I love my son. He's quirky. He likes to refer to himself as a freak, which cracks me up because, well, he can accept who he is!!! (I have no problem with freaks. I have six live cats and a collection of miniature cats. I'm a freak myself.)
My boy is very much an Aspie. I need a bumper sticker that says "I [heart] my Aspie." He's so much fun. He may not listen, but it's usually because his mind is engaged elsewhere. He's a combination of the new Sherlock Holmes on PBS and Sheldon from "Big Bang Theory." He gets obsessed with science and ending world hunger and building solar-powered or wind-powered cars. (Yes, a wind-powered car. No, I do not have any clue how this would work.) He has very little gross motor coordination. He has no fine motor skills whatsoever. He likes to do spelling upside-down hanging off the ottoman. It's awesome to hear your kid spell the word 'easily' while his face is turning red and his voice is starting to sound a tad strangled. He doesn't like certain fabrics and specifically hates hotel pillows. He's vegetarian and got excited last night when I made him tofu curry with jasmine rice. Tofu. Who in my family *LIKES* tofu?? Bizarro. Which reminds me, he likes "The Far Side" cartoons. They appeal to his sense of humor. So does John Cleese. The Ministry of Silly Walks is at the height of 8-year-old Aspie humor.
He has an addictive giggle.
He has sensory integration issues when it comes to sound.
Usually the SID (sensory integration disorder) is kind of a pain in the butt because it means that he gets easily overwhelmed when we go places that might have sudden, loud noises.
Sometimes I play with him, though, because when he is alarmed by noise, his reactions are extreme.
Today, he did two math pages. Why? Because it's the last lesson in the book and he really, really wants to get to the next book. Why? Because it's the next book. It means he's progressing and can *see* the progression. So he did two math pages. He passed them both. After the second page, he was standing in front of me, between the couch and the ottoman, waiting on the verdict of 'pass' or 'redo these and we'll try another page tomorrow.'
The air was thick with tension.
I held the red pen in the air over the page, watching his expressive little face crease with worry.
Then I yelled, "YOU PASSED!!!" at the top of my lungs.
His eyes blew up into huge circles, his arms flailed widly in the air, and he lost his balance and keeled over backward onto the ottoman. In most kids, this would be overly dramatic. In my kid, it's a reaction to sudden noises, and he and I both cracked up.
I can't help but be amused by all this. It might be wrong, but when it all ends in laughter, it sure does feel right.