BEING 12

 I was talking with a very close friend about a crisis* G had in school last week and, after I’d been blabbing for some time, she said, “Well, you’re so focused on his autism what with the blog and everything, and, you know, all kids have struggles…”

Oh dear…Is that what people think, that for us it’s all blog and/or autism? To clarify, I have three jobs now. So it’s a privilege to think about this darling blog for even a fraction of a moment. Second, this conversation had nothing to do with the blog [until now, anyway] or G’s having asperger’s. Did I mention autism during my diarrhea of the mouth**? No. This – all this I had been sharing with her about what happened at school, which incident was very painful -- was

about

being

12.

This was, maybe, partly, also, being a child of a tough divorce. But autism? Not so much. The main crisis-inducer here was, again: being 12.  Luckily, we are good enough friends that we were able to clarify our respective perspectives well and move on, but it sure got me thinking…

Is 12 the hardest age? My vote is yes.  You are still so young, but bravely trying to be “grown-up.” You are sullen, self-loathing, monosyllabic; while also still wanting and needing to be taken care of and adored. You are still extremely cute and squeezable, yet you are, at times, a jerk. Other times, you are sweet as sunshine. Then: jerk! Sunshine. Sunshine. Jerk.

It’s SO moody at 12.

Your peers are starting to have serious interest in whoever they might be interested in romantically; and, although you might not be quite there yet, you feel it stirring. And it’s confusing.  Watching G sometimes, one can almost see the new feelings and hormones moving inside him, moving him, like the sap running in trees this time of year.

At 12, most kids won’t admit to still liking to play…and yet they do still like to play, in private or at home with younger siblings.

Sure, maybe for G, he’s a bit developmentally behind his peers, but being 12 is something that happens to most people at some point, whether they are 11 or 13 or…

Being 12 is, for G, about knowing soon you will have to put away your stuffies.

Figure I – G has a LOT of stuffies. His treasured seals [one is a manatee, oops!] are in front.***

Being 12, for G, also means still being enough of a little one to offer your best stuffies to your mom when she is sick.

      Figure II – Healing Stuffies, Blanco and Blancli, on Mama’s Pillow****

Being both of these is tender, and raw, and HUGE.

Sometimes things in the Full Spectrum household are pretty near idyllic, and sometimes they are decidedly not. Sometimes that non-idyllic situation has to do with autism or an attachment disorder or something else entirely…Sometimes, for pure awfulness as well as the occasional marvel, being 12 is enough.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* Yes, I do use this word advisedly.

** I know I promised less diarrhea-focused writing; this is diarrhea of the mouth.

*** Please, those of you for whom this blog is not anonymous, DO NOT SHOW THESE PHOTOS TO YOUR 12 YEAR OLDS!

**** None of these stuffies will be gotten rid of. It’s possible they will “belong” to G’s younger sister in future, or move to FSM’s bed (shh, pardner doesn’t know about this), or be given to deserving, saintly little ones in great need.

DEAR SON

Dear Son,

Now that you are heading into 6^th Grade, there are some things you should know.

First, while style is not of the deepest importance and may never be your forte, you should at least master Preventative Style.

I bring this up because the last time I asked you to choose your own outfit, you managed to dig up the worst, bottom-of-pants-pile, horrible, teal (teal!), Members Only style, rustling parachute pants I’d gingerly received for you as a hand-me-down and hidden away for a *dire laundry emergency. *

You located them, somehow. Then, as is your custom with leg-coverings, you pulled them up to your chest. And you tucked your shirt into your underwear and pulled that above the waist of those high water pants.

You see?

No, I am afraid you don’t, dear son.

I don’t mean to even try to teach you conformity, just basic clothing safety. You need to learn to ask yourself, “Will this item of clothing (or mode of wearing said item) instantly and inevitably cause people to make fun of me?” Some possible starter red flags might include: teal, overly embellished, ill-fitting, visible underwear.

Why should you care about this? Let’s just say it will ease the next few years of your life.

Actually, I am probably the wrong person to identify fashion red flags:

Figure I – FSM, Junior Sartorialist, not much older than G is right now. NB: You cannot even see that I had rubber bands on the bottoms of the bellbottoms – just to kinda bring ‘em in and then let ‘em flare out again -- and, gosh, I think Roman sandals?

Next, darling, while I do not want to curb your loving nature, now might well be the time to learn that not everybody has your best interests at heart. I got called into a Dread Meeting after you were away at camp with your class because your teacher was concerned about your going around and giving massages to adults you didn’t know. He worried that you might be vulnerable to getting hurt because you have no idea that some people can have bad intentions. He wondered, as I do, how we can protect your sweet heart while giving you some strong boundaries as you head into adolescence.

This is hard to explain, especially to someone honest, literal and pure-intentioned like you. But everyone gets confused about this stuff at first.

In the aforementioned meeting, your teacher told me a story about how he was once in an airport with his young son when his son asked him, “Dad, are any of these people strangers?” It’s so beautiful that there are, for you, no strangers. But it is time to learn to draw the line between who is a good candidate for a massage and who is not. Time to know that no one has the right to touch your private parts or hurt your body in any way. There will come a time for intimacy, but that time is not now, buster.

So, for now I will very simply say: you should know – at least in principle - that there is danger in the world.  The best way to avoid – prevention, again, being the theme - this danger is to reserve your trust for people you know well. Also, to never, ever touch someone you do not know or let them touch you.

Finally, regarding things you should do only in an appropriate fashion to others: courting.

I remember reading somewhere about Social Coaches for this stuff, professionals who offer pointers on just how long one may appropriately look at people one finds attractive, and things to say and do in romantical circumstances. Here, sugar, as at least part of the equation, please think offense prevention, humiliation prevention…

As with the clothing issue, I may not be the smoothest mentor here, but I can say that you should not be following girls (or boys) around at length or staring at their body parts in a noticeable way.

For example, when we are at a party (Why? Why????) and the 6^th Grade (going into 7^th) girl you are crushing on (Yes, G, we know this) arrives, you should not go stand 11” away from her and talk awkwardly at her while still holding your food plate while food falls off it, while she is talking to three other 6^th (7^th) grade boys and totally ignoring you.

When you told me, “Mom, I can handle this,” well, I tried to believe you, really I did.

But, um, I am afraid you cannot.

As I have explained, Crushgirl is about a MILLION years older than you. Yes, she, too, is 11. But she is a grade above you and female, ergo, a million years older than you.

She seems to be a super nice kid, who actually sees the wonderful person you are (versus merely tolerating you as some ignoramuses do), but

1.     she likes talking to other people, too, and

2.     in a Zillion years, a 6^th grade gal will never “like” a 5^th grade boy.

So, to return to our example, when I call you over and

1.     the fellow next to me joins me in advising you that acting like a stalker is bad, and

2.     Ayi E fills you in on how her son never talks to any of the girls and they all crush on HIM…

…To be very clear, we did mean that you should maybe give Crushgirl some space and experiment with being quiet, sure.

What we did not mean was that you should go stand 27” away from Crushgirl and pretend that you are a MIME.

Love,

Your (Full Spectrum) Mama

The Least Popular Kid in the Class – Part One

As we got ready to head back to school this morning after “vacation,” Z was bouncing off the walls: “I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t wait,” she chanted.  G was more circumspect, and his little face was tight.

I hugged him and asked, “Whatsa matter, buddy?”

“I just don’t wanna go back to school.”

Oh, parents everywhere, hear my cry. Wide. Range. Of. Emotions. (W.R.O.E.)

We talked some about it – wonderful teachers…learning, importance thereof…how we can’t just play aaaaaaaaaallllll the time – but still…W.R.O.E.

Since dropping him off (did his sister even notice my leaving? I think not.) I’m stuck on an incident from a few weeks ago:

“I hope you are feeling better,” G’s beloved teacher from third and fourth grade had called out to him as we left school.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing,” G responded, too emphatically.

“Then why did Mr. __ ask you that?”

“Nothing! No reason!”

I pushed. It felt right this time (sometimes it’s better to let go, I know).

At length, this story, as according to G, emerged:

G’s teacher likes to start off the day by asking thought-provoking questions during “morning meeting.” Often, these questions are like koans,* in that there is no “right” answer.

That particular day, the discussion was led by the teacher’s aide (who happens to work with G) and the question was, “What would you do if you we're the least popular kid in class? What would you do if you were the parent of that kid?"

G’s answer? “I think I am the least popular kid in class and I do nothing because I don't care about being cool; I would say to my child, 'Don't worry about it because when you grow up the weird will triumph!'"

His response, so brave and wise, took my breath away. (Mothers are so objective.) Also, the whole thing made me want to throw up, especially after what he said next:

“Then,” he continued, “for some reason, I started crying.”

You know how you’d do anything on earth for your baby (whoever your baby is, maybe it’s your partner, your cat…)? At that moment I promised the universe ANYTHING if it would only show me what to do to fix this situation. 

As we shift into the tween and dread middle school years, I fear social issues can only gather weight. As it stands, we drive hours to play with kids G has really connected with; plus we have carefully sought-out play dates in other local school districts.  And it’s not like G’s no fun to play with! He’s a really fun kid, if sometimes a bit fixated on Pokemon. He’s just stuck in a small school right now, where the particular mix of kids has left him…friendless.

Later, G asked me, “So how did you feel when I told you that?”

I thought about “that” for a minute. “First, I felt proud and happy, because you are so wise. But, also, I felt sad, because you felt that way and you must’ve been through quite a journey to get to feeling that way. I guess I also felt hopeful, that you will be around a more diverse bunch of kids soon.”

I paused and then asked, “How did YOU feel after all that drama?”

“I had mixed feelings.”

“Like what?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

I pressed him a little bit more.

“Stuff.”

…”STUFF???!!!”

Now that’s a “normal” tween answer!

(To be continued…)

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* Merriam-Webster defines koan as, “a paradox to be meditated upon.” The concept arose from the Zen Buddhist tradition.