The art of blending

Red and blue make orange. Yellow and blue make green. Red and blue make purple. I remembered these combinations as I watched Sam draw and noted Sam wasn’t one to blend his colors. This is in part because he already has green, orange and purple crayons and doesn't see the need. It is also because (I think) he likes his colors exactly as they are. Orange sits next to red and blue sits next to green. They may overlap but they don’t blend.

I was taught to blend.  

We blended our voices in glee club; we blended in our navy blue uniforms. Years of Catholic school education taught me it was important to behave similarly. I listened to orchestras blend instruments to create harmonious music. I watched my mother masterfully blend seasonings to create a meal. I live in a country that prides itself on  blending its cultures.  

So what of Sam, the child who simply didn’t blend? My first inclination was to curb the behaviors that made him appear different. 

But Sam with his big rosy cheeks and impossibly bigger hair found it difficult to modify his behavior. After countless hours of ABA therapy, social groups, behavior incentives, and interventions I’ve long forgotten; in spite of Sam’s eagerness to please, he did not blend. I could look out at a pack of kids and pick out Sam in a nanosecond. 

I redoubled my efforts to "suck the autism out of him" without stopping to wonder why it was so necessary. Finally after years of perceived failure, I wondered why it was important; how had it become the focus of our lives? 

I also remembered Sam's reluctance to blend his colors; how he chose color after color, placing them side-by-side, rarely blending just having them co-exist. His seemingly random technique always evolved into a harmonious whole. Though his work was far more abstract, his approach reminded me of the Georges Seurat paintings I'd studied long ago with individual dots of color, each important to the success of the overall image.

Maybe our answer lay in Sam's artwork. I began to think of our family: three very different people who  managed to blend into a family, while retaining individuality – even liking our differences. Together we made a whole. Just like like those colors laid side by side in Sam's drawings: each color critical to the success of the completed whole. 

If we could meld our differences into a family, surely there was a way to extend it to create a community. Sure, Sam needed to work on skills to learn when/how to compromise. His success in a community will always remain contingent on his ability to cooperate; find common ground and peacefully co-exist. But cooperation, diversity and individuality can exist together. 

I like to think Sam might one day be one of the colors in a Seurat painting that fascinated me so many years back. Up close, a bunch of random dots. Step back and the dots create entirely new colors and a beautiful image emerges. That is what I hope for Sam: retaining his individual “color” while blending together into the canvas of a harmoniously diverse community. 

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Mr. Dog: A new adventure

The time was never right for a dog. Maybe there is never an exact right time. Still, a series of events propelled us toward taking one on. Perhaps we were in need of a distraction. Or maybe it was just fate. Whatever it was, a puppy Sam dubbed Mr. Dog was about to become part of our family.

The news that Mr. Dog would soon move in was met with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Sam was delighted. I was cautiously optimistic. Tony was apprehensive at best:

           

            Tony:          Mr. Dog will live outside. Right?

            Me:             Mr. Dog will live in the house with us.

            Tony:          My mother always said animals belong outside.

            Me:             Fortunately for Mr. Dog, my mother never said   

                                anything of the sort.

            Tony:          I'm not going to like this, am I. 
            Me:             Probably not.  
            Tony:          What if it doesn't work out?
            Me:             We'll go with plan "B".
            Tony:          Oh OK.    
                                (long pause) What is plan "B"?
                                (another long pause) 
                                There's no plan "B", is there. 
             Me:             No. Not really.  

About two weeks later, Mr. Dog arrived.

Our first day with Mr. Dog, I was amazed at his sweetness; how quickly he bonded with us. We were instant celebrities on our first trip to Nantucket. Everyone wanted to meet the sweet little chocolate lab puppy. Unsure of his new home, he displayed a meek and gentle nature.

On day two, he began to settle in. Seeing no need for a leash or harness, Mr. Dog showed the skill of Houdini as he wiggled out his harness multiple times in mere seconds. Then he tried to eat it. On day three, I questioned why we didn’t name him Jaws as he chewed his way through our house.  When he ran out of household items, he gnawed my left arm with his needle-sharp teeth. He eyed a heavy cable wire like it was a thick, juicy steak. He ignored every chew toy. He ate my rose bush. For dessert, he ate the power cord to my Mac. He thought the toilet scrub brush was a plaything.

On day four I admitted it: Mr. Dog was a lot of work. He ate like a pig. He slobbered his water. Left to his own devices, he christened any carpet in mere seconds. He had a shrill whine that could wake the dead. Alarm clocks? Obsolete. Mr. Dog reliably woke me at 5:10 each day. Though I managed to protect them, I knew Mr. Dog was stalking my shoes. He was everywhere and into everything.

There were moments when I wondered if Mr. Dog would survive into week two.

Fortunately, like most puppies, Mr. Dog was blessed with the maximum of puppy cuteness. He had the market cornered on happy. It was hard to stay angry at a creature so gleeful. I was also well versed in negotiating the unexpected. After all, the unexpected has been our norm for the last eighteen years.

There was, of course, the Sam factor: I was optimistic about this new adventure for Sam. I was hopeful through Mr. Dog Sam would gain some independence; that Mr. Dog would become a trusted friend.  

I saw early glimmers of magic with Sam and Mr. Dog when Sam took time away from his precious laptop to patiently pat Mr. Dog. He liked Mr. Dog to sit with him at times and laughed gleefully each time he heard me say, “Mr. Dog, you are in big trouble.” As Mr. Dog’s ally, Sam offered some helpful advice: “Mr. Dog, whatever you do, don’t eat the TV.”

Probably the defining moment occured early on as I watched Sam gently cradle Mr. Dog. He leaned over and whispered into the puppy’s ear, “He’s perfect.”

Each time I am frustrated with Mr. Dog, I hear Sam's soft whisper and know though there will be mishaps and missteps we’ve made a good choice.

Mr. Dog, I bid you welcome. Welcome to our new adventure. 

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Forever and ever

“Mommy stay,“ Sam requests.

“How long?” I ask.

“Forever and ever,” to clarify, Sam adds, “is a lotta time.”

Wrapping my arms around him securely, I vow, “I will try.”

And there it is – an image of my mother and my childhood self. I can hear her voice.

“The fall passed so quickly this year,” she remarks to my aunt. Is she crazy? Doesn’t she know it takes an eternity for Christmas to arrive each year? And you can travel back and forth to the moon three times before my birthday arrives in late August? Time moves slower than a snail and it is endless.

At college graduation, it occurs to me my school years passed faster than I thought. But I am busy with my friends finding my way, each of us looking for separate answers in an oddly unified way. Only through the passage of time can we find our place. I am in a bit of a hurry to get to wherever it is.

Yes! A real first real job, soon followed by a second. Nights out with friends grow less frequent as one by one we settle down. Marriages and houses and jobs are the topic now. Who cares if spring comes a little more quickly? Everyone looks forward to spring.

Next come children. “Will I ever sleep again?” I ask. “Oh yes!” my mother assures me. I beg time to pass so I can get some sleep. And then, in a blink the year has passed and we are all sleeping. There’s crawling, then walking and we’ve looped around to Christmas again. How did that happen? No matter. Christmas is a wonderful time of year.

“Let me show you how to make the calamari, so you will know when I am not here,”  my mother offers one Christmas Eve. “Where are you going? You will always be here, won’t you?” I say half in jest. I can’t imagine life without my mother. She just smiles and chides me to pay attention. But that day comes long before expected, long before I am ready. Stop. Stop. Time, please stop. There is so much I don’t know.  

Sam is 17 now; almost an adult by law. As I look into Sam’s eyes, I’ve come full circle. “Sammy, listen.” I say, “Focus. You need to try. You need to learn this.” Like the younger me, he only concerns himself with today. He laughs, purposefully ignoring me. I continue to try, echoing words from my mother, aware I am only his guide though this part of life. And tomorrow will be here long before either of us wants it to be.

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Our friend Shrek

This story is inspired by Kristen and her recent blog about castles...

We are a Shrek kind of household. Through the use of a TV, laptop, iPad and iPod, we can simultaneously view the entire Shrek franchise, versions 1 through 4, resulting in an efficient mishmash Shrek marathon with a very peculiar story line.

On really special occasions we watch random parts of Shrek II while Sam recites Shrek I in my ear, an experience I can only describe as surreal.

And then there is the Shrek music, but that’s a story for another day.

I guess you could say we border on a Shrek obsession. It was through this obsession Sam finally found a kindred spirit.

Shrek is a big, green, misunderstood guy who is disgusting, loud and prefers a solitary life. This is an apt description of Sam as well – right down to the green undertones of his olive complexion.

As it often happens through friendships, Sam was introduced to his ideal mate. Yes, Sam loves Fiona.

Her allure is undeniable: she is a princess with a castle, a kingdom, and many servants. She is also blessed with a powerful ability to belch. Since I do not have a castle, kingdom or any servants, and have been known to discourage bodily noises of any kind, I have been replaced.  It is simply impossible to compete with royalty that belches.

Yes, there are obvious cultural considerations. She is, after all, an animated character. But I’ve seen many relationships with cultural differences work. And, if she makes Sam happy, I will learn to put up with the incessant burping.

Hey, maybe I’ll get to live in a castle. You never know. 


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