Be Careful With "I Will Never..." Edicts

This post originally appeared on September 5, 2008. Since then, the minivan has moved on to greener pastures.

Have you ever said, "I will never __________________ (fill in the blank with appropriate activity) and then had to eat your words later?

Take the following, for example: You say, "I will never bungee jump." So one day, in the early fall, you're walking down the midway at the Tulsa State Fair, minding your own business, when the bungee cords literally sing out your name, begging you to strap them on, and then, before you know it, you're catapulting into the cosmos wondering what the hell just happened because you swore you'd never do what you've just done.

Sound familiar to you? Me, too.

When I was about 20, circa the late 1980s, minivans were all the rage. Every suburban housewife, it seemed, had the box-shaped Dodge Caravan or Chevrolet Safari. And each one I passed was literally stuffed to the gills with children, dogs, and the usual household bric-a-brac. And they had huge windows through which you could literally see everything inside of them, unless of course, you were fortunate enough to be driving behind the rare one with tinted windows. They reminded me of rolling aquariums without the water.

To my 20-year-old sensibilities, these eight-passenger contraptions were an abomination of the highest order and the most un-cool form of transportation since my Poppy's El Camino or my parents Chevrolet Impala station wagon.

One evening, as I was driving down the road with a college friend in tow, we came upon a minivan full of screaming, cavorting eight-year-olds fresh from a soccer game pressing their faces up against the glass at us in the most disgusting manner and urging us to honk the horn of my car by pumping their arms up and down in the universal sign language of cross-country truck drivers.

Here's how the conversation went from there:

Me: "Lord God Almighty, don't they equip those things with seatbelts?

Friend: "I wouldn't know. My Mom drives a BMW."

Me: "Let's speed up and get away from them."

Friend: "Good idea. The longer I watch, the more sorry I feel for that poor woman driving."

Me: "I wonder how many of those little monsters are hers?"

Friend: "Talk about birth control!"

Me: "God as my witness, I will never drive a minivan."

UH-OH...Fastforward to 2008. God must have a great sense of humor, because today, if you pass me on the streets of Claremore, you will be shocked and appalled to note that I am behind the wheel of...a minivan.

Yes, the very thing I eschewed, I now own.

The absurdity is not lost on me. Nor the fact that my minivan, though still boxy and utterly practical, has been styled to look like an SUV.

Two small favors I do take some solace in are: (1) my children are always seat-belted in, and (2) there are only two children in the van most of the time. There are still nose and mouthprints on the sideglass where my little cherubs make faces at the passersby. I'm positive the 20-something set pities me as I cruise by.

Irony is a cruel bitch.

Did You See "Parenthood" Last Night?

Last night, millions of viewers watched Adam and Kristina Braverman tell their young son, Max, that he has Asperger's Syndrome on NBC's hit show "Parenthood."

I was one of them. And I was profoundly moved by the way these three actors used their talent, skill, and humanity to bring the subject of autism spectrum disorders, specifically Asperger's Syndrome, into the public forum.

At the end of the last episode, of which I only caught the tail-end, Max overhears his Uncle Crosby say that Max has Asperger's. Last night's episode begins with Adam and Kristina seated in the living room, answering Max's burning question, "What is Asperger's?" And even though the show is a complete work of fiction, the producers accurately depicted exactly how difficult it is to have this conversation with a child.

Because they are justifiably angry with Crosby (who is a complete buffoon, by the way), Adam and Kristina screw up royally. Adam calls the condition a "disorder." Kristina is barely able to contain herself and bursts into tears. A bewildered and upset Max retreats to his room. Disturbed by their epic fail, Adam and Kristina seek advice and counsel from a therapist, who gives them a script to use in the next discussion with Max. Adam and Kristina don't agree about the way the script is worded and Adam takes matters into his own hands, planning a Father-Son bonding trip to an amusement park where he promises Max may ride a certain roller-coaster as many times as he wants to. When the ride is closed down for maintenance shortly after Adam and Max are seated, Max has a meltdown, running away from Adam and screaming at the top of his lungs.

The show ends with a calmer Adam and Kristina sitting with Max at their kitchen table and discussing Max's unique strengths and deficits. They tell Max they are proud of him and tell him he's "a rock star."

This episode resonated with me because I've had this same discussion with my son, Jared. One summer evening before Jared started fourth grade, I broached the subject as we were lying in my bed after reading a bedtime story. I had noticed in third grade that the disparity between Jared and his peers was becoming more and more pronounced. Jared had expressed to me his frustration and hurt with the way the other children were treating him. It is a sad commentary on our society that any behaviors that are outside the norm are immediately shunned, like a form of social Darwinism where vestigial traits are cut off and discarded: "Conform or be cut off." I suppose that it has been that way for years and I've not noticed it much.

Faced with the dilemma of being silent on the subject and waiting for one of our own personal "Crosbys" to tell Jared versus telling him in my own time and manner so that he could be properly educated about it, I chose the latter. I began by telling him that all people have unique strengths and weaknesses. I pointed out that my weakness was my inability to understand mathematics, something that is well-known to friends and family alike, including Jared. He waits for his father to get home to help him with his math homework. Even by the third grade, Jared had long since surpassed my mathematical ability.



I told Jared that most people, like me, don't have a name or a diagnosis for what we have going on. I explained that he is lucky, because his condition does have a diagnosis. I told him that he has Asperger's Syndrome and explained in a way that he could understand that the condition manifests itself as a communication disorder, where the affected person has difficulty reading non-verbal cues and understanding the point-of-view of other people, which hampers the person's ability to function in social situations.

He had many questions for me and he cried softly, worried that something was wrong with him. I explained that nothing is "wrong" with him, that he is perfect just the way that he is, and that all of the deficits I talked about were things he could train his brain to do. I reminded him that his father and I are here to help him. We ended by talking about all of the cool things his Asperger's brain can do and what a privilege it is for me to see the world through his eyes. And I meant every word of it, because while my son's brain is neuroatypical, it is simultaneously stunningly beautiful and amazing.



I left the conversation thankful that I had anticipated his questions and thought through my answers. Most of all, I was thankful to be able to tell my child the truth, without sugar-coating it. Being able to compassionately tell the truth to someone you love is one of the foundational elements of healthy human relationships, and it is a skill I intend to pass on to my children.



Thank you, NBC and "Parenthood," for having the courage to tackle the issue of Asperger's Syndrome with such compassion and humanity. My prayer is that it will lead to greater understanding and acceptance of all individuals on the autism spectrum in the community.