Today I wore a new dress.  I fixed my hair and my makeup and prepared to watch my son’s last baseball game of the season.

In my mind I’d already pre-written my blog for tonight.  I was going to call it “A league of their own” and talk about the amazing Challenger baseball league in Durham for special needs kids.  I still plan to do that, but it’ll have to wait.

Six years ago today I took vows.  I vowed to honor my marriage for better or for worse.  In a beautiful garden, on an incredibly hot June day, in St. Augustine our family watched our intimate ceremony – and possibly envisioned our future.

Somehow I don’t think today was what they envisioned.

I don’t like to talk about this.  I am not capable of speaking ill against my child. That’s why I must say that this is not about my son, this is about Autism, the festering disease that permeates our entire lives…and it’s the “for worse” part.

I didn’t vow anything to Autism.  So I feel comfortable saying that I want a divorce.  I want to excise Autism out of our lives.  I want it to release my precious child – right now – and give him the life he deserves.

I don’t want to fear for my child.  I don’t want to watch my son physically assault the people who love him the most and dedicate their lives to helping him.  I don’t want him to scream and throw things when something is different from what he had envisioned in his mind.  I never want him to get frustrated and destroy another toy or game that he loves.  I never want him to cry so hard that he chokes.   I never want him to put himself in harm’s way by making impulsive decisions (like running away, or jumping into a lake fully clothed).

I don’t want to fear taking my child in public because when/if he loses it I know that I am not physically capable of keeping him safe.  I don’t want to even dream about what this will feel like when he is 9, 13, 25.

This past week, since school has been out, has been like living in a war zone.  Something is at war with my child and I feel helpless.

Our best efforts, on the advice of experts, and all the patience and love in the world hasn’t helped.

I cannot envision what it must feel like being trapped inside of a body in revolt.

I can’t make it better.  I can’t help him win back control over the Autism.  Not yet anyway, but I’ll never stop trying.  I’ll never stop fighting for Everybody’s Boy.

Today has been nothing like I envisioned.  I feel completely knocked of my axis.

It turns out that they have extended the baseball program for another week, an announcement made when he arrived, which in retrospect was likely what knocked him off his axis.

Five minutes into the game we left.  He was screaming nonsensical things at his teammates and totally uncooperative.  I gave the keys to my car to Gus (I’d driven separately since I was working this morning) and drove Peter home.  I thought it a small anniversary gift were I to mitigate the tantrum for a while.  As I pulled out of the field,  things flew at me from the back of the car.  ”I hate you” the Autism screamed and I felt the crack of a metal flashlight hit the side of my head.

I drove in silence except for my tears and the hum of “Car Talk” during the 20 miles home.   Mascara smeared down my face, little black drops on my white cardigan.

When we got home my little boy looked at me and said, “Am I calm, Mommy?  Is my face red?”

And I was reminded that he’s just as much (if not more) of a victim of the Autism than I am.

I squeezed him tight and told him how proud I was of him for working so hard to calm down.

I never wanted to let go.

Because the vows I hold for my son are sacred; in sickness and in health; for better or for worse; til death do us part.

I’d hoped that I could do everyone the service of plodding through the details of our Kindergarten transition without a chorus of Gabbas in my background, but that’s not looking too promising and I still abide by the advice to “sleep when the baby sleeps” so it’s now or never.

Way back at the end of April when we had our Kindergarten Transition meeting I left feeling like George W. Bush when he hung that “Mission Accomplished” banner on the aircraft carrier like 75 (I’m just estimating here) years before said mission was actually accomplished.  Kind of like, “Phew, that’s done.  I think we came out on top.  Glad I don’t have to think about that again.”

Six weeks later as you’re doing the ugly cry while watching your baby singing “The Farmer in the Dell” at his preschool graduation “politically-correctly-deemed-end-of-year-celebration” and trying to get the broken digital camera shutter to release (because someone threw Mommy’s purse at that indoor mini-golf place in Virginia Beach that just made me feel dirty) just one more time *%#@$ – you kind of realize that the “mission” isn’t “accomplished” and in fact that you aren’t even entirely sure you understand the mission.

So that’s a bit awkward. (Shout out Dubya, I feel ya bro’.)

Peter has been placed in a system level classroom for Kindergarten.  That’s what they call the classrooms now that are self-contained, I mean instead of calling them self-contained and all.  It’s a nice touch, but everyone always ends up asking what system level means and you have to tell them self-contained anyway.  Sometimes you even have to tell them what self-contained means which is fun.

It goes something like this.

“What school does Peter go to?”

He’s in Kindergarten at xxx.

“My son too.  Is he with Miss A or Miss B?”

He’s in a system level class.  His teacher is Miss C.

“Like the dual language program?”

No, it’s self-contained classroom.

“My daughter is in the dual-language Mandarin class.  She thinks it’ll be good for her résumé as she’s applying for college.”

That’s a wonderful idea.  When does she graduate?

“2022, but she’s such a self-starter.   We’re so proud!  So what is this self…um…this classroom about?”

It’s a classroom for children with developmental disabilities.  My son has Autism.

“Oh – I’m so very sorry.  You poor dear.  I don’t like to talk about this, but I think it will help:  <whispers> my son didn’t tie his shoes until he was almost six – can you imagine? – we had him in OT five times a week for over a year.  So like I totally understand.

<Phone rings>

<Mouths ‘Sorry it’s my daughter’>

“Slow down honey I only know a un petit peu of Chinese – Yes, I am here to take you to ballet.  Okay, I’m coming right now, don’t you dare call your father, he’s on West Coast time.”

“Gotta run.  She’s got such opinions this one.  I’m sure she’s going to go into politics.  You know how it is.”

“We’ll  have to get together for coffee one of these mornings!”

I haven’t had that conversation, but I’ve had enough conversations with those moms to know the script.

So here I am with my preschool end-of-year-celebrator who will be a Kindergartener in just 10 weeks.   I ask my Magic 8 Ball for guidance.

Did we make the best decision, as a team, for our child?

My sources say yes.

Does it still sting to send my child to the “special” class?

Without a doubt.

Do we have a long way to go before we can hang our Mission Accomplished banner?

Ask again later.

…and so it goes.

Things are weird.

I feel like an outsider in my own skin – taking in this psuedo-familiar landscape like a tourist.   Surprised and surpassed by my own thoughts, actions, assumptions.

It’s not very easy to articulate.

Even for me.

Especially for me.

Because, you do know that this persona is born of the rote memorization of social rules and the product of faking my way through countless diplomatic cocktail parties and that I’m a hopeless introvert right?

Well, if not, you do now.

I thought maybe I needed something.

A trip?  A cat?  A baby?

Some perspective.  Some certitude.

It turns out, that this isolation is born of the stirrings of change.

The only practical remedy is stillness.

Did you know I’m not so good at that?

At not doing anything.

Cause I’m a bit of a micro-manager.  A bit of a narcissist when it comes to maintaining martial rule in my little contrived world.

And as it turns out that’s not really practical.  (I know, crazy, right?)

So I’m going to be quiet.  I’m going to listen to this on repeat for the next 36 hours.  I’m going to mid-day Deep Roots Yoga and sweat it out.

I’m going to refrain from purchasing mass quantities of designer underwear online, and driving to the SPCA and adopting 7 cats, and posting emo status updates on Facebook.

Because this too shall pass.

PS:  If it could just hurry that would be great – because June requires my being rediculously on top of things…