I really don't have that cape

Nick's been having an "off" week. That's the term that comes up in discussions with his therapists and teachers during times like this. It seems that with all their thera-speak and edu-speak that they'd come up with something fancier, but "off" is the word of choice.

And always, when he has an off week, I am thrust into the role of detective, trying to figure out what went wrong so that the off could be turned back on again. Was it the allergies? The slight increase in Depakote last week? The nosebleeds? The end of the school year? A decrease in calcium or Omega 3s or Vitamin D or Selenium? The therapists and teachers add pressure to my obsessive sleuthing, pelting me with question after question about what might have changed to make him off.

A lot of times, I can figure out what triggers him. He's OCD about some things, which a lot of people with autism are, and I've become rather expert in memorizing those things. If we're going to the school bus stop, we need to walk down the left side of the driveway, and then we have to close the gate to the neighborhood ALL the way, and then we need to stop at a certain spot to play in the dirt. Mess up one of these things, and the aide on the bus gets scratched by an angry child who needs to finish his rituals before being buckled into his seat. But I've memorized them all, and learned how to speed through them when the bus shows up too early, so Nick's usually okay.

But there are some things that I just can't prepare for.

Nick and I went to the store this evening. Not the crappy discount store around the corner, but the nice store a few miles away where I could buy some nice things. I remembered that the last time we went to that store that Nick got upset and so I proceeded very carefully and cautiously. I was living sunshine, making the store as bright and as wonderful for my son as I possibly could.

We got the cart and, doing my best rendition of cheerleader-mommy, I settled Nick into the seat. And . . . nothing! He sat down happily in the cart! This is usually the battle line--if we can cross it, we're golden.

But then I buckled the seatbelt.

It wasn't really a seatbelt; it was an armpit belt. And Nick FREAKED OUT.

I could totally understand his freak-out; in his world, seatbelts NEEDED to be on laps. It made sense. And so I unbuckled the seatbelt.

Nick freaked out even more. Because a seatbelt gives him security: YOU CAN'T BE IN A GROCERY CART WITHOUT A SEATBELT!

And so I took him out of the cart, talking to him in my most soothing mommy voice, reassuring him that it was going to be okay. He cried and fought to pinch me in his frustration, and I continued to soothe. A woman trying to get around us to reach the kiwis shot me a dirty look, and I decided that rather than yell "What the fuck is wrong with you, lady? Haven't you ever seen a kid with autism?" that I would just ignore her and continue to soothe my son.

He screamed and cried and said "bagel, bagel" in between the screams and cries . . . which totally made sense to me because carbs make me feel better when I'm upset. And so I scooped up the battered pears, the victims of Nick's angry kicks, settled them into a safe corner of my cart, and took my son over to the bread aisle.

I found bagels. I lifted them up as an offering . . . and he shoved the bag away and screamed.

Because we weren't at the crappy store around the corner and these weren't the cheap Sara Lee bagels he was used to. The unfamiliar bagels were probably more stressful than the misplaced shopping cart seatbelt.

We made it down one aisle. I talked to Nick and soothed him, staying calm and loving the whole time. And then we went straight to the checkout line where, thankfully, there was only one person in front of us. As we waited the short wait and Nick cried, I reached for a chocolate bar, opened it up, and offered a piece to Nick right there. He took the piece, crumbled it in his hands, and screamed. I scooped up the bits of broken chocolate from the floor, hoping they wouldn't melt in my pocket before I could get to a trash can.

And, and long last, we made it to the car . . . with inedible pears and a crunched-up chocolate bar in our bag of purchases.

In the car we'd be okay. Nick likes riding in the car. He has the security of his five-point car seat harness to make him feel safe, the rumble of the road to relax him, and the sights zooming past us to keep him enthralled. In the car we'd be okay.

And so I drove along until it was time to make the turn off the main road. As I did it I had the realization that I was doing it ALL WRONG, but it was too late.

Nick screamed and cried and kicked my seat. I'd waited a millisecond too long to move the car over to the right, and I hadn't moved far enough over, either.

I soothed Nick through the turn with my gentle voice, telling him that it was all going to be okay.

And then we turned to enter our neighborhood, and the car before me had triggered the gate . . . which meant I didn't have to stop for a moment and wait for the gates to swing open.

Nick screamed again, and kicked again . . .

and I screamed too.

"Calm down, Nick! We're going to make it home! It doesn't matter if we stop or not!!"

My god, I screamed at my child.

We pulled into the driveway and I apologized to my son. "Honey, I'm so sorry I yelled at you . . ." and then, out of nowhere, I started to sob. "I love you. I love you so very, very much. And I'd do anything for you," the tears were streaming down my face now, "but sometimes it's hard. It's just so fucking hard."

And my son, hearing my sobs . . . laughed. Because he doesn't know how to decode the emotions of others. I mean, really, if you think about it, a laugh and a cry sound a lot alike.

So we got out of the car. We walked up towards the house, and something somewhere along the sidewalk wasn't quite right and Nick dropped to the ground in tears. I picked him up and we walked into the empty house, crying together.

---------------

Denise was off today. The detective tries to piece together the reasons why. Was it the chaos of getting her boys through the last week of school? Having her allergies transform into a sinus infection complete with sore throat and earache? Waking up at an ungodly hour because Noah is on his summer schedule, awake and ready to take on the world when it's impossible to wake him during the school year? I mean, it must have been something; why else would she have yelled at her son and broken down into sobs?

But you know, maybe there's no smoking gun for why I was off or why Nick was off. Maybe it's just that sometimes autism is hard.