Susan Senator

I was caught off guard by the Coronavirus just like everyone else. I look back now in horror at all the times I sat right next to people — even a sneezing guy on an airplane — and wandered around blithely without a mask. At the beginning of March, though, it all changed. I was picking Nat up from his day program on a Thursday for a doctor’s appointment, but while waiting for him to collect his things, I noticed how few people were in the room, and how few vans there were outside. I asked Paul, his dear friend and case manager, and Paul said that people were not coming in because of the virus.

Suddenly it was real in a stomach ache kind of way. What the hell was I thinking, sending Nat in every day when this new bug was actually killing more people than the flu? “Nat,” I said to him in the car, “You are not going back there for a while.” And I explained to him about the “sickness” that was very bad, and how we had to be really careful from now on. I told him that he would not be going back to his group home for a while either.

Nat was okay with it, and so was I, because we did not realize how the quarantine would stretch on and on. So for the first week it was all kind of like a sleepy vacation, and my husband Ned was working from home, so we just kind of “sweetied around” as Ned calls it. There was no schedule at all; I went on bike rides and cleaned up my yard, uncovering green shoots everywhere, imagining the colors that would soon be popping out of all the trees and the ground. Nat and I rediscovered our love for baking, and I was proud of myself for being able to stay away from the sweets and continue my long streak of success on Weight Watchers.

At some point, towards the end of March, I got bored and therefore grumpy. Ned was now comfortably into his work-from-home routine and so he was much less available for playing. And Nat, sensing the staleness in the air, suddenly started saying, “Go home.”

He meant his group home. He also began asking about his day program. I felt brittle and resentful of the whole arrangement, and Nat became anxious one day on a walk in the Arboretum. For the first time in almost a year, he was smashing his feet on the pavement, jumping high, and smacking his head. “Calendar, calendar!” he shouted.

We always had made him calendars when he was home on the weekend, but what could we do now? Monday: Wake up, Eat breakfast. Sit around. Get bored. Snack. Laundry. Dishwasher. Sit around. Lunch. Sit around. “No calendar,” he said when he looked at the week that yawned before him.

My irritation grew by the day, even though I was bellydancing (yes, I do that, shut up), playing guitar, and riding my bike. I got a medical marijuana card because I was so stressed out. Every time I looked at Nat, sitting so still, almost disappearing, I would feel the indigestion of guilt gurgling in my chest. As March slid into April, Nat began saying, “May,” meaning, “in May I’ll go back to the group home and day program.”

I said, “I hope so,” but I knew it would not happen in May.

What we needed was a day program. Well, good luck with that.

But — maybe? I created a list of activities that Nat liked, and told him to choose some for each day. He did it one day, but then refused. When I finally got him to articulate one thing he wanted to do, it was baking. Always baking. Before I knew it, I was going back in time, into behavioral training. I would use the baking as a way to get him to do other things.

But Nat would see right through me. He’d look at me with my perfect list of choices and his eyes would say, “Really? This is how you want to play it?”

So we would bake. And drive in the car to nowhere. And bake. And before long I noticed that Nat had a tiny little belly smooshed over his belt — something I never thought I’d see. “Well we can’t not bake,” I said to Ned. “So we’ll walk,” said Ned.

And they did. Long walks deep into Boston, avoiding crowded parks and their Covid-scented air. Ned would come back drenched in sweat, Nat would look like he’d just woken up from a refreshing nap. Soon Ned began relishing his job of plotting 4-5 mile walks. He had several requirements: avoid crowds; go for a long time; try to find new destinations each time; find a good podcast to listen to (no illustions here about chit-chatting with Nat for an hour of walking).

They’d be gone long enough for me to escape into something, usually dance or heavy gardening, my other joy. Seriously, the dirtier, the better. I’d have my break and they’d have exercise and an activity they both enjoyed. We could not get over the fact that Nat no longer insisted on the destination being ice cream as in the pre-Covid era. He wanted to go on the walk because he needed something to do and he felt good doing it. And it was his thing to do with his dad.

Then they’d come back and I’d give Nat (and me) an early lunch. I’d think petulantly, “Dammit, I don’t want to bake, why do I always have to bake,” and then I’d hear myself saying, “Nat, do you want to bake?”

We’d get out Mom’s Big Book of Baking, and pick out a recipe. It would have to be something we both liked because, well, Weight Watchers was stressing me out and the priority was filling Nat’s days and being happy with what we had. Still, most of the time I managed to get away with licking my fingers and eating only one cookie.

After the baking I would feel so proud of myself, and of Nat, who was very skilled at baking. From careful measuring to setting timers and temperatures to separating eggs, he was game for everything. At first he did not get why we were using so many bowls and taking so many steps to bake a cake. “Buy mix,” he said at first. “Nat, trust me,” I said, “You are going to love making a cake the real way.” And of course I was right. By May we were experts at making half batches of everything, half layer cakes, half peanut butter cookies, half of the fudge. Because I still needed us to survive this self-isolation and not acquire Type 2 Diabetes.

Then, the Zoom period of quarantine started, and soon we had choices of people to “see.” We did a Passover seder on Zoom (that was no more hectic than our usual seder). Then the day program started sending out links for hang-outs, or we’d facetime with grandparents, or have a music lesson with his rock band director. Suddenly I could actually develop a calendar that did not piss Nat off, because there’d be 10am Morning Meeting, 1pm Arts and Crafts, 5pm MUSE (the rock band gang) hang-out. And woven throughout were the walk and the bake.

We’d still have occasional discussions about when he’d be going back to his real life, and I found I could reason with him by describing what re-opening things would be like. He listened carefully, sometimes even smiling when I got really detailed about all the little changes that would have to be made outside, like masks and tests and smaller crowds. Now that it’s May he says, “June,” for when he’d like to go back, and I say, “Probably.” But I no longer feel anxious about what if it doesn’t happen in June. Because I know we got this.

I hope you enjoy this new post I wrote for Psychology Today. It’s been quite a time staying home with Nat these three weeks!

VOTING IS REALLY IMPORTANT.

HERE’S HOW TO DO IT

Copyright 10/25/18 by Susan Senator

All rights reserved

ALL ABOUT VOTING

1. Voting is making choices. Voting is a wonderful thing to do if you are grown up. Voting is VERY IMPORTANT FOR ANYONE LIVING IN THE UNITED STATES.
2. The choices are for different people who want to be in charge of the rules we follow. These are called Elected Officials.
3. The choices on the voting form are also for some rules that all people must follow. These are called Questions.

WHAT WILL HAPPEN AT THE VOTING PLACE?

We go into the building. At the first table, ____________ says his name SLOWLY and clearly

_____________________ says his address SLOWLY and clearly

_____________________ takes the paper ballot and goes into a booth

________________relaxes and takes a deep breath. _____________moves calmly and SLOWLY.

________________uses the pen to color in ONLY ONE CIRCLE: That is how you vote!

WHAT IS ON THE BALLOT TODAY?

People who want to be in charge of [your state], and also Rules for us to follow.

__________________ is probably a DEMOCRAT/REPUBLICAN/INDEPENDENT because: ______________________________________________________________________________________

[Note: I believe a guardian/parent/friend can guide the individual the way you would guide anyone who asks. Do not be ashamed to advise voting for the party that is in the individual’s best interest. Here is an example: Nat likes living in an apartment and going to his day program. DEMOCRATS believe this is a good thing and they spend money on it. So Nat should vote ALL DEMOCRAT because Democrats make those kind of rules and spend money on those kind of things.]

______’s family are all ________________.

What are you going to be? Republican or Democrat?

[Note: Again, it is very typical for individuals to want to know how their parents and families vote, and for parents to guide them thus. In Nat’s case, it is the Democrats who will preserve the funding for his programs, for the life he lives.]

____________________________________________can color in a circle for each new box:

1. Candidate 1 believes that _____________________________________________________.

[Note: Make a one sentence statement that would make sense and sums it up in a way relevant to the individual.] For example: Elizabeth Warren makes rules that allow Nat to live in his own apartment. Geoff Diehl would take that rule away.]

Fill in just one!

2. Jay Gonzalez/Palfrey Democrat OR Charlie Baker/Polito Republican

Ballot Questions. There are 3 Ballot Questions. Color in one circle for each.

Question 1 is about nurses who work in hospitals. Hospitals need to hire more

nurses, or do hospitals need to make nurses work harder to help every patient in need, even if it is hard for the nurse?

Question 2 is about making elections more fair for people with less money. Or should people with more money be allowed to spend a lot of money to become a leader.

Question 3 is about protecting all people letting them eat where they want, go to movies they want, use bathrooms in restaurants.

That’s it! Put the paper in the slot of the machine! You did it!

I give you my latest column for Psychology Today. Enjoy!

G.H.O.S.T. FORM (Group Home Oversight and Support Team)

Loved One’s Name____________________________________________________

Ghost’s Name________________________________________________________

Date______________________________________

Date of Last Visit____________________________

• What was the overall demeanor of _________________________________?
• If you looked in his room, what was its condition?
• What was your interaction with the loved one like?

How much should we autism parents struggle to “change” our children’s behavior, to channel it to more “normal” pursuits? Are we stifling the real person by doing so? You can read the piece here.

The process for producing a publishable piece: Nailing the essay-length work

This two-part class will give you the basic tools for crafting opeds, personal narrative, book proposals, pitch letters, beginning memoirs. You will also have opportunity for peer review and one free session of my editing. 2 Saturday mornings in January, TBD

DAY ONE

1. Overview: The essay, what it is used for:

• Pitch letters
• Opeds
• Summary of book for an agent
• Persuasion

2. The three most important goals for an essay

• To catch the reader’s eye
• To get the reader to keep reading
• To “win,” i.e., to fully convey your point and persuade

3. The nutshell: how do you create perfect essay-length works?

• Structure
• Tools, techniques, and strategies
• Tone
• Understanding your reader

****Break****

4. The bricks and mortar: structuring your piece

• Lede
• Background
• Active story
• Falling action
• Kicker

5. Let’s talk about tools, techniques, and strategies

6. Learning from others: read and write the type of essay you are aiming for.

• Best ledes:
• B. White
• Brent Staples
• Maya Angelou
• Opening of Glass Castle
• Best kickers:
• Joyful Noise
• NY Times pieces

• Assignment#1: Read the essays. Analyze two of these essays for next time: structure & techniques, with examples. Critique the pair: are there problems?
• Assignment #2: Write out your idea(s) for next time.

The process for producing a publishable piece: Nailing the essay-length work

DAY TWO

1. What is your idea?

• Sometimes there is more than one essay within your essay
• Current topics
• Evergreen topics

2. What is your angle? Is it special and new, shocking, revelatory, solution-oriented?

3. Finding your own process: Outlines, free-writes and brain dumps

****Break****

4. What techniques will you use?

• Your favorite techniques
• Less familiar techniques

5. Give your work its due

• Never ever believe your first draft is THE ONE
• Put it away, print it out, try not to edit online
• Get a reliable reader

6. Read-around/peer review

7. Wrap-up

8. Feedback

Cost is $150 for both days, or $100 for one day.

January 4 9am-12pm EST and January 11 9am-12pm EST

Contact me for registration details.

Here is my latest post for Psychology Today. Enjoy!

Even back in 2005 when Making Peace With Autism came out, I knew that I’d made a terrible mistake with the opening sentence: “The hardest day of the year for me is Nat’s birthday, November 15.”

How could I have thought such a thing, much less published it for everyone to see?

What if Nat saw?

Realistically, he wouldn’t because he doesn’t read books like that. But still. Imagine a child seeing that.

Further on I wrote:

Of course, Ned and I are happy to celebrate Nat’s birthday, going to great lengths to come up with presents that catch his quicksilver attention and baking a cake slathered with frosting because the frosting is the only part he’ll eat. We invite all the family members who can make it. But no friends, because Nat has none. No, as far as we’ve come being Nat’s parents, we cannot say we enjoy his birthday. Ned feels it’s because Nat’s birthday makes no difference to Nat himself.

God damn it. Nat has no friends? Garbage. He’s got friends here that he’s had since he was ten. He’s got friends in his group home. He’s got friends from his teams, from his day program. But that’s how I saw things. Remember, back then I was making peace with autism, it was a gerund, a verb in the active tense, I had not made peace with it.

Oh but that’s why we love your writing; you’re so honest, no sugar-coating, people say, as if that excuses it, this public breast-beating. Poor me.

Poor me, when I’ve got a healthy 30 year old (on the 15th) who has a place in the world, family who loves him, friends all around, healthcare, and two nice homes.

Look: I gave birth to a neurologically atypical son. That means he does not perceive things the way the average person does. That means he understands things differently from normal, or maybe not at all. That means he has to be taught explicitly anything we need him to be certain of. Safety. Self-care. Asking. Answering. Counting. Reading. Public versus private behavior.

We used to even teach him how to play. Kids must play, right? And boys must play with cars, or role play, or play games.

“Put boy in car. Car goes ‘vroom.'”

We were told that if we give him the tools, like the mechanics of play, he would collect them in his experience and begin to expand from there, playing naturally.

Nope, never happened.

I came to understand that typical fun is not how Nat experiences fun. We don’t quite know how he experiences fun, and we still don’t. And yes it makes me sad that I don’t have too many ways to have fun with him. Again, poor me.

Because I do have fun with him. It’s that hanging-out kind of fun. I’m a talker, so I don’t get to do that with him. So instead we’re active. We shop. We cook. We walk. We go to parties together, because his friends are our friends, and their parents are our friends. Ned and I joke that we have a social life because of Nat.

Even back then, when Nat was four or five, it seemed stupid, irrelevant, and sad to spend time showing him how to act like a typical child. Mean, even. What was he, Pinocchio? Not a real boy? His was an ABA school, and I loved the place, because Nat did learn there! But I didn’t like the way it was all ABA or the highway. Never Nat’s way.

And with ABA, at least back then, all the messages were, “you’re not enough the way you are. You have to relearn that, do it this way.” Constantly battle with your own instincts and impulses. All so that you can blend in.

How insane is that? We’re all individuals. Blending in means to some extent losing yourself among the others.

We were teaching Nat to lose himself even before we knew who he was.

Well, now we know. Nat is a (just about) 30 year old man who likes his space. He loves singing in his band. He loves when he knows exactly what to do (who doesn’t?). He loves just about any activity, new or old. He’s flexible (except during his times of great anxiety, which do come every so often. We just finished one when he was smacking his head a lot). He loves being around people as long as he doesn’t have to talk much. But sometimes he even likes talking, if the conversation is clear and focused on him. If the answers aren’t floating around out of reach.

Nat loves attention. Positive attention, like when he sings. Nat does not like to feel lost in the crowd. Nat likes to know what to say and what to do. He loves cues.

He does not like to blend in and we no longer believe he has to.

I guess I still haven’t made my peace with autism — it is hard for him, dammit, it is! — but I sure do know how I feel about Nat. He’s amazing. And his birthday is the celebration of him, blond, bright, and beautiful, smart and sassy, secretive. Devoted to his friends and family and traditions.

A guy who will always be there for you.

A guy who loves with all his heart.

So on his birthday, I celebrate all that is Nat.

And I hope he is happy.

Here is the latest column for Psychology Today. Enjoy!

When is enough, enough?  When do we let go and then grab onto something new?

As I get older I need to be able to answer that question and not look back. I had a particularly good day at work today — I teach writing at Northeastern University — which means I got really really tired. My hour of teaching three days a week is a time period when all of my usual creative energy is compacted into those moments. If you know me at all, you know then that this is a lot of creative energy concentrated and distilled in the best, purest thinking version of me. And like the Laws of Conservation of Matter and Energy, once that creative thinking speaking piece of me is spent, it is gone. And that is why I am writing so little these days. Keep an eye out for Universe casino slots games and their awesome jackpots from daily free spins.

Any other part of me has to go to my family (BenMaxNatNed and sometimes MomDadLauraSomeFriends), and my biking/dancing and then, if I can, AutismAdvocacy. This formula has been mixed, remixed, and titrated over the years to yield the happier form of me that you see today. I came to understand that there was only so much I can say Yes to and that I have to choose carefully.

So today I got to thinking about the item I had planned to participate in later on in the day. And all I could feel was dread and resentment. Not irritation with the folks that invited me to this meeting, but with myself for having been foolishly optimistic about my ability to attend a new committee at 6:30pm in a town 30 minutes away.

Oh, but the meeting is about something to do with Nat’s quality of life. Does that come under the Nat category or the Advocacy category. When I’d agreed to do this, I was thinking mostly it was for Nat.

Actually I still think this committee is an activity that would affect/improve Nat’s daytime life.  But there’s a lot of work for the Greater Good involved, too. As a younger woman, I would just leap to do the latter. I was all about the Greater Good in my career: making the world understand and appreciate Nat and autistic people in general. Different people. I wrote books, articles, served on committees, lobbied legislators, went to the White House and the State House.

But today as I was walking across the quad of my new favorite university, I was feeling both exhilarated and exhausted from class. And I realized that in that 65 minutes I had not thought about Nat once.

I can hear you gasping in horror.  Or was that me?

I hadn’t thought about my two other boys either, but you don’t gasp over that. That’s because they are 27 and 21, independent, out in the world.

But Nat.

Well, what about Nat? I thought to myself, there actually is a reason I didn’t think about Nat, that I don’t actually think about him during the week until Friday, when the weekend is near and he will be visiting.

I don’t think about him. You heard that right. And that is because he is for now settled into a wonderful group home, and an equally terrific day program. And so a great deal of my energy can now go elsewhere. I can work at a university. I can buy myself lunch at a gorgeous cafe. I can take the long way home from the trolley.

This is because at this moment in time, I feel my boys are okay, more than okay. Evil Eye, stay the fuck away, let me say that. Let me bask in that. And let me blow off tonight’s meeting because, Dammit, I do enough.

Though at the moment I decided this, I didn’t feel okay. I sat down with my computer and who should pop up on Messenger but Max. He just wanted to say hi. See how I am. Hear about my day.

And I think that perhaps there is some kind of Universal Law going on here, where maybe Max picked up on my mental freedom, my openness, and he made that connection with me.  I don’t believe there’s a Master Plan for us; I do understand that energy and matter cannot be created or destroyed, and that my own energy and matter are finite. But I also believe that things conspire — randomly or deliberately — to free up crowded old pathways as we grow, ripen, age. And that there are endless pathways for our energy and our love to take if we are open to them.

Recently I hosted a family party — my mom’s 80th — which was just immediate family and close relatives. It was great reconnecting with cousins and with my Aunt Georgia and Mom’s brother Gerard, and Aunt Rhoda, Dad’s older sister.

I think Mom felt the same way. She seemed on a high the whole day. I was particularly excited about this because it was one of the few times we had really celebrated just Mom, and not as part of a really magnificent couple with my dad (82).

We celebrate the two of them a lot, because they have a pretty extraordinary relationship, having started dating when she was 13 and he was 15. And even though the party was about Mom, Dad figured large in the whole thing because he is rather larger than life at times. And Mom is so used to basking in his colorful admiration that it made sense for Dad to have a big part in the event. He read her one of his best poems — he has written numerous books of his poetry, which were adapted as quotes about heartbreak — and also he sang to her.

But another wonderful thing about the day was that all Mom’s grandchildren were there at the same time, which is a rarity these days. And so all three of my sons were there, which made it utterly delicious for me. What’s more, Max and Ben brought their girlfriends. Interestingly enough, a cousin also brought his girlfriend, so there we were, an expanding family, and Mom as the Matriarch. Lovely to see the old and new faces.

Nat did not bring anybody, nor did any of us expect him to. Nat is far more solitary than his brothers. And although he lives with four other young men, who also have autism, they are in a group home with supervision. It is very difficult for me to imagine any of those guys out of context of each other and the staff of the home. In the past, we have managed to invite disabled classmates of Nat’s, or housemates from his various group homes — especially for his birthday or his concerts. But it never occurred to me to invite someone connected to Nat to this party because none of us are used to thinking of Nat that way.

This morning I was thinking ahead to other events coming up for the family and I remembered that I’d made a date for my parents to come to our house for Rosh Hashanah dinner.  I’m not all that religious but there is something special about certain Jewish holidays — Passover and of course Chanukah, the Jewish Christmas. But Rosh Hashanah is during early fall and is the Jewish New Year. The end of the year and the beginning of preparing for the new one. And autumn being harvest time makes it a perfect setting for this fall holiday. Rosh Hashanah is a favorite of mine and Nat’s.  Maybe it’s the beautiful crisp brilliant light of fall, and the feeling of renewal that autumn brings. Or maybe because we eat apple and honey (to symbolize autumn treats and sweetness in the year to come). We both love dipping apple in honey. Nat even knows the Hebrew prayers over the candles, wine, challah, and for the apple and honey.

My mom loves Rosh Hashanah, too, but it is in a more bittersweet sense. She remembers her parents, brothers, and grandparents at this holiday and how rich a celebration they had, being Orthodox Jews. The excitement extended to the food — not just apple and honey but also specialties like kasha varnishkes, chicken matzo ball soup, and carrot tsimmis. But I think that typical of Jews the food is associated with love and fun, and family. And Mom really misses her original family. This time of year she is particularly vulnerable for not having them there. I sometimes imagine that for mom the presence of her ghosts can fill her heart with such longing that she has a hard time actually enjoying it with the rest of us. I feel for her. I want to help that ache but of course I can’t do much.

This year Mom called and asked if she and Dad could spend the special dinner with me. I was so delighted to get this call, because it would make the dinner so much bigger than what it usually is:  Ned, Nat, and me. I think that like my Mom, I tend to remember the Rosh Hashanahs of my girlhood, the intensely moving evening service at Temple and all of our special food as well as seeing friends and family like my Aunt Rhoda. But my memories are strictly happy and full of the desire to continue those special times with my sons and their significant others, because I’m lucky enough not to have to experience the pain of loss that Mom does. Knock wood, my loved ones, old and young, are still with me.

I thought about inviting Max and Ben because now the dinner was feeling more special with Mom and Dad coming. But I didn’t invite the boys because they had just been here for Mom’s party, and it’s a bit of a hardship for them to interrupt their lives — Max works as a cameraman in New York, and Ben is in college in Savannah.

I wondered how to expand the family — it had been so much fun being a bigger group at Mom’s party and also in childhood. But without Max, Ben, and assorted girlfriends, there didn’t seem to be a way. I wondered about my Jewish friends but they all have their own dinners.

Then I thought about Nat. I envisioned him in his seat at the end of the table, saying the prayers, wolfing down the apple and honey and then the brisket, and then getting out of there. And I felt sad to think of his solitariness, his typical isolation. Yes, he does want and need his space, his autism demands it, but I also know that he has relationships with others. I started to think about those others: his housemates. Suddenly I got really excited, imagining them there.

But just as quickly I imagined how difficult logistically it would be to have his housemates there. They’d need staff, and would I be able to make the staff feel welcome in that setting? No, the boundaries are just too hard to cross; I thought they would feel awkward. And as far as asking the housemates’ families: well I have never met any of them. I did know that they were likely not Jewish. So where would I even start?

And then another idea dawned: I could invite Paul and his wife Rachelle. Paul is Nat’s case manager at his day program, but he has also done respite for us many times, and Nat always leaps for an opportunity to hang out with Paul. Paul seems to love it, too. His texts and photos of Nat and him together always show a mutual enjoyment. Because of Paul’s unique relationship with Nat, and his clear love for him, I have found that I can ask Paul for advice on Nat. Paul’s wisdom is far beyond his years. I got very excited about asking Paul to come because of the different ways Paul has been in Nat’s life and because I can see that this relationship will probably go on for a long time.

So long, in fact, that I wondered if Paul would even be there for Nat when Ned and I were too old to be. I realized that if there was a chance that Paul would become even more important in Nat’s life at that point, then Paul should take a prominent position in Nat’s life now. Suddenly I saw the absolute truth in this. I thought of Max and Ben again, and how they would likely have girlfriends with them more often than not, and that the family always makes room for these new faces.

So why not make room for the important people in Nat’s life? Maybe his housemates couldn’t come but maybe with more planning they would someday. But Paul only required an invitation and desire to go.

Suddenly I really needed to make this happen. We would take Nat’s attachments as seriously as we took Max and Ben’s. I confirmed with Ned about expanding our dinner this way and then I went ahead and invited Paul and Rachelle. Paul said they’d come and added that he was always eager to learn about new things (in this case Rosh Hashanah). I think he will take particular pleasure in seeing Nat say the prayers.

This new addition to our family holiday will make Mom happy, too, I just know it. Because even though I can never bring back her now departed loved ones, I can show her that the next generation is expanding in all sorts of ways, and that our family traditions of food, love, and tradition are as strong as ever.  As Nat used to say, ages ago, “It’s a-different, that’s okay.”

“…Ole Mississippi, she’s callin’ my name.”

Just got back from a trip to New Orleans with Ned for our anniversary.

We stayed in a glorious old hotel, the Monteleone. Our room was smallish but very sumptuous, with a wall of windows looking over the rooftops out to the Mississippi.  Ben had given us a book about haunted New Orleans and we found out that there were twelve spirits in our hotel, one of whom hung out on our floor! Never saw him or felt his presence though. They had a nice pool on the roof, and just off the lobby was the Carousel Bar, that actually rotates.

First day there we ate beignets at Cafe Beignet:

Then we walked to Jackson Square where there was a street performer and many Tarot card readers set up before the park. I chose a reader who looked happy and full of life — she was wearing bright yellow and listening to her music, whereas the others were all trying to look somber and important. I’m not telling you what she said, but after a 30-minute conversation, she and I parted as dear friends.

That night we ate dinner at Cafe Amelie, in a shady courtyard with old-fashioned string lights and a large fountain.

We asked for the table for two by the fountain but they told us it was reserved for a couple and that the guy intended to propose. They arrived shortly after us, a big man in pink shirt and white pants and a small dark-haired woman, also in white with high pink strappy sandals. We ate slowly and watched them discreetly, waiting to see what he’d do. Nothing happened until they’d actually finished dinner. They walked over to the fountain and finally he knelt in front of her and gave her the ring. They hugged and kissed, we applauded and told them it was good luck because it was our anniversary.

The next day we explored the French Quarter, and the Garden District, just taking in the sights block by block. We visited the House of Broel, which is a wedding venue, a dressmaker, and a Dollhouse Museum(!) They had tiny vignette after vignette of miniature Victorian life.

The Garden District is full of stately homes, the Lafayette #1 cemetery, and Magazine Street, with artsy and funky shops.

We got some Snoballs (flavored shaved ice) to cool off, just in time for it to start pouring rain, with drops as thick and hard as shots of bourbon.

Our dinner reservation was in a courtyard restaurant, but because of the weather the courtyard was closed. Our next choice turned out to be closed for the week, so we just ate dinner on a second-floor balcony of a casual place, Curio. I had my first po-boy, a fried shrimp one. Later we went to Frenchmen Street to check out the jazz scene. We usually don’t like jazz but we loved it there; it was magical, and really fun wandering in and out of the wide open bars and taking in the music.

We especially enjoyed the impromptu brass band that spilled over from a street corner actually into the street, delighting pedestrians and frustrating people foolish enough to try to drive there.

Next day was our bayou boat ride. An old guy picked us up in a van with another couple and a young Brit and drove us to Honey Island, telling us all about Hurricane Katrina. Eighteen feet of water out there (East New Orleans), just as bad as the 9th Ward within the city. On the boat ride we ventured down the brown Pearl River and deep inside some strange cypress groves. The captain got many gators to approach the boat by offering them marshmallows. Who knew that gators ate marshmallows?

That night we went back to Frenchmen St and enjoyed it even more than the night before because we knew which bars we liked. We ate dinner in one of them, Bamboulas, and stayed a while. The street scene was as wild as ever, even on a Tuesday. Ned played washboard with a guy named Windex Pete.

The next day we went to the Botanical Gardens. They were gorgeous: section after section of tropical or more typical perennial gardens, with an exhibit of rain forest and also of prehistoric plants (mostly many many different kinds of ferns).

We also went back to Magazine Street and walked the other end, all the way up to the Snoballs place. Before we got there we found a lovely little outdoor cafe, Bordeaux, and had lunch there, with a frosé (Frozen rosé with peach and lemon vodka). Delicious and beautiful.

Terribly hot outside, though. Bordeaux, like all other NOLA cafés, had big ceiling fans as well as wall fans that had water misting from them.

And back to Frenchmen St. after a dinner at Napoleon House, where I had a roast beef po-boy. This time we watched a fantastic Zydeco band, Crawdaddy T, whom I loved so much I tipped them twice.

July Fourth we tried beignets at the famous Cafe du Monde and then took a steamboat ride down the Mississippi on the Natchez, which is one of two remaining authentic steam-powered ships in the US. We learned more Katrina history, including seeing where the levees were breached by eighteen feet of water, and the damage that still remained.

That night we ate dinner at the Original Pierre Maspero’s, which was the spot where Andrew Jackson and the Lafitte brothers (pirates) plotted what was to become the Battle of New Orleans, the final battle of the War of 1812. And of course, on to Frenchmen St after that. On the way, we ran into a second line for a wedding party. Very New Orleans!

Fourth night in a row of great music. We had to be sure to be back at our room in time for fireworks, a stunning but surprisingly brief (10 min?) display from a barge on the river.

Our last morning we had a full breakfast on a tiny balcony in the French Quarter, a little souvenir shopping, and then off to the airport. Gotta go back again sometime, just loved it there.  Where else do strangers call you “darlin'”?

The day they called the police on Nat: my latest post in Psychology Today.

Magic isn’t real in the sense that someone can *poof* disappear or have three wishes or suddenly be “beautiful” as in magazine-pretty (Ned’s term). But real magic is about spinning straw into gold, by which I mean creating something fascinating and special out of the ordinary.

On my bike rides I go to tiny spots in ordinary neighborhoods where I am entering whole worlds. I imagine and crave to be at these places, and that makes me want to get on my bike. So it’s not exercise, it’s play. I look to my right, on Old Orchard Road, and I squint a little, and that lawn there becomes like a meadow, a pasture. For that split second I can’t see the houses, cars, fences, people. Just the rolling grass lit up to young green by the sun. There’s another spot called “Cape Cod,” named thus by Max, my middle son, who felt that something about it was like our rides on the Cape. I look forward to that bit of road because suddenly I’m in Cape Cod and it’s summer and free and hot.

Max told me about a word, “Kayfabe” which he learned in a philosophy class while at NYU, which he recalls is about play and pretend. Google finds it from perhaps carnival culture, some kind of reforming of the words “be fake.”

Kayfabe is the willingness to pretend. To me, this is an essential part of a happy life. So: do you play at all? What is your kind of fun? Where do you find magic? The magic that Max creates is in his everyday life, the way he gently laughs at just about everything and everyone around him. His Instagram posts are always funny even if you don’t understand them. He always says he gets a lot of fun playing online (he says that https://www.singapoker.org it’s one of the best sites to play) slot machine games from ABC Win. He’s a cameraman and fascinated with cameras, cables, lenses, focus aids, and assisting in the creation of worlds in films and commercials. But it’s not his actual work that I’m talking about, it’s the sense of amusement he shows in his posts and the way he talks about his day. You want to join in, you want to be young again, and approach the world without worry. Not that he doesn’t worry; he’s human, after all. But when you are with him there is a sense of play, like any kind of experience you want, he can take you there. The restaurant he took me to, Butter and Scotch, we actually ordered a piece of birthday cake for dessert. Birthday cake! Pink and yellow. Brilliant. He showed me a ghost subway stop underground in New York. We went past it, and saw it, but you can never get off at it. It’s no longer used. It was a little world we were visiting for a moment.

All three of my sons are magical in different ways. Ben, my youngest, has shown me the world of elves and forests, ever since he was a little guy. He draws them even now as part of art school assignments, and infuses them with his own attitudes of toughness and vulnerability combined. His elves or faeries can be found on the doorsteps of old Victorian mansions, expelled from their community for an undisclosed reason. These paintings make you yearn for more, and join in the story. They make you want to dive into the painting a la Mary Poppins and Bert and their sidewalk chalk scenes. You wish with all your heart that you were part of this tableau. Ben has always done this, created beings and their worlds, with names that really made sense for them, and they were so consistently and poignantly drawn your heart would twist with a million different feelings. The craving when Ben interacts with you is a feeling of being at the doorstep of a world both terrible and gorgeous, you hope so badly that he will choose to be your guide there.

Autism parents have often been told that their children are special, particularly beautiful and captivating. There’s a “magical autistic” character in literature, media, that many in the community do not appreciate: the autist with special powers, the SuperSavant. This is not what I mean at all. Nat’s magic is not in some kind of powerful recall or math or obsession with presidents or train schedules. If we look carefully and quietly at our children — autistic or not — we can find that magic. What I see in Nat is this ability to catch people’s eye. For the longest time I was worried and upset about that. Were they staring, making fun? His arm movements and self-talk can seem so weird.

But lately it occurs to me that they are intrigued by his free spirit. He’s not burdened by a problem to work out, he’s not looking at you and wondering how he looks to you. You don’t know what he’s thinking about, what his thoughts are like. He’s so within himself that you realize you are seeing a genuine person stripped of artifice. So when Nat smiles, you smile. He’s not doing it for you or because of you, he’s being hit by joy and you get to witness that, unadulterated by anything else. You feel tickled by him, you want it to go on and on. The magic with Nat is when he does consent to interact with you, his responses are so genuine and sweet. You feel like, “how can a person like this exist?” Innocent because he simply does not understand neuro-typical rules and interactions, all those crossed signals over and over until everything is just black with communicating/misunderstanding. He doesn’t do that — well, when he does it’s so hard for him. But when he’s just being himself he’s just like flower petals on the wind, you want them to stay on the tree or at least remain this achingly beautiful and fresh.

Being able to enjoy some of your moments, in your own way, childlike and even silly — this is how we create magic in the real world. You’re creating a reality for that pocket of time, falling into it, believing in it. Fun is our superpower.

What’s the other side of the “I can never die?” plaint of the autism parent? I’ve done a lot of writing about the need for more protections of our vulnerable guys who do not live with us. Even so, for many of us that is not a sustainable solution. And we are not the center of the issue, even though we love our children and want to protect them. No, they themselves are. And it is their right as human beings to claim their independence if that is what they wish.

So — perhaps we parents can take a lesson from — of all things — the story of Abraham and Isaac. Not the sacrifice part — sacrificing your child is never the right thing to do — but more metaphorically, in the sense that author Jon Levenson may have meant, in The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son — that our children are actually not really our own, our possessions. They are born to us to protect, teach, and love, but the purpose of having children is to create beautiful souls who can live lives of meaning and goodness. So when a very good friend of mine who had read Levenson’s book raised the possibility that the Isaac story in terms of the very real necessity of letting your child go, it made me think, and it gave me comfort. “We do what we can to keep them safe,” my friend said, “but ultimately what happens to them is not up to us.”  She’s not a Fatalist or a religious extremist. She believes in free will. But she also acknowledges that there is an entire random universe that has a say in what goes on.

For months I’ve been struggling with the question of where Nat should live. He has been home with us since early March because the shared living arrangement he’d been in fell apart. Yet from his late teens through this year, I’d been dreaming of Nat in just such a “normal” setting in the community with caregiver friends. But once we had achieved this, we could see how it was not enough support for Nat. But I was resistant to group homes because of horror stories. No, I would simply have to take care of him myself to keep him safe. We’d buy a two-family home with a caregiver living right downstairs with him. We would share the care of Nat until we no longer could. But then what? Who would become “us,” in the upstairs apartment? Would it be Max and Ben, Nat’s younger brothers? No, because they are on their own paths.

We need to be able to build lives for our loved ones where they can exist without us. But how? And then, just a few weeks ago, remarkably, another wise friend said something that put group homes in a new light for me. “Group homes can be something not to resign yourself to, but something to be excited about.” But how, I asked, given the potential for abuse? She said that we take big risks all the time, we just don’t think about it. Bad things can happen to anyone. Even Nat. (And so they have. And not while he was in a group home, by the way.) But bad things — God forbid — can also happen to Max and Ben. And Ned. And me. When you look around, you see that bad things happen anywhere, out of the blue, at any time. Car accidents, gun massacres, measles outbreaks, floods, drugs, cancer, suicide, divorce, homelessness, the Trump presidency. This may sound like a terribly pessimistic appraisal of the human condition, but it was bizarrely comforting. Because it is the way life is. Unpredictable, at times scary and horrible “red in tooth and claw,” according to Tennyson.

The truth is, that in a good group home there are many “eyes on,” meaning, there are enough staff to take care of and watch out for your guy. Conversely, there are four other people in need of care and so you really do have to learn to suck it up a little. And if you have a need not being met, you have to learn how to get that taken care of. You learn how to deal with others who don’t love you and may not understand the way you communicate. This applies to both staff and other residents. Group homes also offer structure, again, because they must. There would be too much chaos to run a group home without a schedule and expectations.

I’ve done due diligence. I have found group homes that are good, not at all grim, and long-lived. So we do not have to set up our own (risky) situation. My family need not spend tens of thousands of dollars a year on support staff — and what is the guarantee that private group homes staff are any safer? The beauty of public programs like the Medicaid waiver are that we don’t have to reinvent the wheel, or set up alternative programs that offer the “dignity of risk” through fewer supports because actually there was too much risk there for Nat. Just because a setting looks shiny and hip because “Thank God it’s not a state-run group home,” it doesn’t mean it is good. A more inclusive, less supported setting wasn’t good for Nat — or his former caregivers. And there is no shame in that. Perhaps there is even less risk of stress and burnout in a group home because of the increased support.

Because life is so many things at so many times, we do need to take risks — smart risks. We need to keep having children, loving them with all our hearts, devoting our lives to them. But we also need to step back and let them grow up. We need to “teach our children well,” as Crosby Stills and Nash say, make intelligent choices, but in the end we are flawed, as is the world, and life. So what to do? We live our best lives anyway, hope for the best, and crawl, broken and defeated, out of the hole to live — as well as possible — again. All the while, trying to repair that messy road so that you and others do not fall in. Maybe not with the blind faith of Abraham, but a wise and informed faith. With our children we’ve got to know when to hold ’em — and when to walk away.

Here is my 13th column for Psychology Today. It’s been a great year writing for them! This column is about why autism parents say “I can never die.“

Today is World Autism Acceptance/Awareness Day. Do you light it up blue? Wear red?

(Answer: I only wear what looks good on me.) Seriously, I have nothing against the Blue. Or the Red. Not so for others in my community. The Blue is deplored by many because people in our community have a beef with Autism Speaks, the original Blue Puzzle Piece organization. The antipathy ranges from how AS funds are spent, to awful Public Service Announcements from their early beginning, to the fact that research is mostly about cause and not direct support. Causation research is by implication about eradicating autism. This feels like a threat to the self advocates who embrace their autism, or to other autistic loved ones.

But Autism Speaks is largely responsible for putting autism on the map, for opening the public’s eyes to this disorder and its challenges. For securing legislation and autism funding. They offer resources to families and autism-friendly events (theater, circus performances, movie nights) nationwide, opening up supportive activities to families who may choose to stay home because it is easier.  Maybe it isn’t enough, maybe they could be more sensitive in their message, maybe they need to ask autistics where the need is greatest. But I still would not throw the baby out with the bathwater. Autism Awareness is a tide that has lifted all of our boats.

However now it is time for a new kind of awareness. The red group has been instrumental in moving us all to a new paradigm for autism, which is to listen first to autistics to understand autism, and and open up policy-making and the seats of power to the neurodiverse. Wearing red is about being an ally to neurodiversity, a growing movement with the beautiful rallying call: “nothing about us without us.” The ND group aims to subvert the old autism narrative, to show that autism is not a scourge, not an epidemic, but rather something about oneself to be embraced. They identify as autistic, and with pride. I applaud this. The true human condition is one of broad and colorful variety, and our arms are wide enough to hold them all.

But I also understand that this message of “ask an autistic about autism” can feel like a tall order to the severe autism advocates, the parents who must be their loved one’s voice. I believe that most autism parents devote their hearts and much energy to helping their child communicate. But sometimes they have not been able to elicit enough information from their autistic child to know what they want, what’s the matter, what they need, are they sick, hurt, depressed… the parents must become detectives, hunting for clues to bring out that precious voice. The parents of the severe (I count myself as one), feel that they must speak for their children. And so, the neurodiversity folks see this as wrong, as something about us without us.

There is terrible animosity on the Internet between the groups, which is really too bad because like it or not we are one huge community, and we are really getting somewhere in terms of public awareness and acceptance. Inclusion in schools, inclusion in the workforce, inclusion in elections, inclusion in culture, all of this is happening! Not fast enough, not broadly enough, but that is the way all social movements go. Love takes time.  You don’t just overturn attitudes in a few years. More work is to be done, now and always.  But let’s do it together.  I agree with the sentiment I’ve seen here and there: “Celebrate autistics, not autism. Honor every experience. Gray areas, People.”

And don’t be a part of the problem. It’s hard enough.

Little Rainbow Autism Tree says, “You can do the thing”

As an autism mom trying to build Nat’s future, I ought to know by now that it is always darkest before the dawn, that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. How many times do I have to learn that? The problem is, because this is real life, real people, I am always suffused with the fear that this time the bad stuff is going to last. And then, after a terrible phase of hopelessness and anger, of digging in the dark caves of despair, I stumble upon a tiny idea that is like a crack in the rock. I then test it out with a deluge of emails to my mentors. I latch onto their kind and wise responses and I find the way out. But still, I feel like an idiot, like everyone in the autism community is laughing at me and my credibility is draining away, all because of my eternal optimism.

But maybe I can take heart from the story of King Sisyphus. My viewpoint of Sisyphus is actually informed by Albert Camus’ interpretation, which I want to describe from an excerpt of Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus that I studied in college, and rediscovered on this NYU website.

The traditional story of Sisyphus is told thus: That Sisyphus was a wily ruler who did not obey the gods and tricked the Underworld into letting him leave Hades when he died. He had apparently made promises to Persephone and was allowed to go back to the world of the living provided he kept his promise. Camus writes, “But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness.” So messenger Mercury came along and threw him back into Hades, where he was condemned to push a huge rock up a cliff, only to have it roll back down.

Upon first reading, this fate is the epitome of meaningless. But Camus sees it differently. He views Sisyphus as effectively turning despair on its head by doing the work. He writes, “Sisyphus is [actually] the absurd hero…[For] where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?” In other words, Camus discovers hope in the act of pushing the rock. It is that hope, and the purity of the work itself that Sisyphus is engaged in, that actually renders him triumphant. For while toiling he is merely a thing of action, of moving-towards. An example of silly human, all-too-human hope. And in feeling the hope of action, in mindlessly, dutifully doing his work of pushing the rock, he has actually beaten the gods. He has found his dignity, which the gods had hoped to remove.

In my darkest moments of dealing with the reality of Nat’s distant future, I try to take hope not only from my mentors, but even from the detractors. The monolith of The Bureaucratic State and Federal Agencies (the gods in Nat’s world) with their oft-time absurd rules, is what stirs me — and hopefully you, the planless autism parent or Self-Advocate — towards the greater good of struggling for your guy/yourself. The ups and downs of the planning, the piecing-together of the various parts of your vision (finding the funding, finding the fellow residents, finding the staff, finding the kindred spirit families, getting them moving, finding the house, the “‘partment,” the farmstead, the intentional community) even the subsequent falling-apart, all of these are your noble work. And like Camus’ version of Sisyphus, it is in that work itself that you, the ever-struggling autism planner, (whether parent, guardian, sibling, or Self-Advocate) are in fact triumphant.

Why triumphant? Because your efforts — though those interlocking task-parts may be conscious — are driven by your unconscious feeling of optimism and love. So it doesn’t actually matter, on some level, what your results are. I mean, of course it matters because no one wants their plan to fail, to see their loved one at the bottom of the cliff next to that stupid boulder. But remember, the human condition guarantees nothing. We are not entitled to that rose garden. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. But I think Camus is so right, that the struggling-towards is noble, if for no other reason, that our labor creates a body of work for you and others to learn from. Your “failed project” gives shape and structure to the chaotic swirling atomic darkness that other families face by showing them What Not to Do. It is this lesson in “Not” that then gives birth to the tiny new epiphany, the creation of What Might Be.

My bottom of the cliff, my foundering in the darkness of that hopeless cave (where I found myself just days ago) will always lead me to that possible way out. Even if the ladder, the climb up, only leads me to fall again at some point, there is that moment of the idea, the new plan informed by my new knowledge of What Not to Do, that also counts. Because in real life — after all, we are not actually in Hades — it may be a very long time between reaching the summit, and falling again. Your guy might find a home for years, decades! There is always the (foolish and possibly brilliant) path upwards, over and over again.

(Nat, 23, with Dana, a good friend from his first of two adult group homes)

When Nat was 10, he was offered a choice in classrooms, where Nat’s alleged functioning level and behavior were the deciding factors. If we chose Door A, Nat would be consigned to a “pragmatics” classroom. Separate, low expectations, ADLs, making change. If we chose Door B, the Director told us, “imagine the opportunities that would open to him.” Academics. Inclusion. Friends. “But,” he said gravely, “he must keep those behaviors under control.”

Oh how that classroom sparkled and seduced me, like the Sirens to Odysseus. So I chose it with great hope and trepidation. But the whole thing was more like Scylla and Charybdis, a rock for Nat to crash upon, a terrible whirlpool that sucked Nat under. And they blamed Nat.

Listen up, folks. It is up to the adults in the room to open those doors. It is up to the grown-ups to buoy the boy. The professionals, the educators must bear the responsibility of teaching, of shepherding him into adulthood.

I hold this advanced society responsible for failing Nat. You, Modern Era, proud Accepter of The Tired and Poor, where is Nat’s Statue of Liberty? You are letting guys like him drown. You offer the classrooms, you offer the funds, and we are grateful, oh so grateful. It’s a lot of money. Oh, how we know that. We are never allowed to forget how much of a strain our kids are on the school system. How much of a burden.  But, we tell each other, It’s better than it used to be because in the Olden Days there were Institutions.

And Nat is one of the lucky ones because he has adulthood residential funding. This means he’ll always have some sort of roof over his head with some sort of caregiver. So that I can die one day and not have to leave him on the street or with some saintly relative. The majority of people with autism and developmental delays are on waiting lists, the bread lines of today. They’re home with aging parents. With siblings who deserve their own life. Guys like Nat spent 18+ years in school and at least learned something, at least climbed towards their individualized goals. And then literally on their 22nd birthday, both Doors A and B are closed to them.

The choices for guys like Nat — with severe autism, intellectual disability, communication disorder, who are lucky enough to have residential funding — are limited to group homes of 5, which can also be Institutions with indifferent staff — or worse. Or you try some sort of Shared Living. You move in with a family or a roommate caregiver and hope for the best. You, most vulnerable of all people, are often not allowed to have cameras for protection. If you get abused, you are not believed — you are an “unreliable reporter.” Your abuser can be rehired at the service provider down the street.

The truly lucky (read: wealthy) ones find their ways into well-run communities, farmsteads, apartments. Private sector. And then their parents live forever.

So here we are. Nat is no longer in his (second) Shared Living arrangement. Another setting that beckoned beautifully but could not support him as he is. So what do we look towards now? Another group home? The low-risk but low-growth option. Door A, of course, in its dead-eyed glory.

I am out of ideas. Where will Nat thrive and be happy? Where will he find growth and opportunity like Door B, but have the safety of Door A? Nat has tried ’em all. Isn’t he lucky?

Actually, yes, he is. He lives on, brave and ready for the next phase. He laughs to himself, he talks joyfully to himself. He goes readily to new things, thank God. Because you know what? In the end it is not what’s behind the door that is full of promise. It is Nat.