I’ve been lying on my stomach out in the hall for awhile now listening to Adam read himself to sleep. He’s gone through The Little Engine that Could, Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, and is now rolling right on through The Cat in the Hat. He “reads” with perfection, missing not one phrase, page or word. His voice inflection might make him seem a natural for the stage. Those who didn’t know better would call him to the head of his class tomorrow to lead his friends in the daily story.

It is amazing, uplifting and heartbreaking all at once to be out here on the other side of his door listening to my six year old storyteller. How I ache to go into his room! How I want to push through that door, even though it’s supposed to be bedtime and encourage and share his experiences with the world that is opened up once we learn to read!

I can’t. I can only sit and listen. I think I can I think I can I think I can I think I can…I hear his sweet voice as I lie motionless, still as can be in the outside hall. My 6 year old, my baby, is reading himself to sleep.

I can’t share this with him because to push open his door, to interrupt his world right now, to even make a sound that would let him know my foot might cross his no fly zone would at best ruin the moment. At worst it would send him into tearful hysterics and delay the whole bedtime thing for Lord knows how long.

So I will sit on the other side of the door, listen, and not dare disturb.

And that my friends, is a slice of autism.

They say that autistic children don’t make eye contact.

That may be true. Autistic children do not make eye contact. Always.

But they do. Sometimes.

Sometimes, in a quiet moment, when I’m not expecting it, I’ll look up to find Adam looking me straight in the eye.

It’s not the same kind of eye contact my other two sons demand of me while they’re sharing every detail of the latest (or oldest) Spongebob episode. Or tattling on each other’s various sins. Or giving me the play by play of whatever game ESPN is broadcasting.

It’s in a quick, unexpected, fleeting moment that Adam will lock lasers with me.

And smile at me.

And I’ll smile at him.

And we both just know.

That for the moment, we both get it.

It won’t last long.

But I’ll take it.

Even if it’s only sometimes.

CAUTION! SANTA SPOILERS!!

So…I have this 10 year old, Logan, and he is a really great kid.  Really. Truly. I don’t just say it because I’m his mom. If you want me to back up this statement, trust me, it wouldn’t be hard. One of the greatest things about him is that he possesses this rare kind of innocence that only a handful of people can still claim by the age of 10, boys especially.

He also still believes in Santa. Not that I haven’t tried to fix such a problem.

Yeah yeah, call me a Scrooge, Grinch, heartless b-tch, whatever comes to mind, but I am not going to deny that for the past couple years, I have been waiting, patiently, VERY patiently, for Logan to ask me The Question. Or maybe not even form it as a question. It could be more of a declaration. Like, “Hey, Mom, I know there’s no Santa. I know it’s you and Dad. Don’t even try this year to pull that bullshit on me, OK?”

When he does, I will step around the corner, breathe a huge sigh of relief, and then I will go ahead and make the mortgage payment come back to him and say, “OK. I won’t try and pull that bullshit on you.”

I won’t really say it that way and please don’t think for one minute it will actually be a fantastic moment for me. Being sentimental doesn’t generally come easy for me, but sheesh almighty, I have put in my time during this past decade to really play up the OH LOOK WHAT SANTA BROUGHT! idea and you have to understand–this comes with staying up til all hours to watch my husband put together various 100 parts plus contraptions and literally begging Logan’s 2 year old soul to notice the half eaten cookies and milk “Santa” left. We used to even have this big boot we tried to convince the boys was left behind by Santa as he scurried back up our chimney. We created this, I won’t deny it, and I won’t deny either that a huge part of my soul aches to have those precious years back.

It’s just that…well, two things:

1. Logan doesn’t understand about “Santa” being on a budget. It was much easier to push the Santa idea when it was I who controlled The List. Seriously! That drum set in the basement? $10 at Toys R Us one year. His Top 3 Wii games this year? $50 a piece. Life would be a lot easier if I could just scream “ ARE YOU CRAZY!? WE DON’T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY!”

2. He’s 10. Many of his friends know the truth. To make an honest guess, I’d say most of his friends have known this truth for a couple years. I worry about  his precious innocent soul getting humiliated on the playground.

Any mom will tell you… the fear of her child getting humiliated on the playground packs a lot of heat.

I recall a conversation I had once with a mom who mentioned her own similar worry and she finally, in desperation, called her 5th grade daughter in and blurted out the big ugly truth. Her daughter cried and the mom cried and it was a horrible moment for both of them but at the same time, the mom held tight to her belief  that she’d done the right thing in sparing her daughter the humiliation of being teased by her peers.

It’s very tempting to have such a conversation with Logan.

A couple weeks ago, he was going over his List and when I interjected a snarky comment about hoping Santa also had a nice bonus check for mom and dad this year, I caught his eye and couldn’t help but notice the tears which sprang to his big browns.

He suspects.

It’s that kind of moment that shakes me up a bit. Who the hell am I to ruin this for him? He’s 10. He has many more years to learn of disappointments. He’s a kid. He’s 10.

He’s just a kid.

Go ahead and believe. Didn’t we all once?

I feel like I just struck parenting gold this morning!  How did it take me 10 years to figure this out? Allow me to share my amazing good fortune with you all…

This weekend found me parenting solo beginning around 4:00 p.m.  Friday and of course, it took maybe an hour before I was beginning to sport fangs and glowing red eyes in response to the constant barrage of frivolous needs and wants coming from the VIPs disguised as children that inhabit this house.  It seemed as though everything began with “Mo-OM!” and ended with “Can you get me (a drink, a snack, some money, my DS, etc.), Can you find (the remote, my Eiffel Tower Silly Band, my DS, my soccer shoes, etc.), Can you fix (the remote, my dinner, my scooter, this helicopter I haven’t touched in years but suddenly I need right this minute, etc.) and so many general Something is Not Quite Right statements that this Miss Clavel was considering making a batch of mean martinis.

I’ll admit however, that even though I grumbled and hissed and bared my teeth through all of this, I did, in fact, quickly satisfy any need, want or complaint that was thrown my way. This continued all through Saturday and began again this Sunday morning when as soon as my awakened human form was detected on their radar, the boys chided me for various infractions such as breakfast had not yet been served and it was almost 8 a.m., the On Demand was not working (to which I suggested they call Comcast and discuss it with one of the delightful customer service reps with whom I’m on a first name basis with by now) and Ryan’s foot was asleep (to which I suggested cutting it off if it continued to bother him).

Yes, I was grouchy and not proud of some of my snippy comebacks. But I’d HAD it. It was as if every time I entered the room this weekend, I’d announced “And now we will hear the lamentations of the children!” I just. Wanted. To have. My Coffee. And read the paper. Please. 30 minutes, guys, that’s all I ask!

So when I was finally able to sit down at the table and do just that, here within seconds appeared Ryan announcing that he was ready for me to help him work on his science project (that is due in 2 weeks. Seriously! Who works on their science project at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning? Someone who senses that his mom may have a little free time on her hands, that’s who!). I felt the fangs growing back, the glowing red eyes beginning to shine, the blood pressure rising, and the Mommy is a Martyr comment forming on my lips.

Instead, I looked down, took a deep breath, turned to my son and said, “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m unavailable right now.” Then I smiled at him and turned back to the paper.

And dang it if he didn’t turn around and without a word, head upstairs to begin that science project all by himself. Novel concept.

I think I’m on to something here!

We all have had That Year. The year we realized, or began to suspect that life’s not fair. Some of us have maybe had that year and then several other similar years to serve as a reminder or to keep us acutely aware of how it doesn’t all work out just because we want it to or ask our parents pretty please or because it never has not worked out for us in the past. Sooner or later, we all face that unfortunate truth.

My oldest son, Logan, just had his very first Life’s Not Fair year.

It wasn’t about not getting his way or dealing with frustration in order to learn patience. No, I’m talking about how life slams the door hard in your face sometimes, even when you don’t deserve it, and leaves you feeling gut wrenched, heartbroken and experiencing an anger like you’ve never felt before. It happens. More than once. Sometimes it gives us character, sometimes it leaves us bitter, and sometimes it makes us better.

But also maybe sometimes, it doesn’t do any of the above things. Maybe it just makes us wiser and wakes us up the next day with a different perspective. That, I think, is Logan.

Actually, the events of the past 9 months really haven’t been fair to any of the members of my family, especially the kids. Somehow, though, it is my 10 year old Logan that I have seen the most affected. I don’t know why, maybe it’s his age, his sensitive nature, or the fact that I’ve done more than my fair share of making it all OK for him as much as possible ever since he came into my life. I always said I’d never be that parent, but I could write a book on all the things I do that I said I’d never do.

I’ll never forget the night we had to tell the boys that their grandmother, Mimi, was going to die from brain cancer. It was one of the worst moments of my life. We’d put it off as long as we could, even though we adults, well schooled in the Life’s Not Fair lesson, learned in early January that there was no hope for her survival. We sat on the sofa in our living room on a bitterly cold Friday evening in February and spelled out the facts. Boys, we’re so sorry, but Mimi is very sick and she is going to die.

 There was nothing I could do to fix that. I couldn’t take the boys to the store as soon as it opened in the morning to buy a new Mimi. I had to just let it be not fair and hope that they would come to accept it and move on, as we adults were preparing to do. It was a helpless feeling I had as I could do nothing but sit on the sofa and hold my sobbing sons on that horrible evening. As I spent those sad moments with my sons, I could sense the desperation in Logan as he turned it over and over in his mind and tried to make it different, and finally settling on the reality of the situation.

The next day, my then 9 year old Logan went with his dad to Mimi’s house and crawled into bed with the woman who had been such a huge part of his life, his greatest champion even in the very earliest parts of his life, the woman who had less than 24 hours left to live.

It was several weeks later when the whole Life’s Not Fair thing reared its ugly head again and Logan watched helplessly as his beloved #1 in the country Kansas Jayhawks got stung by Northern Iowa in the NCAA Basketball Championships. Once again, I could do nothing but try to comfort him and wait for the sobbing to stop, for him to accept something that was not meant to be, no matter who you are or what you’ve done to deserve a better outcome, and then move on.

No matter whether it was losing Mimi to cancer or watching KU lose in the 2nd round of the NCAA tourney, both events were tragic for him in a way that only he can comprehend. As a parent, I can say with the most heartfelt honesty that I would relive any and all of my worst days if I could erase the worst of my children’s. Yet I know that Logan is on his way to a new understanding of the way it goes, and that sometimes it doesn’t go the way he wants it to.

Sometimes, life’s not fair and that’s all there is to it.

Logan and Mimi 2006