April 4, 2011
The Pot of Gold
“Zachy, we don’t stand up in booths at restaurants” I gently admonish my youngest child, reminding myself that this is literally the first time he’s been in such an establishment in two years, since he’s an adherent to the gluten-free casein-free diet. While there are now a number of pizza places in our area that serve their fare without wheat, rice, barley, and oats (I imagine this is mostly due to Celiac’s disease and a recent diet craze by celebrities, not autism), I have yet to find a locale which can meet both of my son’s restrictions. Tonight however we’re fortunate, because the owner of this particular Perkins’s has no issue with my toting Zach’s dinner along with me from home, so we’re set. Both boys, to my delight, are eating well. And after I’ve cleaned up the multiple Picasso-like smears of ketchup enhancing both the design of the table and the glass-etched partition separating us from the other patrons in the restaurant, we’ll be on our way to celebrate St. Patty’s Day at Someone Special Needs You tonight.
A woman’s work is never done.
On our way over to meet my aunt for dinner prior to the big event my eldest son kvetched mightily, his disdain for his younger brother’s presence readily apparent, but about halfway to Perkin’s he finally settled down. I even caught him regarding Zach a few times with a look on his face that said “Can you BELIEVE she’s taking us here?”, and after I explained a hundred thousand times to Zach what our itinerary was for the evening, he got on board with the plans as well. After we pay for our meal and over-tip the nicest waitress EVER (short of shoving a mop and bucket in my “goody bag”, there’s no way I can ever restore this table to its proper cleanliness, and this woman NEVER complains), the boys run eagerly to the car, almost pulling our arms from our sockets in their enthusiasm. We quickly arrive at the church mere minutes later, and I relegate Zach to my aunt as I try to prevent Justin from bowling over some of the younger participants in the program.
Even though he’ll want to leave in twenty minutes, for Justin this moment is horseback riding AND Great Adventure all rolled into one.
Neither of Justin’s buddies are in attendance tonight, but we are fortunate to acquire a substitute, a poised, chatty freshman who I am certain will one day dominate the world (in a good way). Justin takes to her immediately, and she says due to her schedule she can’t commit to coming here every month, but she’ll try harder. I’m just grateful she’s here tonight, as the allure of SSNY for Justin is not the crafts, but the teen-aged girls. While autism may traditionally inhibit social interaction in its hosts, this is clearly one subset of the population for which Justin will consistently overcome his limitations.
His father is so proud.
My youngest son has also lucked into a buddy for the evening, and there is a point where for five consecutive minutes I get to chat with my aunt as my boys decorate their leprechauns, and construct their own personal pots of gold in which to house them. I’m constantly plying Justin with food so he will make it to the grand finale of the night, a hunt in the graveyard for gold nuggets of treasure to fill the green buckets they’re creating to hold their stash. Once again I’m impressed with how much effort Vince Scanelli and his volunteers have taken to throw this event together on a weeknight no less, and I’m still grateful for the flyer about SSNY that Justin’s pre-school teacher sent our way in his backpack four years ago. Generally at this point on a weeknight I’m just trying to remind myself to make Justin’s lunch for school, and this gentleman has been providing an outlet for children with all disabilities to spend time with neurotypical peers on a monthly basis. From the look of delight and concentration on Zach’s face, I think the McCaffertys have one more activity our boys can do together as a family.
Justin finishes his craft quickly, but manages to fill the remaining time until the treasure hunt with multiple trips to the bathroom, so for once I’m not spending the majority of my evening convincing him to stick around. Halfway into the hour Vince summons us all to the front of the church’s great room, distributes leprechaun hats to those who desire to don them (where does this man find the time), and regales us with the plans for the rest of the evening. It seems those naughty little Irish icons have distributed their wealth throughout the adjoining cemetery out back, and if we move quickly we can acquire them for ourselves before the green gremlins return to claim their cache. I look around me at the participants, ranging widely both in age and in the manifestation of their disabilities, and listen to their collective exhale of joy and anticipation. I watch Zach look up at my aunt in wonder as he rejects his hat, then I turn toward my eldest to see how he has reacted to the news of impending carb heaven.
He stands squarely in the center of the fray, his eyes mere inches from the mecca of DVD movie heaven, smiling and entranced by the old man from Up. My son is completely unaware of his surroundings, could just as easily be in Disney, or at the DMV. For him, at this moment, none of the rest of us even exists.
Even a few years ago, this realization might have ruined the night for me. I would have been so saddened my son was oblivious to the excitement swirling around him I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy the moments of engagement he did have this evening, the connection forged with a girl I hope will be a new friend. I’m not certain I would have been able to move forward in my mind to the event to come, which will involve my two boys breathlessly foraging for their finds, relentless in their acquisition of gold. I don’t know that I could have pulled myself back from the abyss of what appears to me at times such a solitary state for my boy, one in which I’ve often envisioned he must feel so alone.
Except, perhaps sometimes, like right now, he actually doesn’t.
My goals for my boys have never altered over the years, have not been diminished by autism, have simply been reframed. I want what I’ve always wanted for them- health, hope for a safe and industrious future, and happiness. The longer I remain on the “autism tour”, the more I feel these elaborate goals are potentially feasible, will perhaps be attainable while I am still young and facile enough in mind to recognize we’ve achieved them.
And that day, in all its glory, will truly be the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.