I couldn’t wait for Gravity Pulls You In to come out, and not just because I know several of the contributors (although that was part of the reason, of course). It’s because the very idea of this book - a collection of essays and poems written by different parents of very different children on the autism spectrum - is unique and remarkable.

Kyra and Vicki have done an amazing job of editing and sequencing the contributions; the essays and poems flow into one another with the grace and beauty with which they were written. Each piece is an integral part of one of three sections: “Notes from Autism’s Edges,” insightful writings about the experiences of and observations on being the parent of a child with an ASD; “String Theory,” emotional offerings on the connections we have with our children; “And the Shoes Will Take Us There,” inspiring pieces about where we have gone with our children, and how we got there.

They are all beautiful, all universal. I found myself alternately laughing and crying my way through the book, all the while nodding my head. This is quite a journey we share. Our experiences may well be different, but we can identify with all of them. We empathize, we understand. And several times I felt like I was reading about my son, as if I had written it. As if this fellow parent had looked into my memories and said, “Yes, I’ve been there too. You are not alone.”

Gravity Pulls You In is a wonderfully touching anthology that I highly recommend to anyone whose life is affected by autism, whether a parent, relative, friend, neighbor, teacher, or therapist. This book is the parents’ perspective - what we think and believe, how we feel, what we do, and why. I’ve read many autism-related books over the years since my son’s diagnosis. Almost all of them I enjoyed, but only a few found a permanent home on my bookshelves. The rest have been given away to others who might also enjoy them or learn from them. But not Gravity Pulls You In. It’s staying right here. It’s that beautiful.

Ever since the movie Adam came out on DVD, I’ve debated watching it. I was curious but skeptical. I wondered how realistic it could be, or how stereotypical, how formulaic, or how Hollywoodized. I feared that it might be contrived, either an Apergerized, Rainman-esque “autistic-people-are-savants” portrayal, or a glossy “people-with-Asperger’s-are-quirky-but-they’re-just-like-everyone-else” feel-good portrayal. And, having watched it last night, I must say that there were a few implausible things I noted, but I could have been wrong about them. After all, Nigel does not have Asperger’s. Some areas of his development have differed from the characteristics of AS. But these days, there are plenty of similarities.

In any case, this is not a review of Adam. This is a post about what happened when I decided to watch it. With Nigel. Yes, I took a leap. I’ve been taking a lot of them lately, trusting that I’m doing the right thing. When I rented it, it was with the intention of watching it alone, but given Nigel’s interest in relationships, I thought it might be good for him to see the film, and then we could discuss it and how it relates to him.

And discuss it we did. My son said so many profound things that I was constantly choking on my emotional reactions, trying not to let him see how his words affected me. With the movie, he took it all in. At times, such as when the two main characters were in bed together, he would avert his eyes, and I told him that it was a PG-13 movie, and I didn’t think we needed to be concerned about things going too far on film. Nigel said, “It’s not that. I’m just afraid that he’s going to do or say the wrong thing and mess it up.” And I died inside, thinking of all the times in my son’s everyday life that he must feel that way about himself.

Nigel noticed what difficulty Adam had in a restaurant, and that prompted a discussion about Nigel’s own sensory issues. He remembered how hard it was for him to go into public restrooms because of the air hand driers. “They were like screaming banshees,” he said. And I pointed out that he learned how to filter that sound. “Yeah. They’re still loud, but I can handle them. It seems like Adam couldn’t handle the sounds in the restaurant,” Nigel said, and I could hear some self-confidence (or was it relief?) in his voice that he had progressed to a point where he could handle being in a restaurant. And, Nigel was quick to point out, he’s an extrovert who wants to do social things, whereas Adam is definitely an introvert and experiences much anxiety about doing those things. Nigel may share the lack of social skills, but at least he is motivated to be social, and this made him feel good about himself. He also commented on a scene in which Adam becomes angry and does not deal with it well, raising his voice and throwing things. Nigel said that sometimes anger feels like “a nuclear bomb going off” and “it’s so hard to control it.” But he also realized that he is learning to control it, and that, at fifteen, he is doing a better job of it than Adam.

A couple of areas really seemed to hit home with Nigel. One was the focused talking about “specialist subjects.” For Adam, it was telescope facts and local theater history. For Nigel, it’s a range of all his favorite movies, military history, and his favorite authors (Jules Verne and H.G. Wells). In this area, he is much like Adam—not realizing when he’s going on too long or noticing that he’s monologuing and the person is bored. Nigel believes that he’s got this area under control because, in his social skills class, he’s learned to ask the person if he should continue talking about something. “And if they say ‘yes,’ I do.” But he doesn’t have the awareness to realize when he’s been talking too long and the other person is just being polite.

Also, Nigel totally identified with the big picture social issues. “Normal people usually don’t get different people,” he’d say. Of course, many times I’ve said to him that different people are normal too, but that doesn’t seem to make sense to him. However, toward the end of the movie, he did say, “Eventually, people learn to understand people like . . . us.” I wasn’t sure if he hesitated because he was trying to remember Adam’s name, or if he was processing the fact that he identified with him. It’s been very hard for him in the past, although recently he’s felt better about it.

Overall, I’m glad I watched Adam with Nigel. It’s true that seeing some of the behavior on film was hard for him, but I think that makes him more aware of it. If he knows what the challenges are, he can face them armed with that knowledge. In addition to that, seeing this movie prompted a discussion about the importance of jobs, and that if you get tired of doing your job after just two hours, you can’t say, “I’m done” and then leave. “I have to stay at the job so that I get the paycheck and can support myself,” Nigel said. Halle-freakin-luiah! This understanding is a long time in coming. A long time. For years, he’d say that when he grew up he wanted to be an inventor of time machines and didn’t want to do any other job because it would bore him. I would suggest to him that he might need to do another job while he was inventing the time machine so that he would have money to pay for his food, etc., and this concept was completely lost on him. I don’t know what it was about watching Adam that changed his thinking, but it did, and I’m very glad. I think both of us are a little more optimistic about his future now. And that’s saying a lot about a movie I wasn’t sure I wanted to see in the first place.

Autistic teen: It says, “Politicians and diapers get changed for the same reason.”

Mother (pauses, wondering if she’ll have to explain the meaning by using a phrase that includes the words “full of”): Do you understand what that means?

Autistic teen: That they are both stinky.

Emotionally, we take flight when the strength of our passion exceeds the strength of our blockages; the floodgates open and we are free to feel fully.   —Daily Om

It wouldn’t be stretching things to say that I’ve been an emotional wreck lately. I’ve been pushing myself to meet deadlines both at work and at home, and it frustrates me to no end to not be able to meet my goals. I try not to let the reality of my situation—being a full-time single parent—get in the way of what I want to achieve, but the undeniable fact is that it often does. Combine that with my increasing concern over Nigel’s academic/work challenges and his social vulnerability, and it’s no surprise that I’m overwhelmed.

So, everything has been on the surface lately, emotionally speaking. Every day has been like a marathon. This week could not end soon enough. The boys and I got home Friday afternoon, did a bunch of chores, ate dinner, and then Nigel and I went to our local grocery store for a few things. First, we recycled our bottles and cans at those machines that count and crush them and dispense receipts for the deposit refund. At one point, the plastic machine got stuck, and I took a leap of faith and instructed Nigel to go inside the store and tell an employee. Okay, he said, and he went and did it. I had never had him do that before, but he certainly knows how to ask for help while looking for a certain DVD at the video store, so I figured he could do this. Moments later he returned and said that someone would be out soon to fix it. My heart nearly burst. I had no idea how it actually went down in there, but the end result was that Nigel got his point across. A guy came out in a few minutes to fix the machine, and inside I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Even now, I never take anything for granted. Even the simplest of things.

Afterward, we went inside to wash our hands and do our shopping. Nigel found the DVD he wanted to rent, and it was only fifty cents. Without my prior knowledge, everything I had already planned to get was on sale - the organic butter lettuce, the Virgil’s Black Cherry Cream Soda, the Haagen Dazs dark-chocolate-on-chocolate ice cream bars. I could see Nigel across the store picking out some candy for himself, and even at fifteen, he just looked so sweet. I reveled in feeling my mother-love. It was like this little trip to the grocery store was my gift for having such a tough week. But the best gift of all was yet to come.

We got in line at the checkout counter and put our things on the belt. As we stood waiting, I heard a girl’s voice say, “Hey, Nigel, how are you?” This was not the first time someone had greeted him in the grocery store, and I quickly assessed her. Some kids make a show of saying hello to Nigel in a manner that indicates that they see him as a novelty. Some kids are nice enough, sincere even, but they don’t really understand him. And once in a great while, a kid will say hello to Nigel, and it’s real. I could tell instantly that this girl was real. She was genuine. Just lovely. Nigel said hi, accepted a hug from her (with his trademark stiffness, which didn’t faze her in the least), and then told her, “This is my mom.” She looked me in the eye, and in my ridiculous current emotional state, it was all I could do not to cry. I wanted to hug her. Because I knew. I just knew that she was the type of kid that we parents of ASD kids hope for. The angels that look out for our kids when we’re not there. I felt it with my entire being—she was definitely one of them. And so, suppressing my urge to throw my arms around her, I told her my name and shook her hand and smiled. And I hoped that my smile conveyed my deepest appreciation. Thank you, sweet girl. Thank you for caring about my son. For not only respecting him, but for including him. Thank you for being the wonderful person I know you are.

After our brief exchange, Nigel told her that he had rented The Time Machine. Not only did she say that it’s a good movie, but when he mentioned that it was based on a book, she knew who had written the book (H.G. Wells) and said that she’d read it and liked it! She totally gets him! Then she said a few more things to Nigel as I paid for our items, and she left. Nigel and I picked up our bags and walked outside. “She seems really nice,” I said. “Yeah,” Nigel said. “She’s in my theater class.”

The tears came then, and I was glad that it was now dark. I hoped that Nigel couldn’t see them, because they would be so hard to explain. Hell, I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. Was it happiness? Relief? Why do so many emotions—especially unidentifiable ones—drive me to tears?

In the end, I think I was just overcome with gratitude. Not just because she was so good to my son, but because, at that moment, she was unwittingly there for me, when I needed her most. At the end of a long, hard, emotional week, she was there. She’s not only Nigel’s angel, she’s mine, too.

A quick look at my Amazon Wish List conveys what’s been on my mind lately: my son’s future. I mean, it’s obvious when you look at the titles -

• Becoming Remarkably Able: Walking the Path to Talents, Interests, and Personal Growth, For Individuals with Autism Spectrum Disorders and Related Disabilities
• Autism & the Transition to Adulthood: Success Beyond the Classroom
• Developing Talents: Careers For Individuals With Asperger Syndrome And High-functioning Autism
• Life and Love: Positive Strategies for Autistic Adults
• Adults on the Autism Spectrum Leave the Nest: Achieving Supported Independence
• The Autism Transition Guide: Planning the Journey from School to Adult Life

Now that Nigel is fifteen (and a half), we really need to get going on his transitioning plan. But how? How do you do plan for adulthood when your high schooler has the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old? He talks about wanting to go to college, which is great. But how can I realistically plan for that when he can’t handle the modified workload of his freshman year of high school?

Yes, Nigel can progress. He has proven that over the years. He is handling things now that I would have never thought possible, even three years ago. So it is within the realm of possibility that three years from now, he could be going through the admissions process for college. But as much as I believe in my son, that’s a big maybe.

You see, Nigel lacks executive function. And I don’t just mean that it’s challenging for him. I mean that it’s pretty much nonexistent. This is why he requires one-on-one assistance in his classes and two study period pull-outs every day to do his regular classwork (with constant assistance). Every advancement he’s made in Boy Scouts is because an adult (usually me) has walked him through it, outlined the work for him, and kept him on track. He is unable to do it himself.

And so, I worry if college is a realistic goal for Nigel. He is certainly intelligent - he’s just not able to do the work, nor is he motivated to. And college is a lot of work. There are no IEPs in college, no educational assistants hovering over him to keep him focused. There’s no modified curriculum. I know that there are programs to help people on the autism spectrum navigate college as far as housing and living independently. But they don’t write the students’ papers. They don’t do the work for them. That’s what executive function is for. Either you have it or you don’t.

I suppose that it’s something he could be taught, but that’s one of the things I tried to do when I homeschooled him for a year and a half. I taught him how to do math problems step-by-step, how to write essays, organize his thoughts, and outline. And it didn’t take. I don’t think his brain functions that way. Perhaps he wasn’t ready for it at the time, but it wasn’t that long ago, and at this point, time is of the essence.

All I’ve ever wanted for my children was for them to feel loved and to lead happy, fulfilling lives. I know that doesn’t have to involve college, but Nigel’s dream of being an astronaut does. And there are times when I wonder if all the years of therapy got him to a really good point, but it’s not good enough. We got him to the point where he can communicate verbally and go to restaurants and grocery stores and interact with people and make a grilled cheese sandwich and ride his bike to school and back independently, but he can’t work independently. And while I am so happy and proud and grateful that he is able to do all those things that were impossible for years, that glaring difficulty remains. Once more with feeling: he can’t work independently. And I don’t know what that means for his future.

Some of you might remember this photo from a year ago, when Nigel first said hello to his new cousin as he somersaulted in utero.

And here they are a year later! Nolan is just about ready to take off walking, and he and Nigel had fun laughing together in the back seat of the car this weekend, making silly noises. “He’s kind of humorous now,” Nigel said. “But he’s still a little drooly.”

I’ll bet you have A-Files too. Read all about mine over at Hopeful Parents today.

“If you’re one of these people considering giving up on blogging in exchange for paying more attention to Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and MySpace, or whatever else they throw at us mere mortals, bear in mind you are giving up on something rather unique and wonderful.”                —Hugh Macleod

The Teen Autism site description on Technorati says, “Life with an autistic teen and his younger brother . . . a parenting blog with an autism twist,” and that’s it in a nutshell. I write a lot about autism and my life with with my two boys. But what I haven’t written about here is my life as a blogger. And so when Corrie at Just Because My Pickle Talks approached me for an interview/guest post about my blogging experience, I happily obliged. That’s right - a hybrid interview/guest post! Corrie asked some great questions, and I wrote a post around them. Want to know how Teen Autism got started, what my future plans are for it, and how I incorporate blogging into my life? Please click here to read the answers to these and other intriguing questions!

Dear [Regional Autism Consultant] and [Nigel's speech therapist],

I hope this finds you both well. Nigel continues to benefit from your social skills class, and I want to thank you both for doing it. I wanted to run something by you that I think would be an important addition to the regular social skills teaching. Today I had a meeting with [his case manager], and she mentioned that a student told her about a situation in which Nigel was being taken advantage of and laughed at. During lunch, a group of students were encouraging Nigel to tickle random people, and they would laugh when he did it. As you might remember, Nigel has been targeted in this manner before, and it always pains me to hear of it.

I would be so grateful if you would work something into the social skills curriculum to help him learn to recognize these sorts of situations when people have fun at his expense by telling him to do something inappropriate. He doesn’t realize that it’s inappropriate or that he could get in trouble for touching other people. He thinks he is making friends this way, but the “friends” are laughing at someone with a developmental disability. They know that Nigel lacks social awareness, and that’s why they target him. They are not innocent little kids anymore. And yes, Nigel has been told before that real friends will not get him to do things that he shouldn’t do and then laugh. But he needs constant reminders from people other than his mother. He needs to be taught how to recognize these sorts of situations. If a random student notices and takes the time to tell a staff member about it, then it’s pretty significant. And I’m sure it’s not the first time, even though it was the first time that was brought to our attention (that I know of).

So I think it would be helpful for Nigel to have some reminders about what’s inappropriate at school, and that if someone tries to get him to do something and they are laughing about it, they probably don’t have his best interests at heart, and they should be avoided. I tell him these things, of course, but I think if he hears it from other adults (or peers who care) and is taught how to recognize those situations (perhaps through roll-play), then he might start to understand.

Thank you so much for your time and the work you do with my son.

Best regards,

Tanya Savko

And it breaks your heart, again and again. You believed that things were going well socially at the high school, that the other kids had matured since middle school, that these things weren’t happening any more. You hoped that no one would be insincere with him at his first dance, and you wonder if they were and your son just doesn’t have the social awareness to realize it.

Sometimes, as the parent of a teen with autism, it hurts. You’ve been advocating for over twelve years since the diagnosis, and you still have to do it. You still have to manage your pain and quell your anger. You have to keep moving, keep doing, keep hoping. You have to keep being the parent of a teen with autism.

And no matter how much you love your son and the wonderful person that he is, no matter how far he’s come and how much he’s achieved and how high your hopes, it still hurts. For both of you.

It used to be, up until less than two years ago, that my favorite time of day was in the evening, when the boys went to bed, and I had an hour or two before my own bedtime. The day was over, and I had a sliver of time to myself to read, meditate, write (if I had the energy), or watch a movie. And it wasn’t just the time to myself that I loved, it was the security in knowing that my children were safe and (usually) well, and that we had made it through another day. All was right in my little corner of the world.

I still love the evenings and the sense of peace and comfort that they bring. But my favorite time of day has changed. It’s now 3:40 PM. That’s my new serenity time.

I get off work at 3:00 and head home, stopping to pick up the mail at our local post office, since I am among many in our small town who do not have mail delivery to our homes. I am usually home around 3:20, alone except for the cats, who rub against my leg to welcome me (or, as I’ve read, to mark territory, but affectionately so). I set my things down and go put on my slippers as part of my little transitional routine. Then I sort and read the mail until 3:30, when Aidan arrives. He comes through the front door, calls out “Hi, Mom,” and I go over to give him a hug and breathe in the scent at the top of his head. Home. One down, one to go.

Usually within ten minutes, by 3:40, Nigel comes through the back door, after he has put his bike away in the shed.  As soon as I hear that door open and shut, I breathe a sigh of relief. The route is less than two miles, but any number of things could go wrong. Once, a few months ago, he had been delayed due to bike problems and called me on his cell to ask me to come and get him. And so, when he wasn’t home by 3:50 one day last week, I thought at first that perhaps it was because of bike trouble again. I waited for the phone to ring, but it didn’t. When the clock struck four, I was out the door. I instructed Aidan to man the phone and to call me on my cell if Nigel called or came home.

I drove his usual route, checking down side streets to see if he had stopped to talk to someone or pet a cat. Then, about a third of the way, I saw him riding toward me (thank God), and I pulled over. He came up to me, breathless, and launched into a monologue about how he’d stayed after school to talk to his new drama teacher about a play that he wanted to write and produce based on Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. He had that dazed, New Obsession look in his eye, and I groaned inwardly. In his present state, he could not fathom that I had been worried, that he should have called. Midway through his prop ideas, I gently cut him off, saying that we needed to get home and he could finish telling me there. “Okay,” he said, and started off. “But take your time! We’re not racing!” I yelled out quickly.

We got home, and as I climbed out of the car, he rode up and started in again about the play, right there in the driveway. “Put your bike away, and let’s go inside to talk about it,” I said gently, but business-like. And he did.

I got in the house, still feeling the uncomfortable effects of the adrenaline, and called out to Aidan that Nigel was back. I collapsed on the couch, and he came inside a moment later. I stood in front of him and put my arms around his unbending frame before he could start talking. “I’m glad you’re home safe,” I said. “I was worried because you were late, and you didn’t call to let me know.”

He got it. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. It was one of the rare times he’d said “I’m” in front of “sorry.” He said that he got so excited with talking to his teacher about his ideas for the play that he didn’t think to call. Of course, I’d figured that’s what had happened the moment I first saw his face, lost in a new obsession. I know that look.

He drank some water then, and sat on the couch to finish telling me his ideas. After a few minutes, he got up and announced that he was going to his room to start writing the script. I sat there on my couch that I love, listening to the sounds of my boys happily preoccupied in their rooms. Home. My favorite time of day might have come a little later that day, but there it was. I sat and breathed deeply, enjoying my moment of peace, security, and serenity.