Close to Special

The baby is ten.

She is also funny, bright, bouncy, active, a great artist, driven, and a sister.

 And a special sister. 

That last one is pretty defining, and it just dawned on me. Why? Because I've always said to myself that it's hard to imagine George being George, without Mae.

Just days before turning the big 1-0, she was mentioned in my conversation with an Autism Specialist. I was talking about George, and how much he followed his little sister's example when they were both younger. At times, George looked to her as a model for how to act, or feel, or act like you feel. He is who he is because of her. That's always been obvious. She, however, slipped right past my noticing. She's a special sibling, and as she grows up, it shows.

Last week, we celebrated her birthday, and the end of anyone in this house being of a single-digit age. An appropriate number of helium balloons awaited the birthday girl's arrival home from school.

 She was elated and generous, sharing the red balloon with George. 

Red is George's favorite color. Like, favorite, in all ways, for all things. RED BALLOON.
Overjoyed that his sister's birthday meant good things were coming his way too, he decided to take his balloon for a romp around outside. That's when the bewitching beauty of his other fav, Lint the Cat, caused him to look away and forget about hanging onto the balloon firmly. He looked up, just in time to realize it was lost forever. That merry shrinking red dot, bobbing away in blue sky, just
getting loster,
                              and loster,
                                                      and loster.

I'll be honest. There was wailing- that morphed into a roar of agony, thanks to the chuckling of a mean big brother. After all, a thirteen year old isn't supposed to react that way to losing a balloon, is he? ha. ha.

George found consolation inside, if not what he really wanted, which was for me to say that I would immediately drive to the store and buy him a replacement balloon. Regretfully, I was not able to offer him that remedy, but did acknowledge how hard his loss felt, offering empathy, hugs, and a listening ear.

He said he didn't need those things. He shouldn't be feeling this way. He shouldn't be acting this way. He should stop thinking about it. Thinking about that moment, when. STOP! When the string left his hand and..STOP! Just stop thinking about it. Just STOP feeling bad about it.

His breath was quick as he worried more and more, would he ever be able let it go? The fact that he literally had LET IT GO? He started to panic about feeling intense grief forever, so he told himself, sternly, repeatedly, not even to start.

Before I could abandon wiping a counter and come drop some state college psychology on him, Mae stepped in. She got closer to George, who was sitting at the table, dabbing tears away from his eyes and trying not to feel like he acted, or act like he felt. She put a hand on his shoulder and came down low so their eyes were even. She said to him, very softly, "Listen, George, you are really close to me. When you feel bad, I feel bad. Those are the kinds of feelings you should share. So, if you feel bad, you have to be able to talk to me about it so I can help both of us feel better."

I closed my mouth and tried to look busy. George sighed, and moved on to a therapeutic writing project: a postcard to balloon who got away. Mae came to me and whispered loudly in my ear, "HE KNOWS HE HAS AUTISM, RIGHT?"

Well, shoot, now he does! (Just kidding, he already did.)

But what I didn't know, until that moment, was that Mae has a special condition too. And it's wonderful.

She is about as close as someone can get to someone else who has special needs. She has grown up with an outlier in her definition of normal. Uniqueness became standard; boring and aggravating sometimes, lovable and extra-cool other times -but never ever unique to her. She takes for granted, things which others struggle to understand. Her sense of justice is instinctive, identifying so deeply with the interests of another individual who may be vulnerable or at a disadvantage. She knows how to honor emotions, and forge a way, wide enough for two, through them.

 Look, we're all Modern Independent Ladies here, but the fact is, I can't imagine Mae being Mae, without George. 

She might be as bright, even if she weren't someone else's nearest example of how other kids act; but her buoyancy would never be this strong, if she'd never had to share it with someone else.

No, Thanks: A Special Story

It all started with a case of the hiccups.

George was riding the school bus home, as usual, but got off at an early stop, as unusual.

His reason? Hiccups. He had them and knew there was a public water fountain at an earlier stop, so he got off his bus to get a drink, planning to walk home from there instead, as it was so close to where he usually disembarks.

Except, when he exited the bus, and entered the public facility with the public water fountain, he was spotted by some caring friends who worried, seeing him get off his bus too early. They asked him whether his parents knew he was there. They called me in a meeting. They even went to his dad's place of work, interrupting an Algebra class to let him know his son was deviating from his after school routine. They insisted George stay with them at the public facility until his older brother arrived to pick him up.

Why did those friends go to such lengths to look out for a kid who is well over the age to walk home unattended, and who was literally only about 200 feet away from the usual place a school bus drops him off every day?

Well, for one, because they are the best kind of people to have in your community. It's pretty normal for them to care about friends' kids and be willing to go to great lengths to ensure their health and safety. Enjoying the privilege of raising my family in such a community is the kind of thing that puts a lump in my throat if I think about it for too long.

But there's another, more throat lump-inducing, reason. George is "on the autism spectrum," and they know it. His delightfully dry humor is delivered in a rather monotone voice. Math, logic, and memory are naturally easy to him, and unpredictability is a sort of hell.

So are intense social scenes, like buses and bus stop sites. There was a time when school bus routes and rides were especially stressful and confusing for George.  My friends who intervened that day are only part of a group who have all done anything and everything to help him over the last couple of years. For this, to each one of them, I am eternally grateful; even if in this case, it wasn't necessary.

         "George, why didn't you tell them that it's okay for you to walk home from there? That you're old enough and know the way..."

Yeah, as I asked the question, I thought I already knew the answer. Because, I reasoned briefly, in our complex world of grown up social cue-fusion, he resorted to silent and wide-eyed staring, like the little chubby-cheeked four year old who lost his voice every time he went to preschool, causing his first battery of assessments and meetings with specialists. Or more worrisome, he was emotionally unchecked, as he has always gotten when overwhelmed. But for only a second could I imagine those less mature versions of my special son. He quickly cut through my misconceptions with a pained sigh, and

       "Because it's hard for me to say 'No' to niceness."

Indeed.

Turns out, in all of that "looking out for George," George is also looking out for us, and taking me to school at the same time. Faced with difficult differences in perceptions and processing,  he couldn't bring himself to break it to his helpful village. He's got this. They did their job, helped him grow up, and now he can handle it.

"No, thanks." might be hard to say because it's awkward, or because a nice person being nice is too special to stop. Or maybe those are two ways of describing the same thing. I guess those of us who worry about George have to learn that this growing up thing is happening, and perhaps it will cause us to be absolutely clueless at times.

Lucky for us, he's going about it gently.