What’s Bigger Than a Circle?

Last weekend, Nigel had some friends spend the night for a little end-of-the-school-year party. I’ve mentioned Nigel’s friends, Nicholas and Tyler, before; Nicholas is Nigel’s age and Tyler is Aidan’s age. They are also brothers who are involved with Scouts, and we’ve been fortunate to know their family for several years. They’ve always been supportive and understanding of Nigel. I know that he values their friendship greatly, as do I.

So the boys had a blast, complete with pizza, root beer floats, gun fights, and a movie marathon. They’ll indulge Nigel in watching his latest favorite disaster movie with him, and he doesn’t mind if they fall asleep while they do. They’ve seen Nigel melt down, they’ve witnessed him being harassed at school, they know he’s prone to movie echolalia, used to have a type of barking laugh, and can sometimes get a little carried away when he’s having fun. They also know that sometimes he says things that are inappropriate or negative, and they realize that he doesn’t always understand these things. They’ve seen him at his worst, but they’ve also seen him at his best – creative, fun-loving, imaginative, and knowledgeable. I, for one, am so appreciative that they’ve stuck around. I know that Nigel is too.

And I appreciate their parents just as much. Their mom, Cheryl, a very good friend and a regular commenter here, and I like to talk for a bit during the pick-up/drop-off times when we can. We check in about our lives – our kids, parents, pets, homes, jobs, plans. Last weekend we talked about the upcoming transition to high school, that we couldn’t believe how big our older sons have so suddenly become.  I talked about how much better I feel about how Nigel’s doing socially, how the combination of his medication and having a few good kids around him has helped immensely. I mentioned that I thought it really made an impression on most of the other kids that I had to pull him out to homeschool him for a year and a half, and when he came back, many of them realized – hey, this is someone who needs a little extra help, a little understanding. Maybe those kids even matured a bit. Cheryl told me that she had recently asked Nicholas how Nigel was doing at school, if anyone was bothering him. Nicholas told her that aside from a small group of kids that likes to target him, everyone else has been nice to him. He said that if anyone sees any of that group approach Nigel to bother him, someone else always goes over to intervene and help Nigel out. They’ve got his back.

I told Cheryl how glad I was to hear that, and if, in my choked-up state, I neglected to thank her, I’m doing it now. Her boys, and a few others, have always been the core of Nigel’s circle. A few months ago, when Nigel, by choice, started back at the middle school to finish eighth grade, I tried to form a Circle of Friends by requesting it at his IEP meeting, talking to the principal about it, and emailing information to those who could make it happen. Despite my efforts, the administration didn’t pursue it. I felt so bad, felt that I should have done more, been a squeakier wheel.

But something did happen. When I wrote the letter to the school administrators, they talked to the kids who were involved in making a spectacle of Nigel. They – finally – told the kids a little about autism. And some of those kids felt remorse, and concern. And instead of continuing to have fun at his expense, many of them changed. They started being kind and helping him. I had read that this can be a positive result of Circle of Friends programs – that even kids who are not involved in the program hear about it and respond to the autistic students differently than they had before. It’s a ripple effect that can sometimes reach the whole school. That is what I hoped for when I requested a Circle of Friends program at Nigel’s school. And even though the program was never officially started, it seemed to happen on its own.

Less than a year ago, Nigel sat in his room one night and drew ape faces in his yearbook on the photos of all the kids that had bullied him. It made him feel better – his own type of art therapy. It was heartbreaking to see how many faces he drew over. This week, when he came home with his yearbook, it was filled with autographs and well-wishes for a good summer. It was filled with “you’re cool” and “see you next year.” These kids will be going with him to the local high school in September.

I had wanted a Circle for Nigel, but in less than three months, I got something much bigger. And I have a feeling that we’ll be having a lot more pizza-and-movie parties at our house next year.

The Baby Issue

Like many autistic people, Nigel’s always had a hard time being around babies. He just can’t filter the crying. It’s one of the only sounds that he still hasn’t been able to filter very well because of the unpredictable nature of it. That, and he just doesn’t understand why they can’t stop. It’s hard for him to be patient or understanding because his ears are killing him. “Can’t that baby stop crying?” he’ll say when he hears one in a store. Telling him that the baby can’t help it – or that he cried when he was a baby too – doesn’t help at all. It’s not about trying to develop understanding and patience. It’s about needing relief for his sensitive hearing.

And it started early on, too. Nigel was not yet two when Aidan was born, and Aidan had an even harder time with SPD than Nigel did. Poor Aidan spent about 80% of his waking life crying, and poor Nigel literally climbed the walls while Aidan did it. In fact, one of Nigel’s first words – “cying” – was said to describe his brother. Cying = crying without the “r”. He couldn’t say Mom or Dad, but he could say cying. “Yes, Aidan is crying,” I would say, and Nigel would run out of the room.

Nigel has no memory of those days, but he still can’t handle babies crying. He knows they can’t help it, he now understands that, but he wishes they didn’t have to do it. I told him that I’m sure their parents feel the same way!

But, despite how he feels about babies, Nigel is excited to have a baby cousin. He went to see Nolan shortly after he was born, and Nigel was a little nervous, but quite receptive. Now, Nolan is two months old, and we were very happy to have him (and his mom!) come to Nigel’s graduation party this week.  Nolan was very willing to accommodate his cousin and only cried while his diaper was being changed. After Nolan was fed and happy, Nigel came over, smiled at him, and said, “Hi, Nolan. Hey, little guy.” Nolan broke into a sweet grin and Nigel exclaimed, “He likes me!” Then he said, “But I’m pretty sure he’s not ready for some Godzilla action.”

Just yawning, fortunately . . . 

A Letter to My Son on His Eighth Grade Graduation

100_1805Dearest Nigel,

There are not enough words to express how proud I am of you today. A year ago, you anticipated your future eighth grade graduation, and I didn’t know how to tell you that because you needed to homeschooled, you would not graduate from the local middle school. On your own, you figured that out, and you initiated a plan to be able to go back there, so that you could graduate with your peers. Five months ago, you told me that you wanted to try some medication that would help regulate your behavior so that you could go back to the middle school. We did, and two months later, you were back at the middle school part-time. Three months have gone by, and I am so proud to say that not once during that entire time did the school have to call me about any behavioral issues. Not once. And today, you graduated with your class of fellow eighth graders.

Congratulations! You did it, Nigel. You did it. You set your sights on a goal and you worked to achieve it. But that should not surprise me, because that is what you have done your whole life. You were diagnosed with autism nearly twelve years ago, and you have continually shown me that although autism is an integral part of you, it alone does not define you. When diagnosed, and for some time after, you were completely nonverbal. Your sensory issues paralyzed you. I did not know back then that it was possible for any person with autism to progress as much as you have. The information was not available at the time, and I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if you would learn to talk. I didn’t know if you could be mainstreamed in school. I tried to be realistic, and I didn’t dare to dream. But somewhere, deep down, I hoped.

All children learn, all children grow, but you have fought so hard to achieve that growth. You painstakingly learned to talk, to filter the agonizing sensory issues, to learn to function socially, to organize your thoughts. Many of these things you still work on, and will continue to. You will stop at nothing to work with your “difference,” as you call it, to understand it (autism) and how it affects you, and to help others learn the same. You are learning to advocate for yourself, and I am proud of that, too.

And so, my son, you inspire me. You have challenged me to be the best possible parent I can be because you needed the best from me.  “Difficult” would be an understatement for the road we have traveled together. But Nigel, if you can do it, so can I. I will continue to be right beside you, letting you lead the way. We have a big transition coming up, but when I look at what you have achieved today, and what you have gone through to get here, I’m daring to dream. I know you are too.

All my love,

Mom

The Pursuit of Laughter

When Nigel was 4-5 years old and not yet functionally verbal, he wanted so badly to play with the kids he would see at our local playground, but of course, he did not know how. I, preoccupied with toddler Aidan, would often have to intervene when Nigel would go up to a boy about his age and get in his face and start laughing. Nigel observed that when children played together, they would laugh, but he seemed to think that the laughter came first, that laughter would result in playing, and more laughter. Unfortunately, his tactic only resulted in the other kids getting either sad or angry – because they thought that Nigel was making fun of them. I would rush over and say, “He’s not making fun of you. He’s laughing because he wants to play with you,” but the negative impression had already been made, and they would leave. Nigel couldn’t ask me what he had done wrong. If I tried to explain it to him, he wouldn’t have understood. The only thing he understood was laughter. Laughter meant playing. Laughter meant fun.

These days, Nigel understands much better how to approach his peers. He understands that in order to laugh with people, you have to start doing a fun activity first. Or – you can watch a funny movie together. And Nigel has discovered that this is the easiest way to achieve the laughter connection that he has craved all of his life.

I don’t remember how old he was the first time I watched a Peter Sellers/Inspector Clouseau movie with him. All I remember is how much he loved the fact that everyone watching was laughing together, which I’m sure gave him a sense of security and completeness. Later, not only did he have a new source for his echolalia, he had a new response from his audience. He discovered that if he randomly dropped a line from one of those movies that he wouldn’t be told “Let’s not say things from movies.” No, he realized, the magic of saying something from a funny movie is that people will laugh.

Over the years, he has branched out with his funny movies – got into The Three Stooges of course, and then the iconic Monty Python. He enjoyed some Saturday Night Live episodes, especially those featuring Chris Farley. It seems that slapstick appeals to him most, to his kinesthetic sense of processing. But the old Inspector Clouseau movies featured both slapstick and verbal comedy, so he could experience the best of both worlds with those. He could walk into a room, and in Clouseau’s nasally voice ask, “The wax?” and then slip on his feet and say “AAAAHH!” as he fell to the ground, and everyone would laugh. When saying goodbye to someone, he could salute and say, “Until we meet again and the case is sol-ved,” causing more laughter. He could express his frustration with doing chores by imitating Clouseau’s boss, Chief Inspector Dreyfus, and say, “I’ve had enough!” and has also been known to say, “Somewhere, over the rainbow” in a crazy voice while on the verge of a meltdown, just like Dreyfus did in the insane asylum. He has definitely used movie echolalia in a variety of situations.

And in doing so, Nigel has finally mastered a way to meet his need for communal laughter. It’s been many years since he laughed in someone’s face to get them to laugh with him. What’s really great is that he’s discovered he can make people laugh just as much when he says his own funny lines. One day last week, he tripped over something, bumped into me, and caused me to knock over a glass of water. With each bungle he said a quick, “Sorry,” and, with the last one, looked at me to check my response. I couldn’t help but smile. It was all too funny – the tripping, the bumping, the sorrys, the spill – just like a scene out of a movie. Then, smirking, he said, “I’m getting more Clouseau-ish by the minute!” and we both collapsed on the floor in laughter.

Autism and Pets

Betcha didn’t know! June is National Adopt-A-Cat Month!

Did I hear a ‘so what?’ I know. Many people are allergic to cats. Many people prefer dogs. Many people prefer fish, rodents, or reptiles. And that’s okay. Because any pet will teach a child responsibility, compassion, how to handle death, and more. Pets also bring comfort, amusement, and can present a calming influence. I know. Every day I see the benefits of having pets – with both of my boys.

Over the years, we’ve been the proud humans of five cats, a dog, a rat, a mouse, and several fish. Currently, we share our abode with three wonderful cats, two adopted from local shelters and one from a neighbor. There’s Midnight, our sleek black male shorthair, Sheba, our pretty black-and-tan tabby (see her here!), and our medium-haired little gray girl, which Nigel named Winter (see below). The boys love all of the cats, but Winter’s the newest, so she gets the most attention. Nigel will hold her and walk through the house, saying to anyone in earshot, “Look at her! Just look at her! Look at how cute she is! It’s like she jumped straight out of a painting.” Then he snuggles his face into hers and says, “If your parents could meet you now, they’d be so proud of you!” Aidan loves her just as much. He bursts through the front door when he gets home from school every day and says, “Where’s Winter? Where’s that little princess? I have to pet her!” And then he squeals when he finds her. They are in love with this cat.

And since she’s not their first cat, they’ve learned about death from the ones that came before her. We had one hit by a car a few years ago, and as sad as it was for the boys (and me), our cat’s death helped prepare them emotionally for their great-grandfather’s death several months later. And when Nigel’s very own pet mouse, that he kept in his room and was responsible for entirely, died last year, he handled it with more maturity than I would ever have expected.

Oh, yes, they grumble and complain about having to empty the litter box. They “forget” to do it. But then they see what happens when they “forget,” and they realize that their pets are dependent upon them for their care. And they learn about treating their pets with kindness and respect. Sometimes, this carries over into their dealings with people. At least, that’s the idea.

It’s also worth noting that people on the spectrum can often relate to animals easier than they can to people, such as Temple Grandin with cows or John Elder Robison and dogs. I definitely see this with Nigel. He was playing with Winter a few days ago, pulling a string through the house and laughing as she chased it. After some time, he put the string away and went to the kitchen to get a snack. Then he went to his bedroom to get something, and after that he went to the bathroom. Winter followed him closely the entire time, running right alongside him like a little gray shadow. After a minute of this I heard Nigel say to her, “There’s no way of escaping you, Winter, but I’m glad of it!” He said it in such a sweet, loving tone, with more inflection than he’s ever used when talking to people.

*sigh*  A boy and his cat. Love at first purr.

The Tie-Dye Project

Remember Alex Barton? Let me jog your memory – he’s the boy whose Kindergarten teacher saw fit to have his fellow students vote him out of the class, as if it were a Survivor episode. After reading about it, I was beside myself with strong emotions: sadness, disbelief, and fury. How DARE (yes, I’m yelling) that teacher disregard the self-esteem of one of her students? How DARE she teach her other students to insult him and cast him aside, instead of helping them to show compassion because of his differences?

Well, friends, fortunately the story didn’t end there. It was the beginning of another story – one of love, acceptance, and connectedness. A way to show Alex that people do care, that people are supportive. And we can all be a part of it.

Melissa Barton, Alex’s mom, with a little inspiration from Kyra of ThisMom, came up with The Tie-Dye Project. It began with Alex and his mom making five tie-dyed shirts and sending them out to five ASD kids. Each of those kids (and their parents) received a note on how to continue the project – just make five more tie-dyed shirts and send them out to five ASD kids. When was the last time a fun project had so much meaning behind it? Love, support, and understanding among kids on the spectrum. It’s a wonderful thing.

Yesterday Nigel received his shirt from Kendall. “This is really nice,” he said, checking it out. I told him about Alex, and Nigel is very excited to be a part of the shirt-making chain for ASD kids. He’s raring to go, so all we need now are five participants who would like to receive a tie-dye shirt from Nigel! Just leave a comment if you’d like one, even if you’ve not left a comment before, and I’ll email you to get your address.

Join in! As Nigel said to me in his flat but beautiful voice, “We need to get the word out.” And we will.

About Face

Clenched teeth and narrow eyes? Angry. Tears streaming down face? Sad. Smile? Happy. Open mouth and wide eyes? Scared. Furrowed brow and tight lips? Not sure.

Over the years, Nigel has learned to read the cues of basic emotions and identify them, but he has yet to do the same for emotions that are less easily recognized, such as worry, relief, disinterest, embarrassment, confusion, and disappointment. They talk about these in his social skills class, and we talk about them at home, of course, but it’s hard for him to catch on. And it’s always difficult to apply the situations of Social Skills Class to the real world, although it’s certainly worth trying. Today, however, I stumbled across a more effective method.

It’s Disaster Movie Weekend here at Chez Nigel, during which he watches everything but the 2008 parody/spoof called Disaster Movie, which, he says, is not a real disaster movie. After cleaning his room more thoroughly than ever before, he was rewarded with a full movie weekend while Mom works (mostly) unhindered in her office, appearing only to make dinner (that was the plan, anyway). Nigel began with various Godzilla flicks, moved on to Deep Impact, Core, Volcano, and finished with his favorites, Twister and The Day After Tomorrow.

I’ve never been able to figure out why he enjoys these types of movies so much, but he has for a long time. He first saw Twister at the age of five, and has loved it ever since. He’ll rarely go more than a few weeks without watching it. Then a few years ago came The Day After Tomorrow, and all I can say is at least we now have an alternative to Twister. DAT has everything he loves about disaster movies – imminent destruction and earnest people trying to either stop it from happening or survive it. He doesn’t care about the writing or the acting. He doesn’t care if the movie got bad reviews. He’s just concerned with the main idea and the special effects (although he lets that slide for the old Godzilla movies he holds so dear).

So he’s watching The Day After Tomorrow out in the living room, and I venture out of my office in the early afternoon to facilitate lunch. I come and stand beside the couch, watching a scene near the end in which the father is reunited with his teenage son, for whom he had been searching. I’ve unwillingly watched this scene (and the whole movie) several times before, but something – my frame of mind, the loving energy that filled our home this weekend, something – makes it affect me differently this time. I stand there watching the scene, feeling emotional and trying to fight it. I think that I’m keeping it low-key and don’t think my appearance is that noticeable.

Nigel looks at me and says, “Your face. It’s making some sort of expression.”

And then I about lose it. My breath catches in my throat, and I have to turn away as tears pool in my eyes. He noticed! He didn’t know what the expression was for, but he noticed a subtle facial cue! I dab my eyes and compose myself, then turn back to my son.

“Yes, Nigel, it’s an expression of emotion. I was just feeling how the father felt in the movie when he found his son and hugged him. He was happy, but all the anxiety that he felt while looking for him just built up in that moment and made him emotional. Does that make sense to you?”

“I think so.”

I tell him how great it is that he’s starting to notice the subtle expressions of emotion that people show, not just the more obvious ones of anger, sadness, happiness, or fear. Like talking, like writing, like learning to be polite, this is probably something that will take him a long time to develop. But the fledgling ability is there, and I am pleasantly surprised.

I am equally surprised that I got choked up over The Day After Tomorrow. Next thing you know, I’ll be crying at life insurance commercials. I may have a harder time explaining that!

Lucky

“You’re lucky he’s so high-functioning.” – people who mean well

*

I’ve heard it a few times over the years. And I’ve never been sure how to respond. I mean, the first time it was said was by someone in a park when my son was running and laughing. He was four and non-verbal.  So . . . not sure how non-verbal equaled high-functioning. Not sure how a complete stranger could make an assessment like that after observing my son for one minute.  Perhaps, since it was 1998, the person didn’t really know much about autism and thought it was a predominantly physical disability. Perhaps if someone had turned on a leaf blower and my son had started screaming, the person would not have said that. Perhaps if she had asked him his name and not received an answer from him, she might have thought differently about his functioning level. Not sure. I really didn’t have time to get into it with her. A second later, Nigel darted for the street, and I ran after him. High-functioning.

High-functioning can be misleading. Now, people see him as a high-functioning verbal teen. And that’s what he is. But what they don’t see are the years and years behind that high-functioning teen. The years of language acquisition through echolalia, over a decade of speech therapy, and daily life. The years of learning to filter sensory issues so that he can function semi-comfortably in various environments, even those as basic as classrooms, restaurants, grocery stores, and public restrooms. The years of learning appropriate and inappropriate behavior, with which he still struggles.

When people see a high-functioning verbal teen, they don’t see the daily medications he must take to manage his behavior and his anxiety. They don’t see the daily doses of risperidone and sertraline. They don’t see the subdued quality in his eyes that his mother has had to get used to seeing, because she knows it helps her son to achieve his goal of being mainstreamed in his local public school. Without the medication, he would not be able to manage his behavior. That is one way that high-functioning autism affects him. Being able to communicate is huge, but it is not the only issue.

When people see a high-functioning verbal teen, they don’t see how he’s been bullied and harassed and taken advantage of. They don’t see his trusting nature, they don’t see his lower emotional age, they don’t see his vulnerability. They don’t see how because he has to spend his days working so hard  – to filter the sensory issues of daily life, focus on trying to be appropriately social, and try to concentrate on school work – that he is exhausted. That sometimes it’s all too much for him, being autistic in this world.

Yet he continues to try, he continues to want to. He has a certain joie de vivre that I envy. Because of his autism, he doesn’t understand certain social obligations that will affect him very soon, as he enters adulthood. He wants to be an inventor when he grows up – an inventor of time machines. And while the finished product would most likely be quite lucrative, he doesn’t understand that he needs to have some type of income while he’s inventing his time machine, so that he can buy food for himself and pay for his shelter. When I try to explain this to him, he suggests that we should all live like our early human ancestors, in a very primordial sense. He says this with conviction, the same conviction with which he discusses his time machine. I don’t see that going over well in a job interview. High-functioning.

There are still so many things that others don’t see. Because they see a high-functioning teen, their expectations are higher, and while we should never sell our ASD kids short in what they can accomplish, we as parents know where the difficulties lie. We know how their delays in emotional and social development still affect them. We worry about how they will interact with people who don’t know them when we’re not with them to facilitate. We know that there are things about living in our society that they cannot understand, such as having a job and paying the bills. Yes, my son is now high-functioning, but he has fought tooth and nail (literally, sometimes) to get there. If there was any luck involved, it was because every time he’s wandered away or bolted into the street or lit something on fire, he’s never been harmed. So yes, to everyone who’s ever said that I’m lucky, I am.  High-functioning or not.

Our Path

“You can go your own way” – Fleetwood Mac

Right after our highly successful trip to Oregon Caves this past weekend, we decided to drive another hour and a half that afternoon to Redwood National Park on the northern California coast. Apparently a scene from Walking With Dinosaurs had been filmed there, so Nigel had to act out the part with the sauropodlet (as Nigel calls baby sauropods) eating fern fronds.

At any rate, the boys and I loved roaming among the quiet, steadfast giants, and Nigel had fun climbing on the trunks of the fallen. Not wanting to violate any park rules, I checked for signs forbidding climbing. I didn’t see any, and Nigel was being careful, so we went on our way. At the end of the walk, we found some signs facing the other direction. I turned around and read one of them. “Stay on the trail,” it said.

At the end?! Why would they wait until the end of the trail to tell visitors that? I looked around and then it hit me. We had begun the trail loop on the wrong side. We went in through the out door. We finished where others started. But we started where others finished.

That’s how it is when autism is in your life, for the ASD kids trying to figure things out as well as for their parents. We do things differently. Our path is not the same as others’ paths. Sometimes we have to approach things differently to understand them. It may not be the expected way,

but somehow we get through it.

And sometimes it helps to just stop, take a breath, and look up.

Autism and Fears

For several of Nigel’s early years, both before and after his autism diagnosis, his dad and I thought that he was afraid of the vacuum cleaner. It wasn’t until we learned about sensory issues – and noticed that Nigel had the same “fear” of leaf blowers, blenders, food processors, and air hand driers in public restrooms – that we began to realize that he didn’t fear these objects. He could not filter the loud, invasive sounds they made. The sounds were so painful to him that he learned to run to a different room if he saw the things that produced them. And when he couldn’t run to a different room, he would scream. He wouldn’t even cover his ears because he didn’t know how. It actually took him a couple of years to learn that he could do that when he heard a loud sound.

As the years went by, covering his ears became second nature to him. And slowly he learned how to filter the sounds that were previously so agonizing for him. But as his sensory issues became more manageable, he developed real fears to take their place. I’ve mentioned before that he is afraid of bees and other flying insects, and a close second, also in the flying category, are bats. Yes, my son, the zombie movie aficionado, is afraid of bats. And this, in addition to Aidan’s mild claustrophobia, has prevented us for years from going as a family to nearby Oregon Caves National Monument, which I enjoyed as a child. But I am nothing if not determined. Every year for the past five years I’ve tried to chip away a little at the bat fear. One year I bought Stellaluna. Last year for homeschooling we studied bats on Wikipedia, something that Nigel likes to refer to. This year I found my old Oregon Caves pamphlet which distinctly says that the bat population “peaks in the fall when bats swarm to breed,” and told him that both times I had been to Oregon Caves, I had not seen a single bat. So this year, in the spring, he was finally ready. And Aidan decided that since Nigel was going to stare down a fear, he was game to do the same.

We arrived early so that we wouldn’t have to wait long for our tour, and started off with our Ranger tour guide and a group of fifteen other people. We spent over an hour inside the cave of amazing calcite formations, and both boys did really well. At one point, Nigel got a little nervous because the Ranger mentioned that there might be a bat in one of the rooms up ahead, and Nigel growled at another visitor to shut off his camera so that the flash would not upset the bat, causing it to fly into his face. But Nigel quickly regained his composure and proceeded into the room, and I was so proud of him that he went ahead in spite of his fear. Much to our relief, there were no visible bats, and Aidan was fine until the very end, when the cave started to get to him. But he stayed calm, and they both completed the tour. Yes, you read that correctly – they both completed the tour! No panic attacks! No screaming, yelling, or bolting! No whining even! I guess it was like teaching Nigel to cover his ears when he was little – it just took a few years of teaching and preparation. When he was ready, he was fine.

As a treat, I took them to get burgers for dinner at a restaurant. Right after our food arrived and we started digging in, the opening lyrics of a Queen song began. Nigel stopped and listened. “Hey – what’s this song?” he asked.

“‘Bohemian Rhapsody,'” Aidan answered.

“No,” Nigel said, still listening. Then he remembered. “It’s ‘We Are the Champions.'”

“Oh, yeah,” Aidan agreed. (I just discovered while writing this post that last week this song was performed on the season finale of American Idol. The boys and I do not watch this show, so they were trying to remember from hearing one of my old CDs years ago.)

Then Nigel looked at me, making full eye contact. “This is the perfect song for us to hear tonight. You know – because we are the champions of the cave.”

I just gazed into his gorgeous medium brown eyes that I seldom see directly and tried to choke down my burger. “Yes,” I said. “You guys are the champions of that cave.”

Then Nigel quietly sang, “We are the champions . . . of the cave.” And my heart swelled with pride.

 “Paradise Lost” – the room where the bat was supposed to be.

Nigel and a new friend!

End of the tour – jacket and hood completely off!