's face. Poor Ryan, he finally got it right, only to be told he had it wrong. The final soccer straw came on a cold, bright, sunny, windy day. When the wind got too windy, the sun too sunny and the whistle too loud, my boy curled up in the fetal position on that soccer field with the game going on around him. I put down my hammer, folded up my soccer chair, picked my son up, wiped away our tears, and we never looked back. Game over. Well, until baseball rolled around in the spring.
Following one very good first half of me screaming and Ryan trying his best, he scuttled off the field gloriously happy for his snack. You could see in his face he was pleased with his triumphant performance. No, he did not score a goal, but he stayed on the field AND ran in the right direction! After the halftime snack, Ryan happily trotted back on the field only to be told by the coach in a really frustrated, not so nice voice, "No RYAN, not YOU....go sit down!!". The happy face on my "trying so hard to be a soccer player" boy quickly went from joyful to crestfallen. I swear to you I will NEVER, EVER forget that confused, embarassed beautiful face as he stumbled off the field. I know the coach had no idea the damage he had done, any more than I did when I registered him for soccer, and it certainly was not intentional, but that still didn't keep me from wanting to sidekick a soccer ball at the coach's face. Poor Ryan, he finally got it right, only to be told he had it wrong. The final soccer straw came on a cold, bright, sunny, windy day. When the wind got too windy, the sun too sunny and the whistle too loud, my boy curled up in the fetal position on that soccer field with the game going on around him. I put down my hammer, folded up my soccer chair, picked my son up, wiped away our tears, and we never looked back. Game over. Well, until baseball rolled around in the spring.
Somewhere between October and January I had forgotten about the hideous soccer season and picked up my hammer again and registered Ryan for baseball, only this time it really was his idea. Or at least that's how I remember it. Ryan loved going outside and playing baseball with Kyle so surely he would love organized Little League, right? Well, my super sensitive son loved the batting helmets almost as much as he loved the soccer shin guards and since baseball came in the springtime, guess what came with it? You got it, bugs. Ryan spent more time running from bugs than running bases. Many kids on the autism spectrum have low muscle tone and Ryan was no exception. His core is very weak so Ryan runs head first like a bull charging a matador. With Ryan's dislike of the helmet on his large melon, and with his awkward gate, he looked like a turtle running head first down the baseline. I remember the pediatrician chuckling when I, oh so proudly announced Ryan was playing baseball. With a bit of a snort and a smirk he said, "Whose idea was that yours or his?" Why it was Ryan's of course! Wasn't it? As I quietly slipped my hammer in my purse.
It has taken me years to hang that hammer up, but occasionally, like at middle school orientation, I am dying to take it down again. Most days I realize that my peg is more beautiful square than he would ever be round. He doesn't care if he runs the same way as the round peg next to him in gym class or if he is wearing the "right" clothes like all the round pegs in the cafeteria. Ryan doesn't need to be a soccer star, or make the varsity baseball team. He is a gifted musician with perfect pitch, he is a video game connoisseur and a mathematical whiz kid. Will all those gifts make my square peg "fit in" the round hole with all the popular round pegs? Probably not, however, as I creep on Facebook and see so many of the popular round pegs of high school, it is quite apparent that first of all, they now literally are "round" and that all too often those perfectly popular round pegs peaked in their coveted round hole in high school and remain stuck there today. However, some of the square pegs of high school kicked the round holes aside and made a square hole that fit them perfectly. Some work for NASA, some are erecting skyscrapers and some are holding the title of "First Chair Violinist" in various symphony orchestras. I am so grateful I stepped away from the hammer and that my son taught me to embrace his square shape. Ryan is happy with all his pointy corners and has no desire to ever be round and because of this, I believe the future is very bright for him.
It eases the pain in my heart when I read a book written by a teenager or an adult with an autism spectrum diagnosis who say they know their mom did the best job she could at trying to understand a child who was so different from herself. As a mother, you only want your child to be happy and it's difficult to accept that what makes "most" kids happy does not neccesarily make your child happy. Imagine if Beethoven's mom told him to stop perseverating on that "same song" and play something "different" or had Einstein's mother told him to put his pencil down and go play stickball like "all the other kids". We need our square pegs like Beethoven, Einstein and Ryan to make our world brighter, bigger and more stimulating. If all we had were round pegs sliding so easily into round holes, the world would be so very simple and tedious and all those round pegs would be indistinguishable. I have tried to retire my hammer (except for those moments when judgemental mothers cross my path) and I pray that while I was still running in the same circle with Denial that I didn't do much damage to my perfect square peg and that one day he will forgive me for lifting my hammer even once to try and change his beautiful shape.
It eases the pain in my heart when I read a book written by a teenager or an adult with an autism spectrum diagnosis who say they know their mom did the best job she could at trying to understand a child who was so different from herself. As a mother, you only want your child to be happy and it's difficult to accept that what makes "most" kids happy does not neccesarily make your child happy. Imagine if Beethoven's mom told him to stop perseverating on that "same song" and play something "different" or had Einstein's mother told him to put his pencil down and go play stickball like "all the other kids". We need our square pegs like Beethoven, Einstein and Ryan to make our world brighter, bigger and more stimulating. If all we had were round pegs sliding so easily into round holes, the world would be so very simple and tedious and all those round pegs would be indistinguishable. I have tried to retire my hammer (except for those moments when judgemental mothers cross my path) and I pray that while I was still running in the same circle with Denial that I didn't do much damage to my perfect square peg and that one day he will forgive me for lifting my hammer even once to try and change his beautiful shape.
Guess which loom is Ryan's? I laughed so hard...I love it! My white loom goes with any decor.
"Autists are the ultimate square pegs and the problem with pounding a square peg into a round hole is not that the hammering is hard work.. It's that you are destroying the peg."
-Paul Collins
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