A few minutes after my 7 year old’s bedtime last night --and I add with such amazing coincidence at the exact very moment that he pretended to fall asleep with a slight smile on his face -- his teacher telephoned me to confirm that I was coming for his Show and Tell presentation.
Usually, I was aware of this event. Usually, he decided what he wanted to do, we rehearsed it and he got kuddo reviews. I knew nothing about it being his turn so soon again. I started to tell her I’d check to see if his dad could come because I had a meeting that I couldn’t cancel. She interrupted me to make sure I understood that I was the Show and Tell item/guest that my son booked. Huh?
To get revenge on the sleeping possum, who by then was sporting a full smile and trying not to laugh, I started to sit down on him, but his quick awake response for self preservation was to roll over and off the other side of the bed to avoid impact with The Momster’s bum.
I confirmed the 8:30 AM time, hung up and asked the Little Man what’s going on. Why did he book me for Show and Tell?
His reasons went on and on. Because I’m pretty, funny, goofy, because I can do impressions, because I work with kids who have hurt brains in wheelchairs (how he sees the multi handicapped kids at my job), because I talk to and write about famous people, because I painted scenes on his old bedroom walls, because I can do card and magic tricks, etc.
I was confused. Did he want me to do a comedy routine?
"No!"
"Ok., what then? A power point presentation of our last vacations?"
"No! " He just giggled.
"What then?" I asked.
Then he composed himself, sat straight up, looked me square in the eye and said, “We can dance, mom!”
WHAT????? was my first reaction, thinking he wanted to do our goofy dances as we do in the kitchen with rock, soul or Motown playing.
“You want Mommy to come in to your classroom and dance like that -- oh, Michael, did your dad put you up to this when you were with him last night?” I asked.
“No, Mom, not that kind of dancing. The other kind. You know, barroom dancing with me!”
He meant ballroom dancing.
Oh! Now it made sense. He was very proud that he learned. I was very proud that he finally started to develop some sense of rhythm and dance at 6 years after being clumsy and insisting for years that jumping up and down was a totally acceptable form of dancing. Maybe for the punk rockers in Pittsburgh’s Oakland section in 1980 who jumped up and down and broke bare hot light bulbs with their heads, but not for me.
Most kids with any type of autism spectrum disorders usually are not interested at all in any type of dancing. I dislike generalizations and stereotypes, but in this matter I feel comfortable saying so. I know about only a handful who loves to dance besides Michael and I've asked at least 150 parents that question. So if my going to school to dance with him increases the chances that he'll continue to want to dance, I will do it.
So I tucked him in a second time and assured him that we will dance for his first grade class.
“No, mom, not just for my class. All 3 first grades are coming. The principal’s coming and I think some other teachers. My speech therapist is coming and bus driver. It’s going to be in that auditorium.”
Of course, it is! And why wouldn’t it be? He arranged it. He doesn’t do simple.
“Oh, Michael, I wish you had told me last week about this. We could have practiced more,” I told him, starting to feel really shakey about it. .
“Don’t sweat it, Mom, I’ll be there. You’ll do OK.”
Return to Essay List Homepage