I own a really great pair of kitchen scissors that my parents gave me for Christmas a couple years ago. They are unbelievably sharp and I wouldn’t be surprised if they could cut through my kitchen table if that’s what I wanted.They also can be taken apart so they can be washed or the blades sharpened.

And yesterday one half of the pair was missing.

I noticed it right before dinner. I opened a kitchen drawer and there sat one half of my kitchen scissors. I opened the dishwasher to see if I’d accidentally left the other half inside. Nope. I checked all the other drawers to see if it had been placed mistakenly in the wrong one. Wrong again. Hmmmm.

Then I knew. Adam had taken the missing blade. This is a new game of his. He likes to “help” and “fix” and “have that”. Those are phrases he is able to use pretty efficiently now. He’s also, at almost five, tall enough and smart enough to reach into cabinets and drawers and also manipulate locks and pretty much anything that the childproofing department of Target sells to keep toddlers away from dangerous household items.

He’s also sly enough to run off with these things and hide them, kind of like Helen Keller locking Anne Sullivan in her room and hiding the key. It’s a game. It gets him attention. It probably makes him feel powerful that he can outsmart all of the people in his life that, to him, seem to be only capable of saying “NO!” and “DON’T TOUCH!”.

For the most part, it’s just been a real inconvenience. He’s hidden his brothers’ Nintendo DS systems a couple times. He occasionally has hidden his shoes outside in the yard. He ran off with all of the scotch tape one day which wasn’t really a problem until I had to wrap a birthday gift. I just borrowed some from a neighbor.

But now a really sharp blade was missing and if I was correct in suspecting Adam, this was just all sorts of wrong. And while Adam, at almost five, possesses a fairly impressive vocabulary and even the ability to spell and write much of his vocabulary, it is just that. Vocabulary. You can ask him his name and he will tell you “Adam.” You can ask him what color Spongebob is and he will tell you “yellow”. Yet asking him things like how was your day at school, where did you hide the kitchen scissors and most importantly, do you understand the urgency of this situation…well, I don’t expect to get far. Autism gets in the way of these kinds of conversations.

Not that I wasn’t going to try, however. The next morning, I was on a mission.

“Adam,” I began as patiently as I could, because freaking out usually freaks him out. “Do you see this?” I held up the blade. “Do you know what this is?”   

He grinned big. “Scissors!”he proclaimed proudly.

“Does Adam play with scissors?”

“Adam cut with scissors!”

“What does Adam cut with scissors?”

Adam looked at me, then stuffed a bunch of Fruit Loops in his mouth and started rambling on about how b-u-s spells bus and how he’s going to be a skeleton for Halloween.

“Adam!” I forced eye contact with him. “Where are the other scissors? See these?”I showed him the half pair. “These are in this drawer. Where are the other ones?”

Adam smiled. Ate Fruit Loops. Turned the TV on and off. I didn’t know what to do. Missing Nintendos are one thing. A four year old playing with sharp objects is quite another. Dammit. Come on, Adam, help me out here. How can I get you to understand??

“Adam,” I tried once more, “Mommy wants these scissors. Can you go get them for Mommy? It will make Mommy so happy if you bring me the scissors.”                                                                                                                        

“Watch Spongebob?” Adam asked as he slid down from his kitchen stool and ran off, leaving me shaking my head and wondering in exactly which way this situation was going to end badly.

Five minutes later, I turned my head to see Adam coming downstairs, his favorite doll in one hand, the missing half pair of kitchen scissors in the other. He stopped and gave me a mischievous grin and I have to say, it made me think just a little of Michael Myers in the beginning of Halloween. I immediately ran over and took them from him before we had any chance of recreating that scene.

“Adam!” I hugged him. “Thank you for bringing me the scissors! Good job! You did it! These scissors need to stay in the kitchen. These are Mommy’s scissors!”

Adam laughed, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mommy so happy!”

Yes, Mommy so happy. Mommy so relieved. Relieved because I had my scissors back and I’d just averted a potential seriously bad situation. A million different bad situations if you stop to imagine…

And also so relieved and happy because I’d just had a breakthrough moment with my autistic son. Sometimes they come in the most unsuspecting and unusual ways.

If only Anne Sullivan was around to give me a high five…

Logan and his neighborhood buddy Nick scored themselves some Walkie Talkies this afternoon and honestly, it was as if they had struck gold.

I don’t know where the things came from–it could have been any one of the garages to which they have access in our culdesac–but the radios worked very well and you’d have thought someone had handed the boys equal rights to the Holy Grail.

I happened to be outside at the time because Adam was out there as well. This gave me the opportunity to witness the spy games being played and also the creativity of which these two fine young gentlemen are capable. They did not disappoint.

“Agent N, this is Agent L confirming an enemy sighting due west. Enemy is armed, proceed with caution,” Logan alerted Nick to the danger of 7 year old Ryan lurking on the deck with his Star Wars laser gun.

“Roger that, Agent L. Enemy in sight. Capture coming right up.”

“Return enemy to secret dungeon.”

“Roger. Mission completed.”

Then suddenly it was as if the red tape of good taste and innocent dramatic play was snipped away and a light bulb of crassness exploded like a bomb into their brains.

“SPLLLLLLTTTTTTTHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” came the sound of Logan spitting through the airwaves. Both boys collapsed on the ground in amused hysterics.

“Go really far away!” Nick commanded. “I want you to hear this from really far away.” Logan obeyed, heading around to the backyard while Nick remained in the driveway.

“BLLLLLUGHHHHRRRP!” belched Nick impressively as if he’d spent the afternoon chugging pitchers of beer at the nearest bar. “Did you hear that?! I just burped into the Walkie Talkie!!”

“FARTFACE!” squawked the reply.

“FFFFFFFRRRRRRRT! I JUST FARTED INTO IT!”

And so it went on for several more minutes, with each boy taking his turn at making whatever kind of disgusting noise into the speaker he could coax out of his body, each trying to outdo the previous attempt. When they ran out of noises (or when possibly one of them felt an esophagus was beginning to errode), they turned their efforts into accusing each other of various unforgivable third grade sins.

“YOU KISS GIRLS AT RECESS!!”

“YOUR UNDERWEAR SHOWS DURING LIBRARY AT SCHOOL!”

Amazingly, this was all in good fun.  I feel kind of like Logan had some of the greatest 30 minutes of his life. I also know that there are many moms who would have put a stop to it right away. I, however, am just used to this type of entertainment that young boys seem to crave, I know they just need to get it out of their systems, and I also am fairly confident that turning a blind eye to it will not result in either of them shouting these things at their teachers (or their bosses) someday.

So I simply took it for what it was: another moment where a child in my life gives me something to shake my head and laugh about. And write about!          

Uh…thanks for that?

My morning chores checklist yesterday included the following:

Beds made? Check.

Dishwasher loaded? Check.

Laundry started? Check.

Beanstalk growing out of Logan’s bathroom sink? Check.

Wait a minute. Really? Really? Yes, really. A beanstalk was growing out of my 9 year old’s bathroom sink.

Unfortunately, the beanstalk didn’t lead to a magic castle in the sky, where all that stood in the way of lifelong golden riches was a quick battle with Andre the Giant and the ‘napping of his pet goose. I would have been up for that, sure. That would have been really cool! Can you imagine? Who could ever argue again that there’s no excitement in a stay at home mom’s life?

Actually, however, the beanstalk was pretty small and lame but it was a beanstalk nonetheless and it was growing in my son’s sink.

So I simply plucked the beanstalk from the drain, pulled out the drain stopper, gave it a good rinse, replaced the stopper back in the sink and made a mental note to have a conversation with Logan later about the moral of this almost fairy tale.

And that moral would be Don’t dump your hamster food down the bathroom sink, as simple science dictates that seeds+water+a little bit of dirt=vegetation.

Unless, of course, they are magic seeds! Then, my boy, you’d have my blessing to plant away.

On Sunday morning, I woke up remembering that I’d promised the boys we’d go for donuts. I was Army Wife this weekend so it was just the 3 boys and myself.

The boys were not keen at all on the idea of going to a grocery store to pick out donuts. They wanted to go to a real donut place (probably because that removed the chance that any shopping would be a part of the adventure) so we headed to Lamar’s. Apparently everyone else in the area had the same idea. The line stretched outside of the tiny shop.

Adam was already a little edgy because I’d nixed the idea of allowing him to bring his favorite toys du jour (plastic, light up spiders, don’t ask) out of the car and honestly, I’m not quite sure why I nixed the idea in the first place.  In fact, I sent Logan back to the car to get them and once they were back in Adam’s possession, we actually waited in line like normal people, free of drama.

That is, until an overly friendly gentleman standing behind us couldn’t resist bending down to Adam’s level, getting right up in his face and bellowing, “HEY THERE BIG GUY!! WHAT DO YOU HAVE THERE?! SCARY SPIDERS, HUH? HOPE THEY DON’T BITE YA!”

I wish sometimes I could hang a sign around Adam’s neck that read  I have autism. I like to be left alone. Maybe I’d even go into more detail. Something like Because I have autism, I have trouble keeping it together in public places. I’m trying to do what I’m supposed to do, but it’d be best for all of us if you’d refrain from getting in my face and talking loudly.

The sign would have been helpful because after that man got in Adam’s face, we weren’t Lamar’s customers anymore, we were prisoners in Spectrum Meltdown City. Adam became completely unglued, throwing his spiders at the man, running up to the donut case and banging his head on the glass. After several “Oh Mys” from the other patrons, most eyes turned to me, looking to see how I’d handle the situation.

Here’s where I needed my own sign. It would read My son isn’t an undisciplined brat, he has autism. I’m not a bad mom, oblivious as to how to handle my kids. If that were either of my two other normal children, you betcha they’d never act like that again after I was through with them. The rules are different with Adam. The best I can hope for is that this line will move quickly. Sorry for the trouble. You have no idea how sorry.

Truth be told, the whole event lasted about 5 more minutes, even though it felt like an hour. We got our donuts (a dozen of them, all covered with all kinds of crap. Clearly Logan and Ryan took advantage of the situation!) and were rung up quicker than you could say long johns, as the cashier was smart enough to see the sign that read GET US OUT OF HERE NOW!

Back in the car, headed home on a beautiful fall morning, all was calm, all was bright, spectrum meltdown a thing of the past. I had three happy boys with visions of donuts dancing in their heads.

And on the radio, the song Wonder by Natalie Merchant began to play.

Was that a sign?

Pajamas

First Child: Flame retardant, oxygen filled, radiation- proof union suit that is six sizes too small (as is required by law to qualify as flame retardant)ensures he/she will survive a nuclear blast to live amongst the cockroaches, even though no one else in your house will because, well, keep reading…

Second Child: Whatever first child wore, except that all the machine washings have worn off most of the armour that rendered the first child immortal.

Third Child: Just pull something outta the drawer. Snowman flannel pants in the middle of July paired with First Child’s old soccer jersey works as well as anything.

Sports

First Child thinks:  The soccer net is a really cool thing to climb on and the pitcher’s mound is the biggest pile of dirt I’ve ever seen!

Second Child thinks: I will kick the ball farther than First Child when it’s my turn to play next year.

Third Child thinks (even when autistic): You throw the ball, you hit the ball, you kick the ball, you catch the ball. When you do it well, everyone claps and yells “YAY!” Got it. Not too hard to figure out when most of your weekends are spent watching from the sidelines.

Emergencies/Injuries

First Child: You race to Pediatric Office/Urgent Care/ER with tears of fear and guilt streaming down your face. Hold complimentary popsicle in First Child’s mouth on way home, whether it is 6 hours or 6 minutes later. And you’re still not convinced he/she’s OK.

Second Child:  He shows off stitches to neighbor friends as a badge of honor and considers it a bonus that he has accumulated more over time than First Child has.

Third Child: When he points at the plug outlet, says “Ouchie! Hot!” while grabbing his finger, you assume he has learned his lesson the hard way.

 Immunizations

First Child: You can rattle off the dates of each shot given plus what, if any, reaction there was without missing a beat.

Second Child: You refer to the little pink card that thankfully, you seem to be able to remember to bring to each well visit.

Third Child: The pink card is blank. And still sitting in your hospital bag. You simply trust that since you’ve managed to keep Third Child on the well visit schedule that he or she has had the appropriate immunizations and so you answer “yes” whenever you are asked if Third Child is up to date. Also, your pediatric office has just about had it with the amount of times you’ve had to call them and ask them to fax Third Child’s records somewhere.

 It’s probably a good thing I don’t have any more children. They’d probably be expected to call cabs to get themselves home from the hospital after being born.

What’s the saying? I love you all equally but differently? Totally applies to my house.