Yes, AJ, There IS a Santa Claus....
Tonya Parker Morrison
December 23, 2005
And he comes bearing peanut M&M's, Kidsongs videos, soccer balls with splashy graphics and Madagascar fleece blankets. Well, okay, maybe he doesn't bring that loot to ALL of the tykes on his list, but that's what you'll get this year.
Making the last minute additions to my Christmas list and watching prime time tv this evening, I was engrossed with two things:
1) My obsession with making sure that both kids have EXACTLY the same amount of presents, although I know darn well they'll be too excited to ever count them.
2) Yet another autistic reference in the mainstream media, this time courtesy of Without a Trace on CBS.
So why would an otherwise sane, perfectly together woman (yeah, shut up) start crying on her Christmas jingle bell paper stationary set over a tv show? Because this particular tv show spent an hour detailing one version of my worst nightmare - AJ disappearing.
God knows that EVERY parent's nightmare involves something horrible happening to their children, including kidnapping, molestation...hell, even the idea of one of them being teased at school makes me stupid queasy.
But the idea of my autistic son ever landing in the wrong hands makes me violently ill with fear and determination.
I spend quite a lot of time explaining to my 11 year old daughter Alexa why she can't just walk around the block and expect to come home safely. Why it's not what SHE does, but what others want to do, that terrifies me. Why being naive and innocent is something she should cling to as if it's the last speck of sand on the earth's last shoreline.
Is it possible to raise Andy Griffith children in a world where the only Oz many are familiar with is the HBO prison series?
Ozzy is now Osbourne, no assocation whatsoever with Harriet, thank you very much. And the world of Oz has less to do with ruby red slippers and rainbows than girlfriends named Bubba getting extra pudding behind steel bars.
I am alert, even as I try to remain undaunted by the horror that surrounds us. I also try to self-teach. I watch crime shows when I can't sleep - not to see what has happened to others in some sort of voyeuristic daze, but so that I can know why what happened happened and how I can prevent it from happening to anyone I love...or even myself.
So, as petrified as I am that something will happen to my precious Lex, I know that she would fight and scream and make life miserable for anyone who was stupid enough to try anything with her. I have taught her well (I hope) and so has her school, sporadic Sunday school classes, after school specials and even her friends.
She's smart enough to stay out of such situations and smart enough to at least know what to do if she finds herself there anyway, even if she is temporarily stunned. She has an emergency cell phone, a "screamer" alarm and my numbers in her backpack purse.
We have our secret "password" should someone say I sent them. We even have drills occassionally that teach her things like how to undo the wires behind tail lights so that a cop will pull her kidnapper's car over or how to slow her breathing if she's in a confined space where oxygen is minimal. She thinks they're games and somehow, creativity on my part keeps them fun and exciting. Only I know the truth.
I watch survival shows like other women watch soap operas. Survivorman? Only a sexist could think that one up. Every great survivor I know has been a woman.
Severe? Paranoid? You bet your ass I am. Nothing has ever happened to her, nothing like the things that still haunt me from my youth. I learned it all the hard way and the only reason that could have happened is so that I would know, someday, how to pass that knowledge along without it having to become first-hand knowledge.
Late nights sneaking out of my bedroom, wandering the park with my friends didn't always end well. I'm alive and that says more for my luck and cleverness than my intelligence, to be honest. God forbid she ever is a victim of anything that is unwanted or unwarranted, but if she is, she will be prepared.
Then there's AJ.
AJ's form of autism is tagged as "severe communicative delay". He has a high IQ and no way to say what is on his mind. He can't even tell us when he's upset or in pain or grasp the concept of death. What the hell are we supposed to do if he ever goes missing?
I can no more explain to him why he can't walk away with a stranger than I can why black holes are fascinating. The truth is, if someone were to take him, he or she would have quite a fight on their hands, but mainly because AJ is LOUD when he's upset and change makes him very upset, not because AJ would know he was in danger. He would just know it's different and different is bad.
And it's not some far-fetched miniscule risk, either. Before he began on his meds (which I relented to only for his safety), he wrapped a blanket on both feet and kicked out a picture window in his room. He was 3. We found him two blocks away in a neighbor's kiddie pool, his body only protected by a diaper against the freezing 23 degree rain that pelted us that morning.
He has exited his room silently in the middle of the night, piled his sister's tearoom furniture one on top of another to reach the high latch on the front door. Before we even knew what had happened, the neighbor was bringing him home to us, a few videos under his tiny arm. Apparently, he was bored and went on a Disney movie run...into the neighbor's dark house while they were also sleeping.
He's climbed fences, broken padlocks, even scaled walls to escape his visible boundaries. Every time, we have managed to get him home safe and sound. I cry, freak out on the inside and pray that somehow, someday, I will figure out what autism is and cure it my damn self, before my son or the others with this puzzling disorder ends up hurt because of it.
That day is no closer now than it was when he was born almost 10 years ago. We know more about it, sure, but even as cases flood in from all over the world and studies increase funding, we are as clueless ultimately as we always were.
Being a good parent, a patient and loving parent, a safe and nurturing parent, won't keep my son from testing his boundaries and mine. It would be no easier if it were Lex, but I would feel like she would at least have more control over the situation and be able to be a witness to help catch any sick individual who would hurt her.
Would AJ?
I watched this little boy, an actor, freak out over being touched by his own brother on Without a Trace and thanked God in Heaven that my son loves to snuggle and cuddle. But would that make him more susceptible to a pedophile?
As I counted the similarities between my son and this fictional character, I honestly felt my gut wrench, wondering if the little boy would be found alive and well after having "wandered off" during his school outing or if he would be found dead and alone.
They find one shoe by a tree. That's not good. My son would have taken off his shoes a long time ago, sure, but this kid had OCD, very common in "high functioning" autistic people. Losing a shoe and leaving it behind, instead of stopping to put it back on, is not very characteristic of OCD.
I turn to AJ, sitting quietly in the room with me, perusing McDonald's playlands and soccer balls online (thank you google), and remind myself that the show is a work of fiction. I quickly wonder how many autistic children and adults go missing every day. Why do I never hear about them? Maybe there just aren't any. There must be.
AJ doesn't know what death is. He doesn't understand anything of finality. He lives in the right here and right now. Most of his conversation consists of niceties he's learned at school and home like "excuse me" or "lasagna please." Explaining that running into traffic could make him die or that some sleazy creep could steal him away from us is like explaining why he can't jump on his sister's bed. It's casual and emotionless. At least on his end.
I want him to understand, to be forewarned and to be prepared like I try to make his sister, but I always fall short. Frustrated, we both end the discussion in a hug - though he doesn't know why we're doing it - and go to our neutral corners.
He searches for a black sportscar online. Later, when he is in bed, I'll search for autism disappearance statistics. We have such different priorities. I don't have the luxury of beliving ignorance is bliss, but I wish - many times - that I did.
Making the last minute additions to my Christmas list and watching prime time tv this evening, I was engrossed with two things:
1) My obsession with making sure that both kids have EXACTLY the same amount of presents, although I know darn well they'll be too excited to ever count them.
2) Yet another autistic reference in the mainstream media, this time courtesy of Without a Trace on CBS.
So why would an otherwise sane, perfectly together woman (yeah, shut up) start crying on her Christmas jingle bell paper stationary set over a tv show? Because this particular tv show spent an hour detailing one version of my worst nightmare - AJ disappearing.
God knows that EVERY parent's nightmare involves something horrible happening to their children, including kidnapping, molestation...hell, even the idea of one of them being teased at school makes me stupid queasy.
But the idea of my autistic son ever landing in the wrong hands makes me violently ill with fear and determination.
I spend quite a lot of time explaining to my 11 year old daughter Alexa why she can't just walk around the block and expect to come home safely. Why it's not what SHE does, but what others want to do, that terrifies me. Why being naive and innocent is something she should cling to as if it's the last speck of sand on the earth's last shoreline.
Is it possible to raise Andy Griffith children in a world where the only Oz many are familiar with is the HBO prison series?
Ozzy is now Osbourne, no assocation whatsoever with Harriet, thank you very much. And the world of Oz has less to do with ruby red slippers and rainbows than girlfriends named Bubba getting extra pudding behind steel bars.
I am alert, even as I try to remain undaunted by the horror that surrounds us. I also try to self-teach. I watch crime shows when I can't sleep - not to see what has happened to others in some sort of voyeuristic daze, but so that I can know why what happened happened and how I can prevent it from happening to anyone I love...or even myself.
So, as petrified as I am that something will happen to my precious Lex, I know that she would fight and scream and make life miserable for anyone who was stupid enough to try anything with her. I have taught her well (I hope) and so has her school, sporadic Sunday school classes, after school specials and even her friends.
She's smart enough to stay out of such situations and smart enough to at least know what to do if she finds herself there anyway, even if she is temporarily stunned. She has an emergency cell phone, a "screamer" alarm and my numbers in her backpack purse.
We have our secret "password" should someone say I sent them. We even have drills occassionally that teach her things like how to undo the wires behind tail lights so that a cop will pull her kidnapper's car over or how to slow her breathing if she's in a confined space where oxygen is minimal. She thinks they're games and somehow, creativity on my part keeps them fun and exciting. Only I know the truth.
I watch survival shows like other women watch soap operas. Survivorman? Only a sexist could think that one up. Every great survivor I know has been a woman.
Severe? Paranoid? You bet your ass I am. Nothing has ever happened to her, nothing like the things that still haunt me from my youth. I learned it all the hard way and the only reason that could have happened is so that I would know, someday, how to pass that knowledge along without it having to become first-hand knowledge.
Late nights sneaking out of my bedroom, wandering the park with my friends didn't always end well. I'm alive and that says more for my luck and cleverness than my intelligence, to be honest. God forbid she ever is a victim of anything that is unwanted or unwarranted, but if she is, she will be prepared.
Then there's AJ.
AJ's form of autism is tagged as "severe communicative delay". He has a high IQ and no way to say what is on his mind. He can't even tell us when he's upset or in pain or grasp the concept of death. What the hell are we supposed to do if he ever goes missing?
I can no more explain to him why he can't walk away with a stranger than I can why black holes are fascinating. The truth is, if someone were to take him, he or she would have quite a fight on their hands, but mainly because AJ is LOUD when he's upset and change makes him very upset, not because AJ would know he was in danger. He would just know it's different and different is bad.
And it's not some far-fetched miniscule risk, either. Before he began on his meds (which I relented to only for his safety), he wrapped a blanket on both feet and kicked out a picture window in his room. He was 3. We found him two blocks away in a neighbor's kiddie pool, his body only protected by a diaper against the freezing 23 degree rain that pelted us that morning.
He has exited his room silently in the middle of the night, piled his sister's tearoom furniture one on top of another to reach the high latch on the front door. Before we even knew what had happened, the neighbor was bringing him home to us, a few videos under his tiny arm. Apparently, he was bored and went on a Disney movie run...into the neighbor's dark house while they were also sleeping.
He's climbed fences, broken padlocks, even scaled walls to escape his visible boundaries. Every time, we have managed to get him home safe and sound. I cry, freak out on the inside and pray that somehow, someday, I will figure out what autism is and cure it my damn self, before my son or the others with this puzzling disorder ends up hurt because of it.
That day is no closer now than it was when he was born almost 10 years ago. We know more about it, sure, but even as cases flood in from all over the world and studies increase funding, we are as clueless ultimately as we always were.
Being a good parent, a patient and loving parent, a safe and nurturing parent, won't keep my son from testing his boundaries and mine. It would be no easier if it were Lex, but I would feel like she would at least have more control over the situation and be able to be a witness to help catch any sick individual who would hurt her.
Would AJ?
I watched this little boy, an actor, freak out over being touched by his own brother on Without a Trace and thanked God in Heaven that my son loves to snuggle and cuddle. But would that make him more susceptible to a pedophile?
As I counted the similarities between my son and this fictional character, I honestly felt my gut wrench, wondering if the little boy would be found alive and well after having "wandered off" during his school outing or if he would be found dead and alone.
They find one shoe by a tree. That's not good. My son would have taken off his shoes a long time ago, sure, but this kid had OCD, very common in "high functioning" autistic people. Losing a shoe and leaving it behind, instead of stopping to put it back on, is not very characteristic of OCD.
I turn to AJ, sitting quietly in the room with me, perusing McDonald's playlands and soccer balls online (thank you google), and remind myself that the show is a work of fiction. I quickly wonder how many autistic children and adults go missing every day. Why do I never hear about them? Maybe there just aren't any. There must be.
AJ doesn't know what death is. He doesn't understand anything of finality. He lives in the right here and right now. Most of his conversation consists of niceties he's learned at school and home like "excuse me" or "lasagna please." Explaining that running into traffic could make him die or that some sleazy creep could steal him away from us is like explaining why he can't jump on his sister's bed. It's casual and emotionless. At least on his end.
I want him to understand, to be forewarned and to be prepared like I try to make his sister, but I always fall short. Frustrated, we both end the discussion in a hug - though he doesn't know why we're doing it - and go to our neutral corners.
He searches for a black sportscar online. Later, when he is in bed, I'll search for autism disappearance statistics. We have such different priorities. I don't have the luxury of beliving ignorance is bliss, but I wish - many times - that I did.