Susan Senator

NEWSFLASH!

Overheard, at a Jewish deli in Brookline:
Ben Batchelder, to his parents: “I miss Nat. A little.” Holds up index and thumb, making a C shape.
It is not yet known where Ben’s mother’s head landed as it flew off her neck in delighted surprise.

ITEM #2:

Email from the Director of Residences at Nat’s school:

Just checking in,

I was at the House on Tuesday evening and Nat was assisting with dinner. He is doing very well at the house. He has had no difficulty around shaving, or waiting for snacks or meals. Staff and his sleep data indicate that he is sleeping throughout the evening.

I spoke with Nat on Tuesday about running and asked him if he would be interested. Nat looked at me for about 30 seconds, smiled and stated yes. I would like to start taking Nat and another student from one of the other houses who is verbal and very social running together 1 day a week to start and then slowly increase the days and the duration as they are having success. I can also use running as a platform to teach some social skills with both young men.

First I would like to get your permission for this, second I wanted to know if you could get Nat some running shoes. Usually New Balance or Asics are solid shoes that are pretty durable.

Hope all is well and I look forward to hearing from you.

YES!! Time to buy sneakers. And a new head.

Here is a blog many of you already know about, but which I have only just discovered. What great timing for me, though. Vicki has such a deft and dignified prose; a lovely way of handling the huge and also the delicate, the excruciating and the delightful moments in her life. Her precious son Evan is gone, and all I can do is read about him and try to grasp how much he shaped and colored the lives of all around him. I have felt a lot of comfort and connection from reading this blog and I just wanted to share it today.

The worst thing so far has been not knowing what he understands about this move.
And, also, knowing I could have prepared him better. I did not because I didn’t want to make him anxious. Unsaid: I didn’t want to have another six months of his aggressive behavior like last year when he first found out he was going to camp. You tell him early and he obsesses for months. Well, maybe I should have let him obsess so that he could now deal better.

The best thing so far is the freedom I have. There, I said it.
And, also, there is a glimmer of a new connection we have, I call it the Nagging Connection. By this I mean where I nag him to get help. He told me the other day he was watching TV. His voice broke. He was sad. I knew this meant he was just watching what was on, what others there were watching. I told him, “Nat! You can watch one of the movies you brought. But you have to tell someone.”
Immediately he told me, bless his literal heart: “Want to watch a movie.”
“No, Nat, you have to tell one of the teachers there.”
Very softly, turning in the direction of the others: “Want to watch a movie.”
“No! Nat, say it loudly. Go tell someone. Now!”

The staff in charge got on the phone and I told her that Nat did not seem happy with the television program and that he needs to be asked what he wants to do, preferably given a choice of a few things. Otherwise he’ll just default to whatever is easiest, whatever is in the room.

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “I’ll let everyone know that’s what they should do with him.”

I called back, and I heard from the staff that he was watching Mary Poppins. And I realized I felt a little bit the way I do when I bug Max to go and tell a teacher he needs a way to get Extra Credit, to improve his grade. “Max, you can ask. You can always ask.”
“Yeah, but — “
“But what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Max, you can always at least try.”
Silence.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t get an A.
At least Nat asks!

I am going to see him today, right after he has art. And, he is coming home Saturday afternoon so that he can go to social group on Sunday. That’s what he talks about on the phone. That, and what he is doing at the House. He seems more able to articulate what he is doing and what he wants to do. Maybe, in part, because I bugged him. Maybe because I bugged the staff. Maybe not. Whatever, that is a positive change. Already.

I just received this email from an autism activist:

An American Honda automobile radio commercial mistakenly ran in the
Michael Savage “Savage Nation” radio program in the San Diego and New
York markets. We have taken immediate steps to ensure that all national
and regional Honda advertising be pulled from this program permanently.

Jeffrey Smith

Jeffrey A. Smith
Assistant Vice President
Corporate Affairs & Communications
American Honda Motor Co., Inc.
1919 Torrance Boulevard
Torrance, California, 90501
310-781-5062

I am just so PISSED OFF at that asshole, Savage. He is as cruel as he is misinformed. Autistic kids are not “brats,” but he sure is. I have avoided posting about the aptly-named Michael Savage because I did not want his stations to get more attention and possibly do even more damage. I sent a letter right away to our local affiliate, WRKO, but did not hear back.

It was wrong of me not to blog about it when silence can be construed as apathy. There is no ignoring evil.

Savage and his minions really need to apologize and learn from their mistakes.

We should all thank Mr. Smith and we should all consider buying Hondas for our next cars. Tell a friend.

Well, it is time to get to the meat of my book. It is about halfway written, or maybe just a third, but I have 9 months and what I need now is to focus chapter-by-chapter. I need to interview people about various topics. I have already covered several topics.

The chapter I am working on currently is about philosophy of autism, in terms of the parent as a person, not in terms of how you parent. I am hoping to talk to autism parents on “both sides” of the issue of what is autism and what does that mean to you as a person. How autism has affected your life, your activities, your work, your self perception. I am going to highlight and illuminate people’s experiences from both sides, although I make no secret of the fact that I do not believe that a vaccine caused Nat’s autism. I intend to walk the line, not in the name of treatments but in terms of how parents live their lives.

I am interested in perception of a child’s disability and how they affect a parent’s own psyche (not how they affect the autistic person’s psyche. This particular book focuses on the parent, and quality of life, not on the autistic person). NOTE: a reader just pointed out to me that this would exclude parents with an ASD diagnosis. (thanks, Kenneth!) I do NOT wish to exclude anyone from commenting on this, or answering my query! It’s just that I am interested in the parent more than the child in this particular chapter, that is all I’m saying. My questions for you is: how do you view autism? Do you see it as a part of your child, a positive, a negative? Why? Can you give me a descriptive example of the impact autism has had on your life, you, as a parent and a person?

Screeds are not welcome. Honesty is.

I am also looking for professionals who have something to say about how “cure vs. acceptance” affects your dealings with autism parents. MDs, therapists, teachers.

Please email me privately; no need to comment to the post. You must be willing to let me use your words, your name, and your state or city, in the book, if you do help me.

Thanks in advance!

I have a column in today’s Washington Post. You can also read it in my articles page on my website if you have sign-in-noia. Ah, the innocent days of sending Nat to social group camp…

Standing at the crossroads
trying to read the signs
to tell me which way I should go to find the answer,
and all the time I know
plant your love and let it grow.
–E.C.

So, yeah, this came on at the best point of my bike ride: the uphill that feels like a downhill, a.k.a. Warren Street in the “Estate Area.” It was one of those bright bursts of music I get on my bike, when suddenly the song fits the terrain perfectly. And, of course, my mood. I almost switched past it, nevertheless, because I knew it was going to make me think of Nat and rip open that same bloody laceration in my heart.

I was raised to take care of things, to deal with problems head-on, to confront honestly and directly. I don’t always succeed, but that is my goal. I am a child of people who come up with solutions, who repair and fix. No sitting around on your ass and wallowing. (See, in that way I’m a little different) So when I see a loved one in pain, I need to swoop in and do whatever I can to fix it. As a young mother, I could offer my arms, food, singing, jokes, stories. I could fight the bad guys, the bullies, the evil program directors. I could slam the door in the face of the stupid, insensitive doctor and smack down the idiot on the playground. Or at least I could fantasize about it until I felt better.

So yesterday, when I dropped Nat off, back at the House, and it seemed kind of low-affect in there, with a TV on in the middle of a sunny day, and Nat wandering around like a lost puppy, I had to fight back tears and a sense of overwhelming impotence. I drove away and thought, What can I do, what can I do? Is this okay? He seemed so down.

I had a dull pain in my chest and throat and all I could think about was getting away from this relentless sadness. What do I do, what do I do, the thought kept going.

So, as I approached Boston, I thought, but there is nothing to do. I have done everything. If I take him out, he will only have to get used to living somewhere else when he’s older, and possibly even less flexible. How much worse is it to leave home at 22 or 25, when all you’ve known is your parents’ way of doing things, and all you’ve got is a state-run home who doesn’t even know him, to transition him? If that? What are my frickin choices, anyway? He needs to learn so much, Goddammit. And they can teach it to him better than I can, and I know it, ick ick ick.

And — a new and old thought occurred to me: how much did I suffer at the very same age, as a freshman in a college that was utterly wrong for me? For I went somewhere else before I got to University of Pennsylvania, and transferred after freshman year. At Trinity College, I felt like I’d landed in Bizarro Land, the land of the thin, beautiful, blond pink and green Preppies, and I, with my peasant blouses, curly brown hair and ample — proportions. I had one friend. I gained a ton of weight. I got sick drunk several times. I went out with a horrible young man who would only date me under cover of night, so that none of his frat brothers would know. I was totally out of my element. I knew by Thanksgiving that I had made a huge mistake.

“So? Transfer,” said Mom, her best advice to me ever. And so I did. I found Penn and went there (and found Ned and other delightful friends) and never looked back.

The House is the lesser of two evils. And, let’s face it: it’s not even evil, not by a longshot. It is filled with caring, kind staff and sweet boys who are Nat’s age and into the same things as he is. It is 25 minutes away. It is part of his school, which I love love love even with its flaws and dogma. And then, there’s Nat, who, God bless him, has that compelling smile and a sparkle to him that attracts people and makes them fall in love with him.

And what would Nat be doing if he were here, rather than there, on a sunny day? TV, maybe a brief bike ride, maybe a walk. If we were up for it. But yesterday, at the House, he went to a semi-pro baseball game. His first ever. And I hear they are planning to see the Revolution play one of these days.

So the problem is, he and I are sad, just sad, about the change. We are feeling feelings that quite frankly suck. There is nothing to be done at all. Nothing to fix. No one to yell at. Just feel and live. Feel and live and feel and live and have faith, I guess, that it won’t always always feel like this.

Natty is so down, so tired, so quiet. He is just not himself. He fell asleep at 8:30 on our livingroom couch.

I thought a little dancing would cheer us up. It only worked for one of us.

But most of it was beautiful. But just the same, all I kept saying to everybody was, ‘I want to go home.’ And they sent me home…Oh, but anyway, Toto, we’re home! Home! And this is my room – and you’re all here! And I’m not gonna leave here ever, ever again because I love you all! – And oh, Auntie Em, there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

Natty is home. I am not going to be able to get enough hugging and kissing in because, just like his brothers, this guy needs his space! But I am used to adoring from a distance, and I will just let my eyes drink him in.

A little while ago he went upstairs, and I found him curled up on my bed. Sometimes he likes to nap there. I lay down next to him, facing his back, and asked him about his new house. His voice was small and muffled; he wanted to just sleep.

I found myself sobbing quietly, not wanting him to know, as terrible feelings of loss washed over me. I felt transported back, way back, to our first house, in Arlington, when Nat was just a baby. I remember laying down in my bed with him next to me, hoping we could just nap there. But Little Nat thought I was playing a game. Every few seconds he would raise his sweet head and look at me and laugh. All he wanted to do was to keep playing this game. It was so cute, and even though I was so tired, I just lay there and kept “playing.”

We never did learn to do that Family Bed thing. I always wanted to, but somehow, well, like I said, we all need our space in this family.

The memory of Little Nat and the sleep game danced before my eyes, almost as real as the sleeping Nat in front of me. It seems like now that he’s back, for just tonight, I am more keenly aware than ever that those days are over, those sweet days when I was a young mother and had my baby with me all the time. He now has a different home, and that is the way it is supposed to be. But that doesn’t keep me from feeling the loss: of both something I did have, and something I never quite had.

But — never mind all that. It is just so good to have him here; to have all my guys home with me. Three strapping young men, with their lives stretching out ahead of them, the hot blue sky overhead’s the limit.

Yesterday I went to Nat’s school to see him, for the first time since the move-out. When I came into his classroom, he was sitting at the computer, and for a moment, he looked exactly like Max: blond, thin, hunched in front of a computer screen. His teacher called to him, “Come see who is visiting you!” and he turned around, and the big blue eyes widened. Then he turned right back to his screen, in familiar Batchelder-style focus (the Senator family is not big on focus). He was doing data entry, and he was doing it well.

I waited there, already chastened by this big reality check. No one there appeared to be suffering terribly from homesickness, at least not at the moment. When he was ready, we left. I drove to a nearby McDonalds. It was all very civilized; Nat chose the table while I got the condiments. He was very subdued: no bubbly sing-song talk, no puppet hand. No smile. This bothered me. We ate quietly. I had a glimpse of the future, visiting grown-up Nat. Sitting at a table, sharing a meal, not talking. It was okay. But I wanted a smile.

Yet I felt so relieved just to be there with him, to look at him, and to ask him questions every now and then. I told him about how he has two houses now. How the school house is really like camp. And most importantly, I told him when he was coming home next: Friday.

This decision had been made early that morning, when I woke up realizing that there was absolutely no reason why we couldn’t bring him home for a visit one week early. Just because it was recommended that he stay at least two weeks, based on what was successful for other kids, did not mean it was right for Nat. Suddenly, that morning, I knew in my gut, my Mrs. Dumbo gut, that my kid needed to come home as soon as he could, but in a way that made sense with getting him used to the new house. Ned and I settled on Friday night, and go back Saturday afternoon. Then he would have a chance to be with us some, but also, to see what the new house is like on the weekend.

Nat brightened when I told him this. He wanted to hear it a few times, the story of how Nat would come home Friday and sleep at the old house, and then wake up a the old house, and have lunch there, and then go back to the new house, and sleep there.

After lunch we went to a park by a pond and sat on a blanket in the grass. I was very hot and the grass was prickly and itchy. But the stillness around us was very pleasant. Deep summer. I showed Nat the stuff I brought: a Winnie-the-Pooh fleece blanket that Laura had sent him; some of his favorite Disney movies (Mary Poppins, Sleeping Beauty, Aladdin) and a sing-along. I also brought him some mail from his social group. We looked through it all. I tried to sing songs from one of the videos, and he sang with me. There was a flash of a smile, but not as much as I wanted. Then we got up, shook out the blanket, and headed back to school.

As I drove home, I realized that I was feeling better than I had in days. I had experienced some moments when it truly felt like we could do this, where Nat seemed resigned to the plan and where we could find new ways to enjoy each other. It gave me just a little nugget of strength that allowed me to forget about this whole thing for the evening, a touch of hope that we would be okay. All I wanted was to make dinner and eat it, just the four of us. Definitely a subset of who we are, but still a satisfying little group.

If you wanted the moon, I would try to make a start.
–To Sir, With Love

Here is a column I wrote dealing with Nat’s move, for the Washington Post/Newsweek site called “On Faith.” This piece is a small nugget explaining one particular moment of dealing with this transition of ours.

I have had an especially difficult day today, because I had a bad feeling all day about my Sweet Guy. And when I called him at 4:30, he immediately said, “Go to _____Street, NOW. Go to _____ Street, NOW.” Meaning, home. My heart seized and I bit back tears. I also couldn’t help but think, such great, unprompted language!

“Nat, I know. Nat you are sad right now. But you will be happy soon. It’s going to be alright. I am coming to your class tomorrow, for a visit.”

Then he said — and I still can’t believe this — “I love you. Love you.” And he hung up.

Tomorrow, I’ll be there with chocolate and Disney videos. And maybe the moon.

First day. Ned took off from work, Ben was at camp, Max was with Hannah, so Ned and I took the T into Boston and had a leisurely lunch at an outdoor cafe in Beacon Hill. Very nice, but a feeling like I was watching myself through glass, or something. Ned kept snapping pictures of me, over and over, while we talked. It was odd, but kind of sweet. I felt like he was trying to make me laugh, by embarrassing me. He was literally keeping me focused on myself, and on him. I had some wine, and felt very drowsy. He was tired, too. We walked through the Public Gardens and watched the swan boats, bought ice creams and sat on a bench, holding hands. We kept checking in with one another: How you doing? Okay, I guess. The anticipation was harder than the actuality…

Got home, we both slept, woke up, ate a lot of cake, and I slept some more. Then, with the sun beginning to sink just a little, and the air loosening up its tight hot grip, I felt like I could maybe run. So I took a 3 mile run. I could barely breathe. My whole upper body felt bloated from the cake and stiff as a 90-year-old. I ran in shuffling steps, choking out the first two miles. Then, suddenly, the third mile was a breeze. Sweet Melissa came on the shuffle: Crossroads, seem to come and go… and I felt tears rise up, but still at that same remove, that through-the-glass feeling, which kind of shut the tears out. It’s like, I thought about crying, and I just felt that I could not do it just then.

Then, I ate a dinner that Max and Hannah made (!) Did they decide to do that because of today? Because of Nat being gone, as a way of being supportive? I kind of think so. I am just incredibly moved by their sweet relationship, how much they get each other to grow. Hannah seems to be teaching Max all about health and cooking. They are so in love, and everyone in their orbit feels it and falls in love with them.

I took a shower after dinner. Then I heard from the House and Nat. He sounded very small, far away, tired. He seemed to want to stay on the phone with me, because he didn’t just say, “How are you, good. Yes. Bye.” So I even called him back. We, of course, did not know what to say to one another, so I just blabbed a little and told him I was kissing him into the phone. Then, at last, he just said, “Bye,” and hung up. So I guess he had had his fill.

Sleep well, my darling.

This morning I was thinking about transition objects. What a stuffy, stiff, staid term for something utterly otherwise. So some people call them “lovies.” Everyone I know had one:

Mine: “Lush,” (pronounced “loosh,” but never to be confused with the awful “louche.”) My little baby blanket, blue with satin edging
Ned: A pacifier, name unknown
Laura: “Blanklin,” her baby blanket
Nat: “Floppy Bunny,” and then “Funny Bunny,” (pronounced “Fuh-ee Buh-ee”)
Max: “Blue Blankie,” which was originally a shower gift a relative gave me, for Nat
Ben: Superman, a tiny plastic Happy Meal figurine, with cloth cape and arms that snapped upward in flying mode when you pushed a tiny button on him.

Some people hold onto theirs, others must get rid of them, or have had theirs thrown away in order to break the habit. It seems awfully harsh and against the intent of a transition object, for someone else to decide it is time to throw it out. What about the lost lovie? Are they lost because the owner feels it is time, or are they lost in a tragic way?

I am not sure what happened to my Lush, or Laura’s Blanklin. I suppose Mom could tell me, but I don’t really want to know. (Anyway, I still have Shed, my baby doll, whom I named after my Mom, “Shelly.”) I do know that Ned threw his pacifier out one day while in his carriage, on the Grand Concourse in New York, and never looked back. Did his Mom know, and feel secretly glad for Ned to be done with this teeth-ruining habit, and purposefully not retrieve it, or did she not know?

Max still has Blue Blankie, a tattered clump of blue and dirty blue yarn. He is somewhere in Max’s room, but no longer on his bed. Benj lost Superman in the sands of Nauset Light Beach, Cape Cod. He used to love to bury him and then find him, and one day, he just could not find him. We searched and searched, and dug and dug. My parents even returned there the next day to search the spot. Max wept over Ben’s lost lovie, as did my parents. But Ben did not. As deeply as Superman was needed and loved by Little B (he traveled in Beastie’s warm, fat little hand for about a year), when he was gone, he was gone.

Nat had Floppy Bunny, of Nat Book fame. He loved that guy, always sucking his thumb and rubbing one ear under his nose while he did so. Floppy Bunny, bought by my parents in somewhere like Williamsburg, went everywhere, but one day, while out on a walk with Nat and Max in the double stroller, we found we had returned without FB. In a panic, Ned went back to the area we had walked, and there he found only the ear of Floppy Bunny. What sort of grisly event had occurred? We didn’t even want to think of it.

How would we tell Nat? What if he were sad beyond belief? We already suspected that he had some kind of difficulty understanding language. We acted quickly, and took a similar bunny Mom and Dad had given Max. Max had never really cared for this odd bastardized version of Floppy Bunny. Funny Bunny had a weird floppy-brimmed hat sewn to him; maybe this was the reason for the aversion. Nevertheless, Ned and I cut off the silly brim and then saw that Funny Bunny looked very much like Floppy Bunny. We gave him to Nat, who seemed happy enough to love this new lovie.

Nat has always been remarkably adaptable in this way. This is why we nicknamed him “Mini Man,” when he was a baby. He was so self-sufficient, never needy or clingy. He happily reached for me, but he was always content to be by himself, too. (I suppose you could say this was the autism. Or you could say it was the way Nat was. Or both.) When Nat started school, at age 3, Ned and I suffered terribly worrying that he would be sad without us. Ned stayed hidden outside Nat’s classroom for the first few days, just listening for the sounds of Nat’s agony. They never happened.

And so, today, after so many months of worry, angst, agony, and tears, we are bringing Nat to school, and allowing the van to take him to the Residences there after school — to have dinner, to sleep, and to begin his life there. Last night he seemed a bit anxious about the fact that he was sleeping there, rather than here, for a while. We realized that aside from maybe being a bit subdued from his roiling stomach in the morning, that what was bothering him were the words, “a while,” perhaps more than the fact of moving. So we picked a date that he would come home, in two weeks, and he seemed to be calmer after that.

I suppose — looking back at Nat’s remarkable Mini Man ability to “do what he can,” as we used to say, and to adapt to whatever is thrown his way, or lost — that I should be assured that he will probably do okay tonight in his new bed. This time, Ned can’t hide outside and listen for the signs of sadness. But — maybe he doesn’t need to.

The weather se perfect, day celebration.
–Nat, age 2 1/2, (1992) quoting from Babar the King, which he had memorized around the time Max was born.

What a day, what a party! Blinding blue sky, after days and days of rain, went along with my bouncy, happy mood. I had something to look forward to: lots of family, lots of Nat’s friends and their families (who are also my friends), Nat’s new housemates, and staff. A moonbounce, a large fruit basket, and a cake that was fun and outrageously delicious: a 3-D cake model of Nat’s new home, complete with tall green frosting trees, a frosting Donnie, (the main house faculty guy), and some of the kids, and a blond frosting Nat. We all ate tons of it.

And best of all, the real Nat grinned brightly almost the entire day, particularly when the van full of housemates pulled up!

–So then that happened.
Alec Baldwin, “State and Main”

…And just as I finished the above, I heard this terrible wretching sound: Nat was walking frantically around downstairs, trying hard not to vomit. Panicked House Barfies. “Go into the bathroom, Darling!” I said, pulling him into the tiny downstairs bathroom.
“NO,” he said.
“You’re going to throw up, Natty. Go into the bathroom. Let it out, you’ll feel better when it all comes out.”
“Blooooh-eh! NO frow up.”
“Natty, no one likes to throw up, but you have to do it. Get into the bathroom.”
“Bloooooh-eh!” Splat! There it went on the floor in the main hallway. I put my hand on his back and propelled him into the bathroom, where he got rid of the rest of it, poor darling.

Ned and I stood over him. Then I put Nat into his bed. “Yes, yes,” he whispered, accepting whatever comfort I offered him: cold wash cloth, towel, kiss.

Too much cake, I guess.

Nat baked cornbread for us last night. All I had to do was get out the ingredients and the measuring stuff (actually, he can probably do that, too. How could I not know that? He knows where everything is!). It was, of course, delicious. I kept thinking, “It’s the last time… for a while…” and then pushing that out of my mind to keep moving forward, forward. Lick the bowl, slam the oven door, set the timer.

But I ain’t no shark. Moving forward is alien to me. I am one big circle, all round and coming back to the beginning.

In the beginning, I had this baby.
And now, I have this young man.

It happened in the blink of an eye. Listen to me, I know. All I’m saying is, please, please, just try, try to enjoy them. Just as they are. JUST AS THEY ARE, you hear me? Try not to live their childhood in a blur of therapies, strategies, school placements, meetings, vaccine-hating, hand-wringing, neuron-mourning, diets, chores, appointments, grudges, and cursing fate. Try to just be, in their presence, in the present, with God’s present.

You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.

There is so much going on that I can’t begin to write about it. Later.

A dear little feline friend is gone. I just wanted to post this, in his honor. And, of course, my own ineffectual way of thanking Sonny and Don for touching our lives, even for just two days. Don had lent Sonny to us, to see if my stupid allergies could tolerate a cat, and also, to see what the boys thought. The boys loved him in their own ways, and I just fell completely in love. I got no sleep that night, having moved to the couch to keep him from waking up Ned, with his 3 a.m. Motor Purries and Face Sniffies.

What a cat. He made fast friends with Ben — Ben! and my parents, who were visiting that day.

Oh, oh, oh. Apparently Sonny has not been around for weeks. I weep for Don and his family. I thank them for letting us delight in Sonny and I, for one, will miss him. As Don said, (and I’m paraphrasing because I’m too pre-coffee to look it up again) “Raise a can of Friskies to old Sonny, but try not to smell the stuff because it could make a billy goat gag.”

When I was little, and I was going off somewhere with a friend or something, my dad sometimes used to say, “Oh, stay home with me and be my pet!” I would laugh, because we both knew that was ridiculous. I tried to picture me, a puppy or something. I wasn’t a pet! I was a kid with a life to live. But Daddy always joked about everything, even about the things that made him a little sad. I mean, he was happy to see that I had a life of my own, but he missed me, too.

I was dozing off today, tired from my run and wanting to close off my head a little. I have had this big, oppressive ache about Nat that just doesn’t go away. A heart migraine.

As my eyes closed, the thought came to me: You don’t have to do it. You can keep him home with you. I remembered how I wanted to do that when he was three and everyone was telling me he needed school, and a full day, full year at that. I wanted to keep him home, to keep him away from this stupid, demanding world. I wanted to teach him everything myself. I didn’t want to deal with special education laws, bureaucracies, methodologies, professionals. I didn’t want to deal with my fears and sadness. I especially did not want to deal with his difficulties with the world.

Ned was the cool washcloth on my feverish brow. Or the splash of cold water in the face. “You can’t do that,” he said. “You would never be able to be his teacher. It’s a huge job and you’re tired as it is.” Something like that. I sent Nat to school, and got used to it. So did Nat. He never once expressed anything negative about going to school. Not once.

All day today I have felt the secret relief of knowing how I can sabotage everyone’s plans. If I don’t like it, he doesn’t have to go. And if he doesn’t like it, he can just come home. I don’t care what anyone says or thinks. I am Mommy, hear me roar.

As I was driving Nat home from social group, where he attended a production of Bye, Bye Birdie, I suddenly realized that I did not know what Nat himself thinks about his move-out, now that he knows. My heart felt like it was splitting in two as I considered the fact that I really had to find out what he was feeling, now that he had a beautiful calendar and booklet that his teacher had made. And I was afraid of what the answer might be. But I had to know. I had to hear him say he didn’t want to go (“No X House!) (name changed to protect the innocent) so that I could comfort him, and me.

“Nat,” I said, turning down the radio, “do you want to go to X House?”

Nat stared straight ahead, and said slowly, “Ye-es.”

I have my own system of testing the accuracy of Nat’s responses — he has been known to default to “yes,” just to get people to stop asking him questions. I have to mix up the question and ask it again in a different way. Sometimes several times if I’m not sure.

“Nat, are you happy to go to X House, or — “

“Happy,” he interrupted.

“Happy or sad you’re going to X House?” I repeated.

“You happy you going.”

“Oh!” I said. I was about to say something wise and comforting, but when I looked at him he was smiling. I turned up the BeeGee’s Stayin’ Alive, a song I’ve always hated, but which he seemed to be enjoying, and felt my pain shrink down so that now it fit only me.

Laura

Sitting here waiting for my coffee
A new morning opens, shaking off its damp birth
My throat is tight and my mind is already searching — what is it?
I see you, just behind my eyes, and I remember.
You helped bring him here.
Cheering at one leg while Ned cheered at the other
You were there when he came into the world
It is just so good that you will be here when he goes off into the world.

–Susan

Here is a column I did for today’s Tab:

Alfred Hitchcock had nothing on Brookline. You may not think of Brookline as a scary place, with its rolling hills, nurturing schools, snappy urban thing and placid parks. Especially placid parks.

Like many here, I especially love Brookline in the summer. Then I can take advantage of its loveliness, particularly by riding my bike in places that are far more congested during the rest of the year, or by taking a (fairly) solitary run at the Reservoir.

Last week I slipped out of my house for a Rezzie run, before everyone was fully awake and while the sun was still a gentle but insistent presence rather than a blaring ball of fire. I parked in my usual spot, the shady place just before the water fountain. As I swung my leg over the fence, I froze. There, not 20 feet away, was a coyote.

It was looking right at me, and it was quivering in a way that reminded me of a cat getting ready to pounce. I backed up and got into my car. I dialed information, to connect me to the non-emergency number of the police, even though this seemed almost like an emergency because the animal was acting very strange. I kept my eyes trained on it, terrified that it would race off and attack one of the other runners.

The other runners. I thought, “Don’t the other runners see this? Why aren’t they afraid? Stupid people, ignoring potentially rabid animals.”

Just then, the wind picked up. And I saw a flash, an edge — around the coyote. The coyote was actually only an inch thick! Fake! What the —? I hung up my phone before the police picked up. I laughed out loud and started my run.

As I moved down the length of the pond, I noticed an odd thing. No geese. Of course! The cardboard coyote must have been put there to scare them off, much the same way my dad puts up plastic owls everywhere to scare off woodpeckers. Set a thief to catch a thief, or something like that.

But just as I rounded the corner by the pump house, there they were, a whole gaggle of geese. A googol of a gaggle. And, as usual, I had to gingerly pick my way through them as they fed. I continued on my route, realized happily that there were no more geese anywhere else, and I could see why: more cardboard coyotes. So the geese had gathered in the one place where there were no decoys.

I ran more freely than ever, liberated from my fear of a wild goose chase. I saw a police truck nearby, from animal control. I stopped. “Hey,” I said to the cop in there. “Did you guys do that?” He stared blankly at me. He probably had to take a few seconds to realize what this strange sweaty runner was talking about. “The coyotes,” I explained. “I thought it was real when I first saw one.” Then the cop laughed.

“The town did it,” he said, “But we’ve been trying to get them to for years.”

“Oh,” I said. My mind started churning. Being a Town Meeting member and a former School Committee member, I am well acquainted with the Byzantine nature of Brookline politics. I could only imagine the intrigues, the machinations, the process that went on behind the scenes to get those damned decoys to the Rez. Had I somehow missed the Selectmen’s Committee on Geese? The Goose Study? The warrant article on geese removal? The debate on egg-oiling versus scrambling?

I guess so. But as I kept running around the (mostly) goose-free track, with the decoys flapping at me from nearly every corner, I felt happy and safe. I figured that even though I did not know who the good guys were in this latest bit of Brookline flap, somehow the plan had worked. No one was honking at me.

Only in Brookline would you find Wile E. Coyote actually protecting the Road Runner. Beep, beep.