First of all, if you haven’t read the book The Rosie Project, I suggest you march yourself down to your local bookstore for the paperback or click on over to Amazon for your Kindle version. My friend suggested it to me last year (well, actually she put it in my hand at the school book fair and commanded me to read it). And I have now read it twice.

The protagonist is Don, a just-turning-40 Australian professor of genetics who determines, despite his life-long belief that he is incapable of marrying, that it is time to find a wife, and he embarks on a science-based “wife project” to locate his perfect mate. His few friends know he has Asperger’s, but despite clear evidence pointing to that conclusion, including a few strong suggestions by his friends, he hasn’t ever connected to the idea. He knows he has social challenges. He is stereotypically logical and rigid, a Sheldon Cooper-like character (from The Big Bang Theory tv show), but with a little more charm. But he quite capably manages his daily life.

After a number of wife-project dates fail, he meets Rosie, a young lady who’s clearly not his type: a fun, tough-talking barmaid (think Jennifer Lawrence, who will in fact play the part in the upcoming movie). SPOILER ALERT: After the two work together on a secret genetics project (trying to figure out who biological her father is), they fall in love. A happy ending with, of course, some roadblocks along the way. And a lot of hilarity, mostly resulting from Don’s unusual behavior. Along the way he becomes a master of mixology, learns to dance, and even begins to adjust his schedule for the benefit of Rosie.

I’ve loaned this book to many friends, all of whom returned it about three days later with a very big, “Thank you. I loved it!”

Parts of the book are sad, as we see Don trying always to do the right thing, but often missing the mark really because of a chasm between his sensibilities and broader social expectations. He just doesn’t get it. But in the end, he is happy.

Then came the sequel, The Rosie Effect. It begins with the couple having moved to New York, and shortly after the story commences we discover Rosie is pregnant. Don has been told quite specifically that he’s not father material, so his reaction to the news is less than enthusiastic. The book chronicles his misguided efforts to become a supportive partner, to learn how to be a father, to participate more in the process. He has loyal, caring friends who give him advice, but here’s where the book lost me: his friends have a profound understanding and acceptance of Don just as he is. They are rooting for Don and Rosie. But the advice they give him is just too nonspecific, so he follows his own interpretations of their suggestions and goes so far as to get arrested for observing children on a playground because he doesn’t understand how he might be perceived. He is so afraid to cause Rosie any stress (friend’s advice!) that he creates a web of lies to protect her from this little tidbit of information.

It was frustrating. And it was sad. Rosie had apparently decided on her own to have a child and eventually decides her husband isn’t going to suffice, so she plans to return to Australia, leaving Don behind.

That funny book just got way too real. And sad. The second half of the book I held my breath, preparing myself for a less-than-satisfying end. “They’d better not split up,” I said out loud, “or I’ll be VERY ANGRY.”

The end of the book is somewhat hopeful, but by no means was it tied up in a nice pretty bow. Normally I appreciate a complicated ending because life really is complicated. But this time I wanted it to be a cheesy-happy picture, with an unlikely family and a man with Asperger’s who could find fulfillment as a husband and father and still be himself. I wanted it. I needed it. But that’s not what I got.

What I got, though, was an interesting conversation today. I’ve become a bit of a Kindle addict, which is incredibly convenient, but if you only buy books online you miss out on the personal touch of your local bookseller. So at the suggestion of my therapist, I stopped by our nearby bookstore for recommendations. I needed something funny after what I thought would be a light book (followed by an even darker but beautifully written book, Everything I Never Told You–so good but so sad). This stressed out mom needs some laughs.

So in my usual over-sharing way, I asked for a recommendation and then proceeded to tell the woman helping me about the last two books I had read. She, too, had read the Rosie books and actually quit in the middle of the sequel for a bit because it was too heartbreaking.

“It was sad for me because I have a teenage daughter with Asperger’s,” I explained. She nodded as if she understood.

“People get so caught up in labels,” she said. “But everyone is different. They all have such special gifts to give the world.” She was so sincere, and I may have even caught a glimmer of a tear in her eye. There was something very powerful in her speech, as if it was coming from somewhere deep inside, somewhere beyond just an intellectual understanding. A personal experience? I don’t know. She didn’t say.

She went on to give me what first seemed like advice. (You have to let your kid be who they are. You have to find out what they’re interested in, etc.)  I’ve heard it all before. I know it all deep in my soul. And you all know how much I love unsolicited advice about parenting my autistic kid. I felt my guard go up a little at first, but then I quickly pushed it back down. It seemed as if she wasn’t so much telling me what to do, but rather speaking to the world: This is how we should treat people with autism because they are valuable. 

And then I was grateful. We made a connection. She understood me. She understood my kid, even though they’ve never met.

It was time for me to leave for my next appointment. I reached the door and turned to ask her name.

“Colleen.”

“Thank you so much, Colleen.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Chris,” I said. “It was nice to meet you.”

And it was. I didn’t like The Rosie Effect especially, but I got something out of it. I made a connection. And for that, I am grateful.

Parenting a child on the spectrum is such an interesting experience. So many surprises and mysteries and moments of exhilaration and joy mixed with sadness and hopelessness.

Last week we went to Mexico for spring break. It was a much needed week of rest and relaxation, my time spent primarily swimming and reading, and lounging and playing board games, sprinkled with poolside margaritas, highlighted with panoramic views of sunsets over the Pacific and a luxurious evening at the hotel spa.

Without the stress of the mornings to set the tone each day, I was able to focus on Maddie, in particular, in a much different way, without frustration or fear or anger. As a result, I witnessed a number of fascinating moments.

My kids are savvy travelers. We took our first big trip when they were two and four, all the way to the Caribbean, an unavoidably long, three-leg trip that always seems to last just one airport too long. I do not miss the travel requirements that come with two small children–the massive pile of equipment and the two-month process of trying to determine and acquire everything I could foresee we might need in case of an emergency. Nowadays, I provide minimal supervision for the kids’ packing and they’re responsible for carrying all their own stuff. It’s great. I get to relax and enjoy the flights.

This trip was especially easy because it was only one three-and-a-half hour flight. One flight, two airports. Just immigration and customs to get through.

But first, the flight. Everything went as smoothly as possible. An on-time departure, minimal turbulence, an exceptionally smooth landing. As I always do when traveling to warmer climates, I’d recommended Maddie wear a comfortable dress and leggings, so it would be easy to just take off the leggings upon arrival. She’d be ready for a hot day in Mexico.

What I forgot to remind her was when she should remove her leggings. Upon landing, as the passengers all stood up and retrieved their bags from the overhead bins, I noticed a woman (whom I happened to know) looking down toward Maddie. And then I saw why: Maddie was sitting in her aisle seat removing her pants, dressed hiked up to here, without a care in the world.

“Maddie!” I whisper-yelled from the row behind. “You can’t do that here!” But then I saw her pants were already at her knees, so the iffy part was already over. She might as well finish, I thought, slapping my head in disbelief. Maybe I don’t have to get Maddie to school for a week, I realized, but I still have to monitor her behavior.

Just a few days before, Maddie had dazzled me with her social acumen. We were at the podiatrist office to get her new orthotics. Dr. R is a tall, gentle man who does very well with Maddie. He had inserted the orthotics into Maddie’s shoes and watched her stroll down the hall. He then explained how she should proceed with a slow adjustment period and told her what she might expect to experience in her feet and legs. Finally, he said, “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” answered Maddie, and then she paused for a few seconds. “Actually I don’t have any questions,” she said. “I just wanted to make you feel better.”

Dr. R laughed a little and said, “I appreciate your empathy.” Clearly he gets her.

And I was blown away. Although her perception of the situation didn’t exactly match up with reality, her perspective taking and compassion were spot on. How kind of her to try to behave in such a way that would only benefit the other person, even though she couldn’t quite close the deal.

And then she takes off her pants in the middle of a plane. Head slap!

The next day we were well into vacation mode, which primarily involved hanging in and around the pool. Upon spying a very tiny baby with her young parents, I struck up a conversation with the baby girl’s grandmother. We talked for a few minutes, and then my kids swam up so I introduced them. When I mentioned Maddie’s grade, the woman (a retired teacher) remarked, “So it’s almost time to start looking at colleges!”

I paused, not quite sure of what to say. Then I smiled, put my hand on Maddie’s shoulder and said, “Well, we’re not sure what the plan is for Maddie yet.”

And then Maddie chimed in, “Yeah, I might take a gap year.”

A gap year? A GAP YEAR? How does she even know what a gap year is? I happen to know her social group doesn’t really talk about the past or the future, not even about what they’re doing the following weekend, or about the basketball game the night before, who’s going to prom, or where they are about to go on vacation. I’m quite sure nobody is sitting around discussing their post-high-school plans. Not this group.

So I was stunned. What a response from my so-often socially immature child! She understood the conversation on an advanced level: what was expected and how she could participate in a way that would be understood by this stranger without having to divulge her different situation.

Later I asked Maddie about the “gap year” comment.

“Do you know what gap year is?”

“Uh, kind of.”

Okay, she didn’t know what it was but she knew it was an acceptable explanation for why she was putting off college.

“Well, it’s when you take a year between high school and college and do something, usually for educational purposes. It’s organized in some way. You don’t just sit around doing nothing.”

“Oh.”

“Were you thinking you would sit around and play Minecraft for a year?”

“NO,” she insisted, indignantly.

“Oh! What would you want to do?” I asked. I really wondered what she might want to do with herself. My mind started to wander, and then:

“Make swords,” she suggested.

And there it was. Back to reality. Sure Minecraft is a ridiculous thing to do for a year, but making swords? Oh, hell yes. That’s perfect. And why wouldn’t I think so?

About halfway through the trip, Maddie developed flank pan. She kept pointing to her right side, just around the back. She was pretty uncomfortable. But since she didn’t have any other symptoms, I went with the theory that it was a muscle strain and encouraged her to rest, hot tub, float in the pool, and take ibuprofen.

The third day of her discomfort, she was scheduled to go on a zip-line adventure with my husband. To my surprise, she was highly motivated and got dressed and headed out at the scheduled time. She had never been zip-lining before, but she has a strong sense of adventure and a low level of fear, so she was pretty excited about it.

Unlike her mom, whose one and only zip-line experience was solely survival-focused, Maddie swung herself around and dangled her arms and volunteered to leap first. (I spent a lot of time hugging the trees.) She ended the adventure with a water slide, which I didn’t fully understand until I saw the video just yesterday. There she was, perched at the top of the slide, preparing to launch.

“Just wait,” said my husband as I watched in anticipation. And then she did it, she released her hands and slid about ten feet, at which point her body flew off the end of the slide for about a 20-foot drop into the river below. To me it might as well have been a hundred feet. Too far. Too high. Too deep. No way.

If there is one regret I have about my young life, it is my lack of adventurousness. A lack of bravery, you might say. And you would be right. So guided by fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of getting in trouble, fear of failure. And fear of heights, I suppose. So to watch Maddie so readily throw herself into new experiences fills my heart with joy. I’m not so much proud as I am straight-up happy for her.

The day before her adventure we had planned to go into town (about a 20-minute cab ride) for browsing and dinner and just taking in the culture. But Maddie had an online “date” with a Minecraft friend, and in the spirit of spring break (and my wanting it to be a real vacation for everyone), we agreed to let her honor her commitment and put off our town-visit until the next day.

What a stupid idea (not the putting it off part, but the next-day part). After a four-hour outdoor excursion, involving a fair amount of climbing in heat to which we Marin-folk are thoroughly unaccustomed, it was just too much for Maddie to do anything but lie flat on her bed.

But she had been optimistic in the morning, so when she and my husband arrived back at the hotel, we were all ready to go out. And then Maddie crapped out. Which was a problem. All the adults wanted to go, and there was no way I would leave her alone at the resort while we went into town. It’s one thing to dine at the adults-only hotel sushi restaurant while the teenage kids have room service. It’s quite another to separate ourselves by 10 or 20 miles. In Mexico. Where we know no one.

So my son took it upon himself to convince Maddie to join us. (The previous night my husband and my niece had eaten sushi at the fancy place while I had mac and cheese room service. I wasn’t really up for that happening again.)

My son’s powers of persuasion are strong in general. He’s clever and passionate and relentless. And he has a way of relating to Maddie in a way only he can.

So after an hour of back-and-forth conversations, Maddie got dressed. Her sole motivation was the possibility of visiting a cat in an art gallery we had visited on our Mexico trip two years before. She was exhausted and kind of sad and that cat was going to cheer her up, dammit. So I managed somehow to figure out the name of that art gallery, and we all piled into a taxi. When we arrived, the door was chained closed. It was a bit early for closing time, but there it was, clearly closed. We peered inside and decided to come back the following day, and then a Spanish-speaking-only man showed up to let us in.

We looked for the cat but it was nowhere to be found. Maddie asked the man about the cat, but he didn’t have a clue what she was saying until I managed to ask, “El gato?” He looked confused and then exclaimed, “Freida!” Then he shook his head. Clearly Freida the cat didn’t live there anymore. Or live anywhere, I guessed.

Maddie was crushed. But at least there was her answer. We looked at the art for awhile and then left for the boardwalk to visit a shop where my husband had purchased a piece of art on our prior visit.

Maddie and I walked across the boardwalk to sit down and look out over the Pacific while the others perused the shop. She was feeling pretty bad, but I hoped the focus on the water and the setting sun would calm her. I pulled her in close to me for comfort, and bonk! off went her hat over the edge onto the rocks below. It happened to be a Puerto Vallarta hat, easily replaced at any number of shops within our sights, but in typical Maddie fashion, only the hat sitting down on those rocks would suffice.

It was too far down below to jump and retrieve the hat, and the waves, although small, were coming up too far for my comfort. I was adamant that she not go down there, even though I could see that about 100 feet up the boardwalk there was a staircase allowing easy access. She was getting agitated, and then angry, and then defiant, and then determined.

So she marched down and retrieved her hat. I couldn’t stop her. It was all fine in the end, but her rigidity certainly came into play in that moment. So did her lack of stamina. Sometimes she’s so insightful and mature. Sometimes she’s very, well, autistic. And this was one of those times.

It was then that the group split up. Maddie’s meltdown was coming full circle, so my husband took his turn with her and they returned to the hotel while my niece and my son and I had a very late and quite lovely dinner out. (And it would have been a disaster to take Maddie there. All very sophisticated, inventive Mexican food. No tortillas and no guacamole. No pasta. No fries.)

The next day we spent the morning swimming before my niece Rachel and I headed back into town for a little stress-free shopping. We had a mission–to find the beautiful embroidered dresses that I associate with Mexico but had yet to see either on a person or in a store. When we arrived home in the evening, my son promptly informed me that Maddie wasn’t feeling well. She was in bed covered in multiple blankets because she was freezing. It was 90 degrees all week, and with the air conditioning off, I knew there was only one explanation: a fever.

I rushed in to see her, and I felt her forehead. And it was on fire.

And then my heart sank. This poor kid had spent the last three days trying to participate as much as she could all the while having–probably–a kidney infection. Flank pain and a raging fever equals kidney infection, right? The jury is still out on exactly what she did have (long story with lots of details you all don’t need to know), but the fact is she was sick. And in pain.

And yet she zipped between the trees and flew off a water slide and climbed and climbed in the heat. She tried to please us by going into town. She swam when she wasn’t feeling great. She even stuck to the agreement she’d made with her brother at his request: when given the choice between spending time with the whole family and playing Minecraft on this vacation, she would also choose family time.

What a tough kid. What a loving kid. Frankly, what a bad ass.

Maddie surprised me so many times on this vacation. Surprised me with her insight and social intelligence. Surprised again by bringing me back down to earth. Surprised me with her toughness and kindness. I don’t know why I was surprised. She has always been equally strong and kind. I admire her so much.

She’s feeling much better now. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll get the definitive answer on the source of the flank pain and fever.

But one question remains: Whatever will she do for her gap year?