Some Days I'd Rather Be A Woman

My son is very friendly, even for a four-year-old. In combination with his moss-green eyes and eyelashes so long that some women would be willing to buy a prescription in order to get them, this is going to serve him very well in life. I've been dreading the day that he discovers girls (although I'm also sure that there will be some typical male ego/pride "stuff" going on, especially given my own teenage mishaps in that department). In light of my poor past performance in judging how soon something in his life was likely to become a problem, I suppose I should have known that I was in for trouble long before he hit his teens.

I first realized that I might have a situation on my hands when our neighbor told us that she was going away for the weekend and asked if LR and I would like to take care of her animals for her while she was away. She probably knew that we were an easy mark because my son loves anything which moves while I'm not a big dog fan and my wife is badly allergic to cats and refuses to even discuss reptiles, amphibians, or anything with less than two or more than four legs as a potential pet. I believe that we're permitted to have fish but I suspect that the first time we found snails in the tank would also be the time that we found the tank in the trashcan. As no dogs were involved, I quickly agreed.

After our neighbor had left, LR began tugging harder and harder on my pants leg. I asked him what was up and he said "I have something to tell Miss Chrissy. I have to tell her something!" "Well, she's right there," and I pointed across the street. "Just go ahead." I then hear my darling son scream at the top of his lungs "Miss Chrissy! Will you come over to my house later? You can sleep in my bed!!" This was definitely one of those times when I wished that I was, in fact, a stay at home mother. I suspect that this is the kind of thing that two women can laugh off a lot more easily. After a moment or two of very uncomfortable silence, we both quickly turned it into a joke about keeping him away from her daughter.

Note: For anyone unfamiliar with the "Miss Chrissy" custom, it is apparently appropriate for a child living in "the South" to address any woman over the age of eighteen or so as Miss First-Name, regardless of marital status. It's basically a middle-ground between the highly formal Miss/Mrs./Ms. Last-Name and the highly familiar usage of just the adult's first name. Given that I am a Philly boy who arrived in North Carolina about two years ago by way of Boston, if you'd like to know the details of this custom or the precise areas in which it is used you are quite definitely asking the wrong person. I've adapted simply by having him call any and all female acquaintances Miss Whoever and hoping that I get it right more than half of the time.

Luckily for me "Miss Chrissy" is a good sport.

Then came the library incident. LR and I were having a grand old time picking up some books and videos. As we started to make our way to the door, I got into a rather odd conversation with a boy of about five or six who came over and asked me how old my son was. I suggested that perhaps he should simply ask him seeing as how he's been speaking for himself since he turned one. (In actuality I simply suggested that he ask for himself, I just wanted to say all of that). The boy gave me an odd look and tried again. "He told me he was six" he said, and this time he pointed at another young boy who had been next to me at the bookshelf. I politely explained that I had no idea how old that little boy was because he wasn't my son. At this point, I got a rather long look from the boy who then decided that he really didn't want to be talking to anyone who was this unhelpful and he walked away.

My son, however, wasn't finished. Apparently, he felt that he'd been bilked out of the chance to tell someone his age as he immediately began following the boy in a vain attempt to convince him that he had, in fact, recently turned four. For a minute, LR looked a bit nonplussed at the other child's complete indifference to his age but then decided to bravely plow ahead with someone that he considered a new friend. I didn't hear all of what he said, but what I did hear was along the lines of "Would you like to come over to my house and play?" I quickly scooped up my child and headed for the door while explaining to my son that "I'm very sorry but, no, the boy we don't know won't be coming over to play later. I promise I'll call one of your friends and try to set up a playdate."

Why was I in such a hurry? Simple, I'm a guy. What was I afraid of?

"Mommy! That man over there wants to know if I can play at his house. Can I go?!!"

I can hear the 911 call already.

What Type of Parent Are You?

I recently found this test at a mommy blog. I did, however, feel compelled to try and re-brand it as a Prent Test. Yeah, I know;It didn't work. And, yes, I also know it's a corporate gimmick from Verizon. I thought it was cute anyway. (Probably because it said I was a "Terrific Teach" type).

So what do the rest of you get?


T-Mobile Mom to Mom Quiz: "

Take the fun, Mom to Mom quiz and discover your parenting style.

A Parent's Perspective

LR has always had a great ear (naming instruments used in a song, getting word pronunciations in English and in other languages exactly right, etc.), and he's always enjoyed making music. But up until very recently he refused to sing or play music in unison with anyone else, nor did he ever show any real interest in trying to play a tune with any of his instruments. Now, I never expected anything elaborate nor do I even know that other three-year-olds like to do so; I'm just saying he never did it.

So, I was very pleasantly surprised the other day when he began playing Frère Jacques the other day on his rhythm sticks. I was particularly impressed that I recognized it without him having to tell me what it was. We played it together for a while and he just kept improving. Of course, once Mommy got home he was no longer interested in showing off. At least, not right then.

The next morning, a weekend, my wife was awakened by the lovely sound of our son playing a recognizable version of Frère Jacques.....on his cymbals. Once she calmed down from her three-foot jump into the air, she told him what a great job he was doing (what a trooper). Like any good mother, she promptly told a number of friends about his accomplishment. One of these friends, obviously a parent of young ones herself, quickly wrote back and got right to the heart of the matter:

"What in the world could you possibly have done to someone that ticked them off enough that they gave your son cymbals?!?"

That's My Boy

Well, after yesterday's incredibly depressing entry I decided to lighten up. I came across a blog entry the other day. The blogger explained that he had run across a 50 question, multiple choice test that is supposed to help diagnose adult Autism Spectrum Disorders [ASD]. Obviously, if one is truly concerned about anyone having an ASD they should be contacting a medical professional, not taking an internet quiz. But, that said, he was surprised to see that "it seems like a thumbnail description of your average geek." (Before anyone gets all worked up because he called your child a geek, he makes it abundantly clear that he too is a geek).

Apparently, this observation doesn't even come close to something resembling a new concept. (See: The Geek Syndrome at Wired.com). However, "it's new to me" so I suppose that counts for something. [Those of you who don't remember NBC's bizarre attempt to alter the meaning of the word "rerun," by claiming that if you personally hadn't seen it then it was "New to you!" can read about it here).

Hmmm....I know I had a train of thought in here somewhere. Ah, right! The test. Basically, the test is pretty much what I described above. You can take the test either at Wired or at the Pie Palace .

Of course, given that my wife and I are concerned, perfectionistic, and rather obsessive parents we both took the test as soon as we found it. Basically, it scores your responses to each question and then spits out a number. This is your Autism Spectrum Quotient (AQ). It's on a scale of 1 to 50. The average score for people in the control group (i.e., people who do not have an ASD) was 16.4. Conversely, 80% of the people who had been diagnosed with an ASD scored 32 or higher.

I took it. I got a 26. My wife took it, she got a 31. I can't imagine where he gets it from.

Worst Father in the World

I know that LR is exactly the same person as he was two weeks ago. Our going to a psychologist and hearing from someone else that our son has strengths and weaknesses that fall into a pattern making it probable that he has Asperger's or something else included in the Autistic Spectrum Disorders (ASD) category changes nothing. As I said in my first post: "Our son is still the exact same wonderful little person that he's always been."

And I mean it. I know it in my head and I even know it in my heart. So why do I find myself analyzing his behavior trying to figure out if this or that little thing is related? Why do I suddenly care more than I did before what other people think of his behavior? I know it's a cliche to say that "Anyone who doesn't appreciate him for who he is isn't worth wasting our time on. It's their loss." But many times cliches are cliches simply because they're true.

I love every single part of whom with all my heart.

But I still can't stop worrying about his behavior and what it might mean. And I still can't stop worrying about what other people think. See? Worst father in the world. Maybe I'm just being human. I hope so.

Too Sweet for Words

LR went on a field-trip with his school the other day. They went to a local farm, had a hayride and picked fresh strawberries. Why didn't my school do cool things like that?? Anyway, that afternoon, when I asked him if he wanted to eat some of them he said "Yes" and insisted that I wash five of them. I knew there was no chance of him eating five strawberries. While he's remarkably good about eating a wide variety of foods, and about trying new ones, getting him to eat anything in quantity has always been.....um, trying. Being a good Daddy (And one who's learned the hard way about picking his battles; this one didn't even come close) I proceeded to wash five of them figuring I could always eat whatever he didn't. That was apparently the plan all along. He categorically refused to eat more than one, saying that the rest were all "for Daddy." I thanked him several times for sharing. But, despite being an incredibly sweet gesture, I didn't think too much about it because one of his best qualities is that he will almost always offer to share whatever he's eating, even chocolate.

But tonight, after we got him to sleep, I realized that we had forgotten to give him more of his strawberries. Time was very much of the essence because they were all very ripe to begin with and apparently four-year-old fingers tend to squish very ripe strawberries. But my wife corrected me. It turns out that she had offered them to him more than once today and was turned down each time. Why? "They're Daddy's strawberries. I picked them for Daddy."

He may not know it yet, but he's got a "Get Out of Jail Free" card for at least a week.