There's No Such Thing As Can't

First of all, I have to say as a parent of an 18 yr. old on the spectrum, there is no cure for autism or aspergers. It is a difference in the wiring in the brain. You can't change that. 

I just lost half the people who wandered to this blog....

Okay. You can't cure it. That doesn't mean that you can't find ways to deal with some of the challenges that aspergers presents (and autism for that matter). But to do that you have to abandon the word CAN'T. 

Can't kills. It kills dreams and hopes. It kills opportunities and chances. So erase it from your vocabulary right now because I can promise you this: you are going to hear that word a lot and you CAN'T buy into it. Your kid doesn't know he can't speak. He doesn't know he can't ride a bike. He doesn't know he can't make friends. Its a bullshit word.

That being said, what can you do? First, you have to toss out "normal" expectations. Those baby books where you record everything? Useless. Make your own with goals that your kid achieves.

My son wanted to learn to ride a bike from the age of four. We tried everything. From the age of seven until he turned thirteen! I tried to teach him. My husband tried to teach him. The neighbor tried to teach him. A family friend tried to teach him. Three separate occupational therapists tried to teach him. When he was thirteen, we began a new round of physical therapy to help him with some motor skills issues. The therapist, a man named Alan, asked my son what he wanted to learn. Ride a bike, J replied. I explained we'd been trying every technique available for years with no luck. When he looked at his feet, he could go forward briefly, but would fall over. If he looked up, he could only go in a tight circle to the left briefly before falling. 

Alan said to leave it up to him. First step? Spinning fast while lying on his side.  This was to improve his balance. They worked on this for several visits. Next, he brought out a bike with HUGE wheels and no pedals. He took him outside and had him just sit on the bike and steer while Alan ran holding the bike upright. When he was able to steer, they added in the brakes. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Finally, Alan put the pedals back on, but only to get the feel of the pedals under his feet. 

Twice a week for an hour each time, Alan ran around the building with my kid on that bike, as he added in the steps to success. And then they reached the pedalling stage. I stood and watched as they disappeared around the building. And then waited for them to come back around. And when they did J was riding the bike! Six years. 7 adults. Countless techniques...

Alan managed to do it in 2 months.

We never assumed "can't". We just had to find the person who knew the way. It's what you have to do with everything. Our kids can learn, they just need us to find the way. 

So, if you're here reading this and your kid is struggling with something (or you are a person on the spectrum struggling with something), what is it? How can I help? I have 18 years of experience finding new ways to do things. 

Karen

Advice for Parents of Children Newly Diagnosed with Autism/Aspergers

I've vented a lot on this blog. Today, I want to try to offer some advice for parents of kids who are newly diagnosed. My son was diagnosed just short of his 7th birthday. We knew something was wrong & had even had him tested at 4 yrs. old, but no one could pinpoint what was going on with him. Once he started kindergarten, his differences became painfully clear.

It was a scary time for us. Here's this child who we love, who we've imagined a future for...and wham. Suddenly that future is something very different. A future that was very uncertain.

First, I want to say, pick up your child and hold them. Love them. They are the same child you held in your arms yesterday. Nothing about that has changed except now you have a word to explain why they are struggling. This word gives you options. It gives you opportunities. I know that it feels like a death. You're questioning if they will ever graduate from school, have a family, have a job, be a contributing member of society. So take the time to grieve the future of the child you thought you had, but don't take too long. You have a lot to do.

You are about to embark on an odyssey.

I want to warn you that not everyone is accepting of a child who is different. You need to grow a hard shell. You need to be prepared to let go of people who you expected to be a part of your lives forever. You cannot predict who will be there for you, but I can promise it may not be the people you expect. Other people will do everything they can to help you. Some of them will be complete strangers who will become integral to your lives. Embrace them. Take what they have to offer. You will need the support.

You need to find a pediatrician who understands autism. My pediatrician ignored all the warning signs and told me for years that I was being an over-reactive first time mother. When presented with letters from the kindergarten teacher, the guidance counselor, and my list of things I'd been telling him for years, he finally listened. I knew my son had autism before he did.

You may also need someone trained in ABA in the beginning. Kids on the spectrum don't learn like their typical peers. They can't sequence, so simple tasks like brushing their teeth are confusing. My son used to get angry with me when I told him to put his shoes and socks on. It would lead to incredible meltdowns. Then one day he told me that you can't put your shoes on before your socks. By asking him to do that, I caused him to shut down.

For your own sake, break down tasks. You'll be amazed how many steps there are in getting dressed, brushing teeth, taking a bath...anything you do, really. Teach things in steps. Maybe they can learn to put toothpaste on their toothbrush first. That's a number of steps in and of itself. A person trained in ABA will be like gold to help you with this.

The next thing you need is an occupational therapist to deal with any fine and gross motor skill deficits. Kids on the spectrum often have uneven development. They have issues with proprioreception and motor planning. An occupational therapist will not only work with them, they are down to earth and priceless fountains of information.

You're also going to want an occupational therapist skilled in working with sensory integration dysfunction. My son had issues with sound, motion and touch. Our OT worked endlessly with him to help him develop coping skills and to improve his sensory function. I can recommend a swimming pool and/or a trampoline. Both are amazing at helping with sensory integration. And while we never used it, people swear by horse-riding therapy.

You're going to want someone (a psychologist) skilled in cognitive behavioral therapy. This helps work on understanding theory of mind, executive brain fuction, and general thinking skills. My son's psychologist was the most important person in his life from the age of 10 until 17. He gave him the social skills to cope with a world that isn't always user friendly.

I'm going to throw this out there. The doctor who diagnosed my son said to us to remember that it may take him 2 times to learn something, it may take him 20 times to learn something, but assume that its going to take him 200 times to learn something and then we won't be frustrated. This is maybe the best piece of advice I received in the beginning.

The next thing I want to tell you is you have to HAVE TO make time for yourself. You're going to be tired, depressed, frustrated, discouraged, and worse. Whatever you have to do to get it, there needs to be a portion of your day that's "Me Time". During that time, you have to do something you love - read, blog, craft, dance, exercise...whatever it is, it has to make you happy. You have to do it. It will keep you sane on days when sanity is iffy.

Find yourself a community of other parents with children on the spectrum. There are organizations out there (more than when my son was young). Contact them. I spent a lot of time trading information with other moms on delphi forums because when my son was diagnosed, there wasn't a lot of information out there. No question is stupid. Plus, they get it. All of our kids are different, but in some ways they are all the same. And no one will understand the challenges you face better than other parents facing the same challenges.

Don't sell your kid short. Everyone kept telling me what my son would not be able to do. They were all wrong. Why? Because I didn't accept that. I follow a woman on twitter whose daughter is a little older than my son. She's non-verbal and just got a therapy dog, and she's freaking amazing.

There will be many challenges to come, but there is hope. If you don't give up on them, you will find that your child will be teaching you about perseverence, strength, courage and the power of love.

Stay strong. Stay positive. Take care of yourself. Build a team to help you. Read everything and anything you can get your hands on. Educate yourself. Question things. And feel free to ask me anything. I'm here.

Karen

OUYA Review...Or Why Customer Service Is As Important As Your Product

I'd like this to be an actual review of the Ouya. Certainly, they would probably like a positive customer review for future buyers. Unfortunately, I can't provide that. Why? Well, despite being an early Kickstarter funder of the project and dropping my $100 down for a unit (along with money for two additional remotes), I still have not received my Ouya.

As an avid gamer (rare for a 50 year old mother) I hopped on the Ouya bandwagon the week it came out. I promoted the shit out of it to friends, family and twitter followers. I signed up for notifications and watched Kickstarter daily as their sales numbers went through the roof. I cheered them on! Because, seriously, how could I not get excited with the prospect of it? I even put money in my son's bank account so that he could buy his own, as he was going away to college and wanted to be able to take it with him.

And then it was done. Funded. In production. The updates were sporadic, which is understandable with a small upstart company. I get how business works. I know all about multitasking. I waited patiently for each and every update. I followed them on Twitter and Facebook. I visited their Kickstarter site. I followed game developers who were working on projects. Damn, I was so fucking excited for this little game console.

They began shipping in March. I waited. I waited and waited and waited. I watched as they said they'd completed US shipments. I emailed because I'd heard nothing. No reply. I watched as the number of units shipped climbed. I waited. I emailed. No reply. I emailed again. No reply. They began announcing shipments of foreign units and special units. Still my son and I had not received our Ouyas or any information regarded them. We both emailed and posted our concerns on Kickstarter.

And then it happened.

My son's Ouya arrived 6 weeks ago. He purchased his two days before the fund raising ended. But there was no sign of my Ouya. I emailed. I posted messages on Kickstarter, Twitter and Facebook seeking information. Nothing. No response. No acknowledgement even of my posts. I began spamming them with tweets, trying to get some sort of response. Nothing. I even emailed and tweeted Julie, the founder. Again, no response.

I was concerned that my Ouya order had been confused with my son's since they were coming to the same address. I was concerned that my order had fallen through the cracks. As the days and weeks went by, I desperately tried to get someone to respond to me. What I was able to gather from other Ouya purchasers was that all the backers who ordered extra remotes were in the same position I was - wondering and waiting about our units.

And then finally after what seemed like my hundredth time trying to reach anyone even remotely related with Ouya, another frustrated person on Facebook gave me an email address to contact them. At this point, Ouya was claiming all units had shipped. I'd received NOTHING. I emailed and received an automated response. I waited a few more days before I finally FINALLY received an actual reply. It was a bit of a confusing reply in that it said my Ouya was already on the way, but later in the email said it would be going out soon without the additional remotes (which will be coming "at a later date") and I would received some sort of confirmation shortly.

Two days after that, I received a notice from Ouya that my unit had been delivered to DHL with a tracking number. That tracking number is still inactive with DHL. I still DO NOT HAVE MY OUYA.

I call BULLSHIT!!!

This is where the importance of good customer service comes in. You see, I don't think they know where my Ouya is. I don't think they even know if the Chinese company has manufactured it or if it's actually somewhere in the warehouses of DHL. I don't think they have any handle at all on the whole scope of this project. I think they raised the money, created the device and then handed it over to the manufacturer without any oversight on their part of the manufacturing/shipping progress, process or quality of it. (And I'll get to that word - quality - in a minute.)

Now, I don't know how they broke things down. I asked if they shipped by date funded and was told no. I know they didn't ship alphabetically by name, because mine would have gone out at the same time as my son's (unless they did confuse us and I was lied to by their rep). Maybe they worked backwards from last funded to first funded. However they decided to do it, I can only say it wasn't organized with any common sense.

What Ouya should have done is hired an administrative assistant (or two or three). They're cheap enough salary wise and hell, they raised $8M, so it's not like they couldn't swing the cost. $12/hr., 40 days a week. I used to work for a temp agency that hires people out who do things like that. I was one of these amazing people. I used to go into companies all the time, with no knowledge of what the company did, be given a task that might last a day or a week or a month and just run with it. I was good at what I did, and you can be damn sure that I would have been on top of whatever snafus were going on behind the scenes at Ouya.

They should have had a dedicated person and email for anyone inquiring about their Ouya, because with that many units in production there are GUARANTEED to be problems. It's inevitable. An administrative assistant dedicated to answering customer questions would be worth their weight in gold.

Ouya should have had person with a master list of all the units sold, whether they had extra remotes, whether they were special units, shipping addresses, contact info, etc. WHATEVER. This person should have been coordinating with the factory. As units were shipped, they should have been cross referencing them so they knew exactly what went out to who and when. It just makes sense to have someone monitoring this, one contact person handling customer inquiries into their units, one person with a master list updated as frequently as possible from the factory, doesn't it? I mean, seriously, doesn't it?!?

Apparently not.

So here I sit. No Ouya to play with. No Ouya to review. All I can review is the lack of service from the company. At this point, I wouldn't recommend doing business with them if every other game system company went out of business and they were the only company left on the face of the earth. I wouldn't recommend them if someone was threatening to stick a burning poker in both my eyes so that I could never play another game again. I wouldn't recommend them if they showed up at my house tomorrow with a gold Ouya, a lifetime supply of free games and Dave Grohl (I lust for Dave Grohl but that's another story)...you get the picture.

Ah...but here's the thing. Remember when I used the word "quality" a few minutes ago? Remember I said my son did get his Ouya? His goal, as a gamer, a programmer and a game developer, was to make games for it. He was so excited when the system arrived. He opened it. He turned it on. He spent about three hours with it. They say anyone can develop for it - but the software they recommend is not usable with the unit. You can't program for it the way they have it set up. They say there are hundreds of games for it. Where? Where are these games? How do you find them? He couldn't figure it out. The kid has a genius IQ, can program in his sleep and created his first game at the age of 10!

According to his its a nice desk decoration. He is NOT happy. And he couldn't get responses to the problem with their developer software, either. He's given up.

His Ouya is sitting in his room next to his computer. He hasn't touched it since the day it arrived. He has, however, found that he can use the remote with his computer and he's enjoying that immensely, so I guess that's something.

On a scale of 1-10, I give my experience with Ouya a big fat ZERO. I don't think mine is ever coming. I hope the company is having fun partying outside E3 because they aren't taking down anyone. Unless they get their act together, this console is a joke. Their customer service is definitely a joke. Their organization of the production is a joke. I'm at the point where I don't even care if my Ouya shows up. I honestly believe it isn't going to - I don't think the factory has even made it yet! And I don't think the people at Ouya have taken their heads out of their heaping pile of cash long enough to realize they have a problem. Or maybe they have and they're laughing at all the idiots who invested in them as they spend that buttload of money.

I can tell you this. If someone asks me about the Ouya - even if it eventually comes and even if its a fucking awesome product - what I'm going to tell them about is the PISS POOR SERVICE from the company. I'm going to tell them that if they buy one, they'd better not expect any help if they have a problem. I'm going to tell them you get what you pay for. And I'm going to steer them toward Playstation or Nintendo or Microsoft, because at least they get that it's important to respond to your customers in a timely and intelligent fashion.

So fuck you, Ouya. Fuck your promises. Fuck your product. Fuck your customer service.
Karen
A VERY disgrunted, disgusted and dissatisfied backer
You can take your revolutionary gaming system and shove it up your....oh, whatever.

My First Attempt To Be A Better Blogger...

I'm making a face after that heading, because I know KNOW how my life rolls. There is no set time or day when I'll get the chance to blog about life and my take on it. Sometimes I go for weeks or months with my head tucked down, surviving on pure granite determination to get through each second of each minute of each day.

I was at the grocery store the other day, standing in line. As my turn approached, I noticed the cashier and the girl bagging were giggling. "Did you see that tee shirt?" I heard the cashier whisper in a not-so-whispery voice. "I know!" The bagger exclaimed. "I'd take a picture for my boyfriend, but its just too scary." They dissolved into fits of laughter. Then it was my turn to be rung up. They looked at each other and burst into more giggles. "I'm sorry," the cashier said. "Private joke."

I knew they were laughing at me. While it pissed me off, it also brought me back to high school and the pathetic social anxiety I struggled with. I endured so much bullying by the popular girls back then because I was so painfully shy I wouldn't stand up for myself. I'd prefer to forget that high school me existed.

So, the first thing you need to know about me is that I'm a geek. I was born a geek. I will die a geek. I'm happiest that way and I don't give a shit what society says I'm supposed to be. It's taken me 50 years to get to this place. (Okay, I'm 50 and I'm still not sure I'm at that place but I fake it really well most of the time.)

My tee shirt - the tee shirt they were making fun of, I'm assuming because I am 50 years old and had the nerve to be so comfortable wearing it that I didn't even think twice running out to the store in it - is from Ript Apparel, where I buy most of my tee shirts. The design on it is the Death Star from Star Wars, only instead of it being gray, the Death Star is red and white, with a gray band down the middle and its a fucking pokeball! Yes, I was wearing a PokeDeathStar. It is AWESOME.

And yet these two high school age girls managed to make me feel like a ridiculous freak in it.

First of all, I fucking LOVE Star Wars. When it first came out, I was a teenager about their age. I lived in a small rural town with 2 movie theatres. Star Wars was playing at the Paramount Theatre - one of those old cinemas with the huge screen, velvet seats with wooden arms, a balcony, church-like sconces along the walls and gilding everywhere. It was the brass gonads of movie theatres. (It burned down a few years later.)

Annnywayyy.... Star Wars was the first movie I ever saw that spoke to that geek in me. It reached into my soul and captured it. I don't know how many times I saw the movie that summer, but I know it played all summer. We would go for the early showing with our popcorn and soda (they allowed you to bring your own) and stay right through the second showing on Saturdays. I wanted to be Luke Skywalker, Obi Wan and Han Solo, even if I was a girl. I'd always been an avid reader - and loved science fiction books - but to have a story come to life like that? Well, it was magical.

I have loved that movie from the first time I saw it and I still love watching it today. (The old version - not the crapped out, digitally reinvented version.) Han Solo shot first, goddamn it. (Just sayin'.)

Second, I have a kid with Aspergers Syndrome. For those who don't know, Aspies often have specialized interests. My son was big into pokemon from the age of four until he was sixteen. Since he didn't really relate to other kids (in other words, he was bullied/tortured for being different), I had to be his friend in addition to his mother. This meant playing games with him and immersing myself in his world to have conversations with him. I know every fucking pokemon and can probably recite them in order along with their moves from the first gen of pokemon. In fact, I probably know more about pokemon than most pokemon fanatics.

When I saw this shirt, I fell in love. It was my interests wrapped with my son's interests into this beautiful work of art that I can wear whenever I want to. This shirt is so me its not funny. And these two teenage girls reduced it and me to a laughing stock.

I'd like to say I made a comment. I'd like to say I told them to go fuck themselves. But I didn't. I silently stood there - like teenage me would have 35 years ago - and let them laugh at me. I paid for my groceries, refused the bagger's help and raced from the store with embarrassment. And it pisses me off more than you can imagine.

Holidays, Religion and Me

Today is Easter, which for me is a pretty sacred holiday. I was raised a devout Catholic in rural Vermont. Until I was somewhere around ten years old, the masses were still done in Latin and women were expected to wear kerchiefs or hats with veils on their heads. If you forgot yours, you couldn't enter the church.

My mother sometimes circumvented that with kleenex.
In my parent's household being Catholic meant that every Sunday and Holy Day, we went to church. We were also required to regularly attend confession once we were old enough and attend catechism classes.

Somewhere along the lines, I started to see religion as less than holy.

When I was thirteen, that belief solidified. My father had taken us to church for confession. My sister went first, and then my father. I was last to enter the confessional, a place that to this day makes me nervous. The priest slid open the little window and I looked at the shadow of him behind that grate. I began with the typical "Forgive me father for I have sinned..." And then I confessed how I had argued with my mother about something trivial. My parents were very strict and didn't tolerate bad behavior. This particular fight, which I can't even remember, was nothing unusual or horrible. Just a small rebellion on my part over doing the dishes or cleaning my room or something. I'd been punished - I don't remember how. Sent to bed without dinner or maybe grounded for a week.

The priest listened to my confession and then scolded me a bit for my sins. Then he handed down my punishment: he wanted me to say 100 Our Fathers, 100 Hail Marys, 50 Acts of Contrition, 50 Prayers to the Holy Spirit, and 25 Prayers to My Guardian Angel.

I was the last confession of the day.

When I left the confessional, my father was standing at the back of the church waiting for me. I scooted into the closest booth to the confessional and knelt to begin my prayers. The priest followed me out and chose a seat directly behind me.

"Aloud," he told me. So I began to recite the Our Father aloud. Whenever I picked up speed or slowed down or spoke softer, he would place his hand on my shoulder and tell me to begin again.

At some point, my father left. He went home, never questioning what the priest was doing or why. He left me there, in that church, alone with that priest for more than two hours while I worked my way through the prayers. We were the only two people in the church.

To this day, I wonder what the priest was doing as he sat behind me dragging out my punishment.
I missed dinner. It was nearly 7 pm when I walked out of that church. My father was waiting in his car, although he'd gone home and had dinner himself. The priest trailed me to my father's car, with his hand on my shoulder and explained to my father that I'd been a bad girl and had been punished.

He made me apologize to my father again. And then he left.

When I climbed in the car, I remember looking at my father who looked disappointed in me - although he had no idea what I'd done, he immediately accepted the priest's claim that I was a bad girl - and told him that I was never NEVER going to set foot in a confessional again. I said I would pray to God for forgiveness for mistakes I made not a priest.

There must have been something in my face - or perhaps he realized he'd made a mistake - because he accepted that and never made me go to confession again.

When I left home for college, I stopped going to church altogether.

In my house we celebrate many holidays, and we celebrate them low-key. If I were to believe the Catholic religion (and my parents), I'm not actually married since our wedding ceremony was performed by a Justice of the Peace. I had no desire to force my husband to attend religious classes so that the Church would recognize our marriage. And that in the eyes of the church, my son was born a bastard. My husband is Jewish. My son, although baptized Catholic, is agnostic. Or as he likes to say, he's "eclectic". I've never forced formal religion on him, although I've given him a solid belief in something more than him.

He has the added bonus of being born with Aspergers Syndrome, a form of autism. The Church until recently exorcised children with autism because they believed them possessed (I actually think this still goes on because I've heard stories). The Church also doesn't like to provide religious education to children like mine because they question everything. Had I wanted him educated Catholic, he would have been turned away.

My son believes that science explains most things, but that science cannot explain everything. He believes the truth of God is found somewhere in the teachings of all religions since they share many stories. He understands that they are all right and all wrong in different ways. He accepts there is more out there than we know and he has a strong moral foundation. I think that's good enough.

As for me, I've been a lapsed Catholic for a long time. I love Mass, but I don't go except on Christmas and for the Stations of the Cross. I like to think God and I have an understanding. I have intense faith but I don't shove it on others and I don't need a church to practice it. I believe in many things that the Church doesn't - and I'm happier for it.

But today is still Easter and it's still holy, so Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate it today. And for those of you of the Jewish faith, Happy Passover. May whatever God you believe in smile down on you today and bless you with joy.
Karen

Nobody Tells You...

Nobody tells you that when you grow up, you're not going to be a princess because princesses are born not made...

Nobody tells you that Prince Charming is not going to ride in on a white steed with the sun at his back ready to rescue you because men don't like horses and they don't think like that anyway...

Nobody tells you that if you want to be rescued, you have to rescue yourself because you'll do the best job of it...

Nobody tells you that the hardest person to love will be yourself...

Nobody tells you that the second hardest person to love is the one you go to sleep next to every night and wake up next to every morning...

Nobody tell you that your house will never look clean and the work will never be done no matter how many hours you put into it...

Nobody tells you that being a mother is the hardest job that you'll ever do and you'll always feel like a failure no matter how hard you work at it...

Nobody tells you that your life will take twists and turns that you don't expect and they'll knock you on your ass and leave you beaten and bloodied and lost...

Nobody tells you that not all children are born whole and that yours could have a disability that will make their life and yours living hell...

Nobody tells you that some children are never able to leave home...

Nobody tells you that people are, for the most part, selfish and unkind...

Nobody tells you that people will abandon you for no other reason than that they just don't want to allow your shit to touch their lives...

Nobody tells you that sometimes your home becomes your prison...

Nobody tells you that most of the time getting up in the morning will feel like a death sentence...

Nobody tells you that life is cruel and never fair...

Nobody tells you that living is the hardest choice and death is the easiest...

Nobody tells you that hope is a four letter word...

Nobody tells you that you'll be sitting on your couch at 5 a.m. writing because your child, who is no longer a child, woke you up at 4 a.m. because he picked a mole on his back and has convinced himself that its cancer and wants to be rushed to the hospital in Boston because its bleeding and he's convinced he's going to die and that he will start screaming at you when you tell him its okay its just a mole and its not bleeding anymore and that he'll tell you he hates you and that you're a bitch and he wishes you were dead because you refuse to rush him to the hospital for something that left a spot of blood smaller than a dime on his tee shirt and is no longer bleeding and is a mole that he's had on his back since he was a tiny baby and that he will start vomiting because he saw blood and that he will wake up the entire house and terrify the dog and cat because he insists that he's never had this mole even though you can show him pictures with it and he'll insist that its a weird growth that has to be cancer and that you don't understand him and never will and he'll swear and say he hates you and call you more horrible names that will leave you numb and then he'll leave you standing in your kitchen wondering what the hell just happened and afraid to go to bed because he might decide to hurt himself or you while you're sleeping because he stopped taking his meds months ago and he refuses to take them and he's been volatile since then but he refuses to see how out of control he has become because he thinks he's fine and the problem is all yours which it is...

Nobody tells you that.

College Looms ... So Do Panic Attacks

Tomorrow kiddo heads off to college.

This is a huge undertaking for your typical 18 year old. There are so many things that can go wrong, so many stresses and challenges. I had a roommate who liked to lie around naked and masturbate. It didn't matter who was watching. My sister had a roommate who stole anything that wasn't locked up from food to clothes to toothpaste.

Now imagine you're a year younger than incoming freshmen, but you're already a sophomore. And imagine you've been educated in special ed classrooms for elementary school, by tutors and your mother for middle school, and dropped out one month into 10th grade and got your GED. Now imagine you have difficulty reading people's faces, understanding sarcasm, and in general struggle with social situations.

Do I think he can do it? By sheer force of will and perseverence, yes he can. Will he? I don't know. I've prepared him as best I can for situations he may run into. I've coached him on the best ways to deal with people who he has trouble with. But I can't hold his hand forever and he wants to get out there and give it a shot.

Cross your fingers everybody. My little bird is about to try to fly.