Whirled Peace

My mother worked in a high end ladies dress store pretty much all her life. She was always up on the latest fashion. She would have liked it if I had taken better interest in how I looked. However, I was not going to be like her. I preferred the quirky, weird, dress styles and the odd outfits I put together. The only thing my mother ever bought me that we truly agreed on was a trench coat…A very nice trench coat and that I wore all through high school.

Me, my trench coat, and my science fiction books under my arm- that was my costume. Weird, quirky, sci-fi nerds…These were my people.

Much to the dismay of my mother and father who were very popular in high school….

My dad was a very brainy jock. My mom was the drama queen, destined for Broadway. My dad, well, he went on to devise different ways to mold plastic into useful, albeit eternal, items. My mother went on to have four children and work in a high-end dress shop pedaling “London Fog” coats, “Ample Togs” and “Melissa Petite” dresses for older well-to-do ladies.
So, it didn’t surprise us at all that when their 60th wedding anniversary came around that there were scads of people at the party…Scads. Of people. And they were in high school again.
Sigh….
People I didn’t know were coming up and talking to me, asking me questions and I would look at them like, “Who are you?” Then suddenly I would recognize them beneath the wrinkled exterior and I would, wide-eyed, look at them and think, “Oh my gosh, I do know you- but your OLD NOW!!!” Quite the shocker.
However, it was nothing compared to when Booga went up to one of them who was apparently still and happily stuck in the 1970’s- wearing a seemingly “Huggie-Bear-From-Starsky-And-Hutch” shirt and asked what the deal was with the long scar under his nearly buttoned-down shirt? He was very polite and told him he’d had open heart surgery and I very quickly made it a point to tell him that he was autistic…Like he would understand that…..
He looked at me like I had just spoken to him in Vietnamese.
I spent a lot of time talking about Autism to people.
For some reason, this is a topic of much interest in the over-seventy crowd. They are somewhat taken aback and curious about this disorder that so many kids are coming up with these days. Which is great I guess…But, you know, it’s not my life. It seems to define me sometimes. Sometimes I would rather not have to talk primarily about it. Sometimes I would like to talk about my photography or my artwork or computers or anything other than Autism.
Sigh again.
Booga ate and drank and danced-carefree and happy.
This particular day, I was the one having a problem with socializing, not Booga. I was uncomfortable all day. It’s not that I don’t like my parent’s friends or anything like that. I am just not real comfortable in crowds of people who are looking to have me entertain them with my witty repartee ….That’s my own little segment of Autism in my own life.
Eventually the crowds thinned and family was all that was left.
It was a big hall.So we were scattered throughout....Which was kind of nice.

My sister in law and I stood in the back towards the end of the party, taking apart centerpieces and we talked about Boog, and about how we felt about his Autism.
I told her that my husband and I had talked about how we wouldn’t change him.
I told her I thought he would be very much like my nephew (who is a music major in college right now) had Boog been an average kid.
“He did ‘Cats’ this year.” I said. “He loves musicals. He’s obsessed with ‘Evita.’”
Things went silent for a moment.
“We’ve talked about what it would be like to look into a crystal ball and see him as an average kid…What that would be like?”
I looked over at him twirling his hands in time to the music.
“I worry,” I said, “That it would break our hearts more to know what he’d be like….”
She looked at me sadly. “Oh…” She said in a sympathetic tone. Then she spoke my name in that way people do when they want to say something to give you comfort but there are no words of comfort to be given.
I smiled at her trying to make it okay for her. In the way I smile when people are searching for words of feeling and finding none…And you can see it…I would have said normally, “its okay, we’re okay with this…We’ve been dealing with this a long, long time.”
But instead I said, “But look at him now,” I nodded toward the dancing figure twirling across the floor… “He’s dancing.”
And I smiled at her again.
Not a care in the world right now, all that mattered was a full stomach, good drinks, cake and coffee, good music, dancing and music…That’s all.
For Booga, that was whirled peace.