Old Favorites, Part V: I’m Not Kidding, I’m Asking Him for Lottery Numbers

In honor of World Autism Awareness Day, I’m reposting one of my favorite stories about my son, Sam. While there is nothing about this post that is specifically about autism, it’s still an autism post as his diagnosis is a big part of what makes Sam… Sam. There is far more to him than his neurological profile, but there’s no denying that autism is an integral part of his big, beautiful, quirky, brilliant personality. This was originally published December 12, 2007. Since then, Sam has won a Harry Potter toy train (Train Show Raffle in our former hometown,) a $10 Target Gift Certificate (drawing at school in which three students out of 500 won a prize) and a sweet Lionel Starter Model Train Layout (Raffle Prize at a Train Expo two weeks ago.)

Read more Sam posts by clicking the word “Autism” under the “Categories” tab on the right.

Some of you who read here regularly may remember that my son, Sam, has excellent luck. Unbelievable, really. He wins things.

I have never, in any of my 42 years, won anything. Not that I’m bitter.

IMPORTANT BACKGROUND ITEM #1: Last year, while begrudgingly attending a performance of his sister’s play, Sam won seventy bucks in a raffle, during intermission. Then when he entered another raffle, a mere two days after the first, amidst concerned, maternal warnings that most buyers of raffle tickets do not actually win anything, especially not twice, he won the coveted half-hour massage gift certificate.

I worried about the lesson in all this. Gambling = getting stuff. Argh. Then again, it’s hard to argue with a two-for-two winner.

IMPORTANT BACKGROUND ITEM #2: Sam also enjoys lying convincing me of things. For example, when I say, “Sam, I need you to come over here so we can get your homework going!” he likes to point to a spot just behind me and say something exclamatory, such as, “MOM!! LOOK!! FLYING MONKEYS!!” When I look, he runs away. If he wants, say, a cell phone to call his own, he says that he won one and tells me where to pick it up.

So when he tells me things that seem to be a tad, shall we say, unlikely? I’m a little skeptical.

Yesterday, he came home from school and flopped himself on the couch.

Me: How was school, bud?

Sam: Oh, fine, I guess.

Me: Did anything interesting happen at Chess Club?

Sam: Oh. Well, no, but during lunch I won a bike.

Me (laughing, as I playfully punch him in the arm): Har! That’s funny, Sam.

Sam (with smirky, I-really-hope-she-buys-this smile): No, really. And Chess Club was good, too. I won my match.

Then, we went on to discuss the cold, rainy weather, what I was making for dinner (spaghetti), and the fact that it was quiet since the girls weren’t home yet. Sam got up to go get a snack, and I went looking for his backpack, to see what we had in store for homework.

Yeah, right. He won a bike. Har! How funny.

Then, I opened his binder and found a note penned in big, red, teacher handwriting. The note said, “WOW! SAM WON A BIKE!”

Um. Whut?

Unbeknownst to me, Sam’s school participates in a program in which kids earn points for making healthy lunch choices. Choose healthy items over junkier ones; earn tickets. Prize drawings are held throughout the year, for CD’s and books and pencils. Yesterday, they held the Big Grand Prize Drawing during lunch.

And now he’s the proud owner of the biggest, baddest, sweetest set of red wheels I’ve ever seen.

The Boy rejoices.

Old Favorites Part I: Sam’s Secrets Revealed

Brought to you by reader demand… this is the first in a series of favorites. This entry was originally published on May 4, 2006.

That subject line is not so much mine as it is Sam’s title to the poem he made up last night.

Sam is my 10 year-old son. He has high-functioning autism. I struggle daily to find the balance between talking openly with him about his diagnosis, and letting him just be a kid.

Every parent who travels this road knows that slapping a label on your child can be social homicide. But I think Sam needs to understand why his brain works the way it does; how it makes him exceptionally gifted in certain areas like visual processing, math, and rote memorization of spoken language, to name a few.

It is also the reason that he has a 1:1 aide during his school day, struggles to sit still in a classroom, and has trouble understanding how to start or maintain a conversation.

I think he needs to know why he has these challenges in order to conquer them. He also needs to feel proud of the inestimable gifts that go along with his neurological configuration, which is different than most.

I try to be honest and open about it, so that in his mind, it is simply a piece of the fabric of his personality. But I don’t dwell on it. This diagnosis does not define him.

Sam is echolalic, which means he has an extraordinary ability to memorize large chunks of language that he hears from other people, computer games, TV shows. (We received one of our first “this kid is different” red flags when he began reciting the entire text of the children’s book “The Polar Express” — verbatim — at age three.) When speaking spontaneously, he avoids eye contact, his delivery is monotone, and he struggles to find words. But when he repeats something that he has heard, he has all the punch and inflection of a seasoned Shakespearean actor performing a soliloquy.

Sam has a school open house coming up next week. Some of the kids are memorizing poems, to be recited solo in front of a large group of parents and students. A few afternoons ago, he ran inside right after the bus dropped him off, and proceeded to recite — from memory — not one, but all five poems that some of his classmates are learning. He has a wonderful teacher this year who plays to his strengths, and Sam will be delivering one of the recitations next Thursday.

Last night, just before bed, he was running around his room, laughing because he had put on a new pair of underwear over the ones he was already wearing. He was literally bouncing off all four walls and the floor. We have a trampoline and some occupational therapy-approved swings in our yard, and Sam gets sensory integration OT sessions at school every day to help him settle into his body, so that he can sit still. While I understand that his “wall bouncing” is neurologically-based behavior, I still get annoyed when it happens at bedtime when we’re all fried and just want to shut down the parenting engines for the night.

So, while I failed at my efforts to maintain my patience, and chased him around the house with his jammies in my hand, he announced, “Mom! I have a poem!”

Exasperated, I said, “Sam, that’s great, but right now I don’t want to hear it. You need to go to bed.”

He went ahead anyway, smiling and trying not to laugh.

He is often hard to reach. When I see a twinkle of presence in his eyes, I can’t deny him. So I listened.

He smiled and said, “This is a poem about me!” and improvised the following:

Sam’s Secrets Revealed

I’m a great builder.
I am an artist.
I have autism.
I have two overdue library books!
Baseball is my favorite sport.
I hit so many grand slams.
And I’m wearing two pairs of underwear right now!

He could have pulled the actual rug out from under me and I wouldn’t have noticed. In that one brief recitation, Sam revealed to me that he knows he has autism, and that he sees it as just one item in the middle of a list of many things that describe him.

I was elated.

And I’m wearing two pairs of underwear right now.

Regarding that Inevitable Beginning of the School Year Fire Drill

Hannah: Oh, by the way, I had a firedrill today.

Sam: You did?? Hannah, did you freak out?

Hannah: No, but I threw my library book up in the air.

Sam: Last time I heard a fire alarm, you know what it felt like? Intense pressure in my lower intestine, a fast beating heart, and my brain felt like it was on fire.

So, What Could Be Worse than Two Months In A Hotel?

Seven hours in an airport, with three kids, stuck waiting near the gate because of frequent weather updates from the connecting airport. Followed by a missed connection, which resulted in a night spent in the connecting city. With no luggage. No toothpaste. And no clean underwear.

Did I mention the kids? How about the sister-fights at the back of the plane during boarding, after the toothpasteless night, which had me worried that we’d be booted off the plane and added to a never-let-these-fools-fly-again list. All while Sam sat in a nearby seat muttering sweet nothings about guns and bombs, since he saw pictures of them at the security checkpoint. Each time, I spoke sternly about the potential consequences of such mutterings, to which he responded, loudly, “MOM, DO YOU REALLY THINK THE GOVERNMENT IS MONITORING OUR CONVERSATIONS??” Then he continued his Monologue of Weaponry.

They let us travel anyway. So much for Homeland Security.

Oh, Well NOW I Get It

Sam: Mom, don’t you think violence is funny?

Me: No, Sam not at all. In fact, it really upsets me that you think that.

Sam: Mom, girls like dolls. Boys like action figures. Girls like gentleness. Boys like violence. That’s why we have different bathrooms.

And Now, He’s Four for Four

Sam and Hannah and I went to a train show a couple of weeks ago. Sam had spotted a sign announcing the show, and reminded me daily as the date approached.

Some kids like trains. Some like them a lot. But for Sam, train stuff — models/shows/museums/tracks/engines/pictures/computer programs — trains are his Holy Grail.

I have written previously about the boy’s incredible luck. He enters raffles, and he wins. He has entered three raffles in his 12 charmed years, and has won 1) 70 bucks, 2) a half hour massage, and 3) a new bike. I worry that he is getting the wrong message about gambling, because so far, his experience has taught him that raffle tickets are a sure thing. Every time.

As we entered the long awaited model train show, Sam saw a big sign exclaiming, “Raffle!” I cringed. Once again I cued up “the talk” — the one where I remind him that most of the time, when people enter raffles, or buy lottery tickets, or enter contests, they do not win.

Me: Buddy, I’m afraid that if we buy tickets and then you don’t win, that you’ll be disappointed. Do you understand that we probably won’t win anything?

Sam: I know, Mom. But still, look at the train sets!

Me (muttering under my breath): Crap.

I caved, shelled out ten bucks, and chalked it up as a charitable donation. Then we went home and heard… nothing. For several days running, he ran into the house, just off the school bus, and asked with longing in his voice and hope that made my heart hurt, “Mom, did the Train Show Guy call?” I hated telling him, repeatedly, “Nope, I’m sorry. He didn’t call, Buddy.”

A few days passed and I finally ditched the tickets, relieved that Sam had handled the disappointing silence so gracefully. A small part of me was glad that finally, he was learning the hard lesson that in reality, raffle tickets don’t always magically turn into fabulous prizes.

And tonight, I got a phone call.

He won a train set. The very prize (out of 14 things that were raffled off that day) that he eyed on the display table and hoped to win.

Seriously, would it be so bad if I ask him to write down a few lucky numbers?

An Historical Pictorial of Titanic Proportions

Sam’s explains each frame:

1) iceberg, 2) taking on water, 3) bow deck underwater, 4) boat deck in water, 5) propellers out of water, 6) ship begins to crack, 7) ship splits in three, 8) stern sits normally while bow sinks, 9) stern takes on water, 10) 90 degree angle, 11) final sinking, 12) propellers going underwater, 13) bow planes away (that means sinking fast), 14) ocean floor

“S.S. Oops.” Har!

Just Don’t Call Her Late for Dinner

Hannah (exasperated, with hands on hips): Mom, would you please come downstairs and tell Sam that my middle name is Dorothy?

Me: Huh?

Hannah: He doesn’t believe me.

Me: Well, Hannah, that doesn’t sound like a conversation worth having. You know your middle name is Dorothy. Ignore him.

Hannah (turning on her heel, sighing heavily, and bracing for her return to the basement): He just keeps on calling me “Toilet.”

Couldn’t the Same Be Said About [Insert Name of Brilliant Mathematician Here]?

This just in from the Math section of Sam’s most recent progress report, as issued on official Special Education Department stationery (I find myself reading the following paragraph over and over, because it makes me giggle, which probably would get me some odd looks from the middle school principal and some of Sam’s teachers, but I can live with that):

Progress Report Information: Sam knows what to do with the data, and which data is useful, but he generally wants to immediately solve the problem, and does not list the data unless prompted. Sam requires cueing and support in order to explain his steps in any format. At times, Sam’s answer to a request for an explanation is, “Because that is the right answer.” It is difficult for Sam to explain his reasoning, although his reasoning is usually accurate.

So… he can’t explain why, but he’s efficient and confident and right? I think I’m okay with that.

Gratuitous Bragging Addendum, Just ‘Cuz I’m Proud and Will Never, Ever Skip An Opportunity to Gush: May as well reflect back on a few gems from the past.

UPDATE: It occurs to me that no Sam retrospective is complete without his poetic stylings.

I’m Not Kidding, I’m Asking Him for Lottery Numbers

Some of you who read here regularly may remember that my son, Sam, has excellent luck. Unbelievable, really. He wins things.

I have never, in any of my 42 years, won anything. Not that I’m bitter.

IMPORTANT BACKGROUND ITEM #1: Last year, while begrudgingly attending a performance of his sister’s play, Sam won seventy bucks in a raffle, during intermission. Then when he entered another raffle, a mere two days after the first, amidst concerned, maternal warnings that most buyers of raffle tickets do not actually win anything, especially not twice, he won the coveted half-hour massage gift certificate.

I worried about the lesson in all this. Gambling = getting stuff. Argh. Then again, it’s hard to argue with a two-for-two winner.

IMPORTANT BACKGROUND ITEM #2: Sam also enjoys lying convincing me of things. For example, when I say, “Sam, I need you to come over here so we can get your homework going!” he likes to point to a spot just behind me and say something exclamatory, such as, “MOM!! LOOK!! FLYING MONKEYS!!” When I look, he runs away. If he wants, say, a cell phone to call his own, he says that he won one and tells me where to pick it up.

So when he tells me things that seem to be a tad, shall we say, unlikely? I’m a little skeptical.

Yesterday, he came home from school and flopped himself on the couch.

Me: How was school, bud?

Sam: Oh, fine, I guess.

Me: Did anything interesting happen at Chess Club?

Sam: Oh. Well, no, but during lunch I won a bike.

Me (laughing, as I playfully punch him in the arm): Har! That’s funny, Sam.

Sam (with smirky, I-really-hope-she-buys-this smile): No, really. And Chess Club was good, too. I won my match.

Then, we went on to discuss the cold, rainy weather, what I was making for dinner (spaghetti), and the fact that it was quiet since the girls weren’t home yet. Sam got up to go get a snack, and I went looking for his backpack, to see what we had in store for homework.

Yeah, right. He won a bike. Har! How funny.

Then, I opened his binder and found a note penned in big, red, teacher handwriting. The note said, “WOW! SAM WON A BIKE!”

Um. Whut?

Unbeknownst to me, Sam’s school participates in a program in which kids earn points for making healthy lunch choices. Choose healthy items over junkier ones; earn tickets. Prize drawings are held throughout the year, for CD’s and books and pencils. Yesterday, they held the Big Grand Prize Drawing during lunch.

And now he’s the proud owner of the biggest, baddest, sweetest set of red wheels I’ve ever seen.

The Boy rejoices.