Asperger's is no laughing matter. Except when it is. Because sometimes it really, really is. And sometimes it had better be or else you'll tear your hair, eyes, ovaries, and wretched shrieking brain out with your bare hands.
Perhaps I'd better explain. My name is Nani, and I'm raising your next bloody totalitarian despot. I promise that wasn't what I set out to do, I had every intention of bringing up a happy hippie plastic-rejecting peacenik. We even named him Arlo. But some things are inborn, and it appears that this one will have tanks rolling through the streets before too much longer. He was always strong willed and single minded, and always a bit of a mystery. I read every book and magazine on the subject of parenting, but never found anything that made sense with my little monster. He was sharp as a tack, able to remember comments made in passing a year and a half ago, but highly distractable, and more than a little obsessive. First it was cows, then at two years old he discovered the vacuum and that was the only thing in the world until dinosaurs took over. He stomped around the playground, wrists held limp at chest height, roaring at anyone who dared come near him. All salutations were met with "Did you know allosaurus...", or something similar. It got to the point where all communication with Arlo had to be couched in reptilian terms. When trying to explain why one couldn't simply run away from the line on the way to recess, I reminded him of the fate suffered by small hadrosaurs who wander away from the herd. This made sense to him, but changed little about his queueing skills.
As we rattle along the roller coaster ride to adolescence, we're finding whole new puzzles to tackle. Arlo is finally coming around to the idea that he might want to interact with people his own age, instead of simply talking AT adults and watching them ooh and aah at his vocabulary (which is honestly mind-blowing). The tricky thing about Asperger's is that none of this social stuff comes naturally. All those little facial cues and nonverbal communiques that we take for granted have to be spoonfed (repeatedly, for quite some time before anything happens) to the hapless Aspie. This, while tedious, is straightforward enough. It goes something like this: I say "Arlo...Arlo...ARLO. Look at my face. Do I look happy with you?" He looks for a bit, then replies "Uh...no." I say "Do you want me to be happy with you so we can have a nice day together and watch movies and enjoy all our privledges?" "Uh...yeah." "Okay, then stop bouncing the ball off my head." At that point, he'll either shift gears or he won't, but he has a better understanding of my feelings on the matter. At school, they use role-playing games to improve perspective-taking, and even employ a cast of comic book characters to symbolize the different Aspie tendencies that can take over our brains and render us socially retarded. It feels odd at first, explaining all the most basic aspects of human interaction like it was some kind of chemistry experiment, but you get used to it. Recently, I've run into something much harder to translate. Comedy.
Arlo loves to laugh, whether it's mirthful, mischievous, or occasionally malicious, he's a joyful little bugger. Suddenly, he's been overtaken with a powerful drive to GET laughs, and here he's hit a wall. Early on, when he developed a spontaneous silly walk, I decided to introduce him to the Pythons. Carefully fastforwarding past crossdressing judges and epithet ballads, I watched my son light up at the sight of philosophers playing soccer and grown men acting like chickens. He worked up a truly bizarre British accent and surprised me with a full run through of the albatross bit (omitting several choice words, thank goodness).
So now all conversations begin with "Wouldn't it be funny if I..." and end with me explaining how his proposal would be funny in cartoons, but would incur stiff legal penalties in real life. He's found Gary Larsen recently, which has turned him on to cartooning, a prospect which allows his father and me some hope for future visits at a house of his very own (and not run by the state or federal government). We have a long way to go, us three, but at least in the meantime we're learning to understand eachother. Now I try to explain greater social mysteries in Pythonese rather than Prehistoric, and when I finally give up I mumble "You're a very silly man..." to which he replies "and I'm not going to interview you!". I'm deeply grateful to Mr. Raymond Luxury Yacht for the ability to end even our failed communications with a giggle.
Perhaps I'd better explain. My name is Nani, and I'm raising your next bloody totalitarian despot. I promise that wasn't what I set out to do, I had every intention of bringing up a happy hippie plastic-rejecting peacenik. We even named him Arlo. But some things are inborn, and it appears that this one will have tanks rolling through the streets before too much longer. He was always strong willed and single minded, and always a bit of a mystery. I read every book and magazine on the subject of parenting, but never found anything that made sense with my little monster. He was sharp as a tack, able to remember comments made in passing a year and a half ago, but highly distractable, and more than a little obsessive. First it was cows, then at two years old he discovered the vacuum and that was the only thing in the world until dinosaurs took over. He stomped around the playground, wrists held limp at chest height, roaring at anyone who dared come near him. All salutations were met with "Did you know allosaurus...", or something similar. It got to the point where all communication with Arlo had to be couched in reptilian terms. When trying to explain why one couldn't simply run away from the line on the way to recess, I reminded him of the fate suffered by small hadrosaurs who wander away from the herd. This made sense to him, but changed little about his queueing skills.
As we rattle along the roller coaster ride to adolescence, we're finding whole new puzzles to tackle. Arlo is finally coming around to the idea that he might want to interact with people his own age, instead of simply talking AT adults and watching them ooh and aah at his vocabulary (which is honestly mind-blowing). The tricky thing about Asperger's is that none of this social stuff comes naturally. All those little facial cues and nonverbal communiques that we take for granted have to be spoonfed (repeatedly, for quite some time before anything happens) to the hapless Aspie. This, while tedious, is straightforward enough. It goes something like this: I say "Arlo...Arlo...ARLO. Look at my face. Do I look happy with you?" He looks for a bit, then replies "Uh...no." I say "Do you want me to be happy with you so we can have a nice day together and watch movies and enjoy all our privledges?" "Uh...yeah." "Okay, then stop bouncing the ball off my head." At that point, he'll either shift gears or he won't, but he has a better understanding of my feelings on the matter. At school, they use role-playing games to improve perspective-taking, and even employ a cast of comic book characters to symbolize the different Aspie tendencies that can take over our brains and render us socially retarded. It feels odd at first, explaining all the most basic aspects of human interaction like it was some kind of chemistry experiment, but you get used to it. Recently, I've run into something much harder to translate. Comedy.
Arlo loves to laugh, whether it's mirthful, mischievous, or occasionally malicious, he's a joyful little bugger. Suddenly, he's been overtaken with a powerful drive to GET laughs, and here he's hit a wall. Early on, when he developed a spontaneous silly walk, I decided to introduce him to the Pythons. Carefully fastforwarding past crossdressing judges and epithet ballads, I watched my son light up at the sight of philosophers playing soccer and grown men acting like chickens. He worked up a truly bizarre British accent and surprised me with a full run through of the albatross bit (omitting several choice words, thank goodness).
So now all conversations begin with "Wouldn't it be funny if I..." and end with me explaining how his proposal would be funny in cartoons, but would incur stiff legal penalties in real life. He's found Gary Larsen recently, which has turned him on to cartooning, a prospect which allows his father and me some hope for future visits at a house of his very own (and not run by the state or federal government). We have a long way to go, us three, but at least in the meantime we're learning to understand eachother. Now I try to explain greater social mysteries in Pythonese rather than Prehistoric, and when I finally give up I mumble "You're a very silly man..." to which he replies "and I'm not going to interview you!". I'm deeply grateful to Mr. Raymond Luxury Yacht for the ability to end even our failed communications with a giggle.
2 comments:
Oh my. The date on this post is a distressingly accurate summation of my blogging skills. January 1st, huh? And here I've just finished it in June. Late June. Oh dear....
seriously seriously funny and informative. Someone needs to offer you a syndicated newspaper column. I truly regret I can't hear that idiosyncratic British accent of his firsthand. More power to the 'Tang - keep on writing!
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