Tag Archives: dance

The High School Dance

So I took a big chance at the high school dance . . . – Aerosmith

I remember what I wore to my first high school dance as a freshman: a pleated linen skirt, a black shaker-knit sweater (remember those?), and black high heels. I loved that outfit. I loved being at school at night, how different everything looked, how different I felt. A little nervous, but excited.

For the past two weeks, Nigel has talked of his desire to attend his school’s winter formal. I’d pick him up from school, and he’d tell me about what they discussed in his social skills class, specifically how to ask a girl to a dance. I remembered the formal dances at my high school and voiced the concern to Nigel that freshmen might not be allowed to attend. I mentioned that we might need to get him a tie. I posed the idea that they might be required to have dates at formal dances. Nigel decided to find out.

Apparently, times have changed. Freshmen can attend, they don’t need to wear a tie, and they’re not required to have a date. So why, then, is it called a formal? Regardless, Nigel was determined to go, and my nerves kicked into overdrive. What if the girls were insincere? What if they asked him to dance only to laugh at him? What if the guys tried to get him to do something that could get him in trouble? What if they talked him into going out to the parking lot or leaving? What if the music was too loud for him, or he got into a situation that he couldn’t handle? The worry was driving me insane, but I had to let him do this.

The night of the dance, Nigel watched movies in his room until it was time to get ready. Then he took a shower, brushed his teeth, and put on a ticking-striped button-up shirt, khakis, and a pair of old-school blue Vans with laces. “Because they’re stylish,” he told me. He came out to the living room and said that he was a little nervous, so he had watched some Winnie-the-Pooh movies to help calm himself. My heart felt like it was caught between my ribs – Winnie-the-Pooh at age 15. My sweet, innocent boy. And he’s flying solo – no aide – at a high school dance. Last year, he attended a middle school dance/event successfully without an aide, but there were other activities, such as an obstacle course and video games, that he could participate in. This would be a whole different ballgame.

I motioned for him to sit next to me on the couch, and he did. I told him that if the music was too loud for him, or if he felt uncomfortable for any reason, he could call me on his cell phone to come pick him up. It didn’t matter if he had only been there ten minutes. I told him that if anyone was being insincere while dancing with him, he could just say, “No thanks” and walk away. I told him that if anyone tried to get him to do anything or leave the dance that he could just say, “No thanks, I’ll just hang out here.” At this stage of his development, our social stories are usually verbal. I rarely have to write it down for him. As liberating for me as this is, it still does not alleviate my worry. I know how vulnerable he is

He said that he understood everything I had told him and said that he thought he’d be okay. A larger part of me actually agreed. Then he said, “But I think it’s too dark to ride my bike.”

“Oh, honey! Of course I’m going to drive you!” Poor boy thought he would have to ride his bike to the dance!

I dropped him off, came home, and watched a movie with Aidan, thankful for the opportunity to have some one-on-one time with him. Nigel didn’t call, and I hoped all was well. I told him that I would pick him up ten minutes early to avoid the congestion, and when the time came, he was right there waiting, by himself, doing some sort of spinning dance. He got in the car, and before he had even closed the door, he announced, “Well, I danced with a lot of girls!”

He assured me that they were nice, they were sincere, and that he felt comfortable and had fun. I told him how glad I was to hear that. On the surface, I felt what I always feel after he does something successfully on his own – relief and gratitude. But there’s something else there, in my heart, some emotion that I cannot identify, even though I feel it every day of my life, and it makes me want to cry when I’m happy. Maybe it’s just love. The love of a special-needs parent.

“This will be a fun high school memory for me,” Nigel said as we got home and walked in the front door. I hugged him and felt that love surge through me again, immense and consuming.

Making His Move

When we last heard from the hormone-addled, resident autistic teen about the subject of dating, he was coming up with a plan for the parents of the girl he’s interested in to become familiar with him. And the autistic teen’s mother was encouraging him to wait until high school.

Well, folks, that waiting period is nearing its end. Eighth grade is almost over. And Nigel has begun to make his move. He informed me last week that he had “finally” told the long-time object of his affection how he feels about her by writing a note. I asked him if he hand-wrote it or typed it, and he said that he hand-wrote it, which must have been quite an undertaking for him.   He said that he wrote of her “beauty and grace,” and that he feared, in telling her, that she would feel uncomfortable around him. He wrote that, too. Holding my breath, I asked him how Stephanie responded to the note. “She was okay with it,” he said. “She’s still my friend.” And then he nonchalantly bit into an apple and walked out of the kitchen.

Here’s the back story: For months, Nigel has talked about this girl. In the early stages, it was “She understands my difference.” This was when he still attended the middle school full time. Then, after I began homeschooling him, he would go for walks in the neighborhood and stand in front of her house, hoping she would come out to talk to him. A few times he knocked on the door, and her parents politely declined. He would film his Lego videos in his room, and I would hear him say in an announcer’s voice the names of the people starring in the film; Stephanie always received top billing. When I would pick him up from his weekly social skills class at the middle school, he asked me if we could find Stephanie’s class so that he could say hello. Since, at the time, he was not officially a student, we could not.

And then, six weeks ago, he began attending the middle school again, part-time. I would pick him up from his half day and ask how lunch went, since that time is unsupervised, and he used to be targeted then. “Fine,” he would answer. “Stephanie sat with me. I think I’m in love.” I wanted to hug this girl, to thank her for being so kind to my son. But I also wanted to gently prepare Nigel for the disappointment of unrequited love. I would tell him that he had to remember that people don’t always have the same feelings toward each other, that someone might want a person to be their boyfriend or girlfriend, but that person just wants to be friends. I told him that that happens to people of all ages, including adults, whether they’re autistic or not. It’s just a part of life.

What I didn’t know when Nigel told me about giving Stephanie the note was that there was a school dance two days later. And Nigel wanted to go. I’m sure he had hoped that Stephanie would have wanted to be more than just friends for the occasion of the dance, but even in the face of polite rejection, Nigel still wanted to go. I was very proud of how he was handling his emotions in this situation – he was showing exceptional maturity for someone with a lower emotional age. And that is why I felt confident letting him go to the dance without an aide. He had attended another dance three months before, but the school required him to have an aide with him, and things went well. Nigel remembered that stipulation. When he asked me about going to the new dance, he quickly added, “I asked the deans and they said it was okay that I could go without M,” (his previous aide). And my heart soared, not only because the deans had approved it, but because Nigel had thought to ask. He took it upon himself to make something happen that was important to him. And he did it the right way.

I still felt a little nervous about him attending the dance alone. But he excitedly told me that it wasn’t just a dance – there would be an obstacle course, video games, and other activities. I suggested ear plugs for the two-hour sensory bombardment. “No, Mom, I want to be like everybody else.” So I dropped him off with five dollars and came home to wring my hands, waiting for the phone call about some behavioral incident.

But there were no calls. I went early to pick him up, so that I could park near the entrance. I regretted not reminding him to come out front as soon as it was over. I had, however, rehearsed with him what he would do if anyone came up to him and started harassing him. I dreaded the thought that, here he was, trying so hard, and someone who enjoyed giving him a hard time would just come along and get him riled up and ruin the evening. I envisioned walking up to the double doors to pick him up and one of the teachers would pull me aside and tell me about a “situation.” Ugh.

But less than a minute after I walked up to the double doors, Nigel came striding toward me from another direction, flushed and happy. He had won with the fastest time on the obstacle course. That’s great, I told him. Did you see Stephanie? “No, I don’t think she was here. But I still had fun.” Did anyone bother you? I asked tentatively. “No, Mom. No one bothers me anymore.” I hugged him and said, “I’m so glad. And I’m glad you had fun tonight.” Then I drove home, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time.

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P.S. Something else I’m feeling emotional about – Aidan’s surgery is tomorrow (Monday). Thank you for your thoughts and prayers!