One thing you quickly learn about parenting an Asperger’s kid is you really just never know what they’re going to do. Yesterday I eagerly asked Maddie about her second day at school. The first day was a celebratory kickoff to the school year, without any real classes to attend. Instead there were a couple of inspiring speakers and a barbecue party. So the true experience was delayed (although it certainly says something about a school that it begins the year like that).

I asked Maddie which classes she’d had and which teachers she met. Trying to remember what her schedule was that day, I asked, “Did you meet your math teacher? It’s a woman, right?” Maddie is great at math and has geometry this year. I loved geometry, and I think she will too, so I’m particularly excited about this class for her.

“Well?” she began. “I got confused, and instead of going into room 225 I went into 223.”

Easy fix, right? Notice you’re in the wrong class and excuse yourself and go to the right one.

“I had a funny feeling the whole time because the teacher had a different name.”

“Did you go to the right class?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to the teacher?”

“No.”

“Did she take roll?”

“No.”

I surmised from her short description of events that she wondered for an hour why the teacher in the front of the classroom wasn’t the teacher on her schedule, and upon leaving the room at the end of the period, discovered her mistake. Her solution was to shrug it off for the day and go to the right class next time.

Head slap!

Naturally, I got a call and email from the attendance person. I hope I’ve addressed the issue properly and she doesn’t get an unintended, unexcused absence on her second day.

Maddie is crazy-book-smart, but sometimes her common sense is up in the clouds. And she does something head-slap-worthy.

On the other hand, sometimes she does something equally surprising on the other end of the spectrum. Something extraordinary.

When Maddie was 18 months old and still nowhere near talking, we decided to teach her some sign language to bridge the gap and relieve some of her (and our) frustration. Surely all that screaming was an attempt to communicate the myriad thoughts in her head. She could finally use her hands to do some of the work.

So we bought a book to help us along. We’d look up signs so we could all learn together. After some time, we all knew more than 100 signs. My favorite one was “please,” which involves placing your hand in front of your chest and moving it in a circle. Maddie, in such a Maddie way, gave that sign kind of a shorthand. She would just quickly and casually brush her hand across her chest, as if knowing she had to say please but not willing to put much effort into it. That always cracked me up.

Another sign that was especially important in our lives was the sign for “lights.” Goodness gracious, was Maddie obsessed with lights. I think babies in general find them pretty interesting, but in true Asperger’s form, Maddie’s passion for lights was unsurpassed. Fans were also pretty exciting. We made up our own sign for “light,” kind of a flashing movement with our hands. Open, close, open close, facing forward, hands out. There was a lot of “talk” about lights. If we entered a restaurant and a single light was out in the far corner of the place, I would be immediately informed. Maddie was On It. Lights, lights, lights. Let’s all talk about lights.

So important were lights in our lives that the made-up sign was the first sign we taught Maddie, before we even got the book to help us along. She was still screaming a lot, but at least lights were something she could discuss in a quieter, more socially acceptable manner.

About a month into the sign language experiment, I took Maddie to my parents’ house for a visit. My older sister Becky and her family were living there at the time, so we had a great afternoon with the cousins as well. They all adored Maddie from the beginning and were pretty excited to begin the sign-language journey along with us. Being quite familiar with Maddie’s love of all things lights, Becky was excited to talk to Maddie about them. “How do you say ‘light’?” she asked, looking for the sign we had taught her.

“Light,” said Maddie.

Until that moment, she had only ever screamed. But there we were, Becky and her kids and me, all staring at this up-until-that-moment nonverbal kid. And clear as day, she had said “light.” If I hadn’t been there myself, I never would have believed it. But she had said it.

And then for the next six months, she didn’t say another word or utter another recognizable sound until the day, at 25 months and 2 days of age, when she finally said “mama.” For those six months, there was more screaming, and thankfully, a lot more signing.

Such is life with an Asperger’s child. You brace yourself for the missteps (like the time she entered a neighbor’s house through the dog door, and we don’t even know these people), and rejoice in the beautiful moments you never saw coming.

In this year of hoping, I will try to focus on the rejoicing.