Force Awakens

Star Wars Part 2

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Friday was for me one of the biggest movie-going events of my lifetime, second only to seeing Star Wars in 1977 for my tenth birthday. Skipping school to see a movie was special enough (I NEVER missed school), and seeing any movie at a theater was a pretty big deal for a family who typically ran out of money at the end of the month. But this movie was special. I remember sitting in the domed theater watching those opening words move over our heads, my breath surely taken away for the first few moments.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens held a similar excitement for me. It was the first time my family would see a Star Wars movie together in the theater, since Episode 3 came out when my kids were too small. We’re all huge fans. Maddie even has a pink and black Mandalorian costume created for her Comicon visit last year, which of course she planned to wear for the big event. She also planned to wear it to school.

A problem arose the night before, however. In anticipation of the big event, Maddie stayed up late (the night before her last finals) repairing one of her lightsabers (hello again, duct tape!). I didn’t realize what she was doing until she had finished, and at that point I had just been reminded of the new rules of cinema-going: No masks, no face paint, and certainly nothing weapon-like, no matter how cartoonish or unreal. So, her cool helmut was out, as were her lightsabers and blasters. She was so sad–depressed really. I managed to snuggle the sadness away enough for her to get to sleep, though, and the next morning she was up and ready to go in record time. A big day such as Star Wars day gets her blood pumping, thankfully!

As I had promised earlier in the week, we had cancelled the cab in favor of a mom-drive to school. It’s a bit of a hike to go roundtrip during rush hour, but I enjoy the time with Maddie and getting even a glimpse of her school life makes me happy. Just seeing the other kids arriving at school gives me a small sense of what her days might be like. I’m not saying I want to drive her every day, but I make the most of the times when I do.

As we were getting into the car, in a mad rush as always, I noticed her blasters (i.e., storm trooper guns) nestled into her belt. “Maddie,” I said, “you won’t be able to take those to school. Schools have rules prohibiting anything looking like a weapon, even if it looks totally fake,” I explained. I even went into why that rule is now in effect.

“How do you KNOW?” she countered.

“Well, I just know that generally speaking schools no longer allow anything like that. You could get in REALLY BIG TROUBLE. Like you could get expelled.”

“Everybody knows me and knows I wouldn’t shoot anybody,” Maddie insisted.

“Unfortunately they can’t apply rules like that. The same rules apply to everybody.” I even told her about a couple of cases in which kids with toy guns were shot by police. I was really going for it.

“What if I just try?” She was not giving up. She had a whole costume to wear, and dammit, she was going to wear it at SOME point.

“The trying is what can get you into trouble. ‘Trying’ is showing up with the toy guns, and that’s what you can’t do. Plus,” I continued, “if you go to school with those and get into trouble, you will also get in trouble at home.”

“What exactly would happen?” She always likes to weigh her options.

“No computer time (i.e., Minecraft) for a month.”

She continued to ponder the consequences, questioning exactly how I know all this. She still wasn’t convinced anything would happen should she keep those blasters in her belt. Finally I suggested she look on the school’s website for a student handbook that might spell out the rules. She grabbed my phone and perused the website. Nothing jumped out. And then I had the best idea of the day: “Just call the office and ask. Say ‘I’m dressed up in a pink and black Star Wars costume that has pink and black blasters. Is it OK if I wear them?'”

So she dialed the number and explained her predicament to whomever answered the phone. She was transferred to somebody else, and she repeated her problem. “Okay,” she said right away. “Okay.” And then she hung up. Oh, thank goodness. She got the answer, and I could let it go. The blasters and her helmut stayed in the car when she hopped out to go to her last two finals. She was still happy and in the Star Wars spirit. In the end, she didn’t let the lightsaber/blaster/helmut exclusions get her down.

Crisis averted. Well, one crisis averted. When I asked her about the science and history finals she was about to take, she remarked, “There’s one problem. There is a study guide for history I was supposed to finish before Mr. L. will give me the test. I remembered last night, but it was too late.” Oh no. I hadn’t bugged her about studying because (1) that’s up to her teachers, (2) she won’t do it anyway, and (3) she does well without ever studying, so what’s the point? But I hadn’t anticipated this.

My heart sank. What in the world was going to happen now? What if she didn’t even get to take the final? I was trying to breathe deeply. It would all be okay, I tried to convince myself.

“You have to figure out a way to remember this stuff.”

“I know.”

“If you can’t remember things, you have to write them down. That’s the case for everybody!”

“But I never remember to write it down.” That’s definitely a problem. We talked about strategies for stirring her memory.

“Well,” I finally decided, “this is your first experience with finals. So this will be a learning experience, and you’ll know what to do next time.” Maddie nodded in agreement. She didn’t seem particularly stressed out. “I guess you’ll see what happens in a minute!” I said.

“Yup.”

When I picked her up a few hours later,  just after she finished her science final, she was in great spirits. She thought her finals had gone well. Apparently had completed enough of the study guide that Mr. L. had mercy on her and let her take the final. Oh, phew! Thank goodness for compassionate, understanding teachers!

She was happy for vacation to start, and more immediately, to head off to the theater.

“Did anybody else dress up for Star Wars?” I asked.

“Nope!” She could not have cared less. She was rocking her own style and loving every minute of it.

I was talking to a friend the other day about Maddie and how I recognize the ironic gift of having her for a daughter. There are struggles, and they are daily, but there are some things I will never have to worry about. She will not have drug problems, she is unlikely every to drink or be promiscuous because she doesn’t care enough about what other people think to alter her behavior. And she is happy with herself. While other families are dealing with teens so overwhelmed by stress that even attempts at suicide have crept into their lives, I know I don’t have to consider that. I have one of the most easy-going, good-natured 15-year-olds you could ever meet.

Whatever happens with Maddie, she will be okay. She will be content. She will love and accept herself. And she has the confidence to fully express who she is.

We all loved the movie. I might even see it again. I never do that. But the feelings of joy and gratitude I had yesterday were just too good pass up if there’s another chance.

Friday, Star Wars opening day, the last day of Maddie’s first finals, was good day all around. A very good day.

Stars Wars Part 1

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Sunday night I had a great idea. Or so I thought.

We had decided to see Star Wars as a family, along with my niece and her boyfriend, Friday afternoon. Opening day. That means picking Maddie up from school after her last final and grabbing her brother a couple hours early. And here was my brilliant idea: I told the kids they had to go to school every day this week in order for this to happen.

Maddie’s surprising response: “I have to go to school. I have finals.” She has to do something? Well, that’s new.

This baby’s in the bag, I thought. I bought tickets for us all. Everyone is going to school, and everyone is going to the movie. This is going to be a good week, I thought.

Right now, Maddie’s still in bed. The cab has come and gone. I will drive her to school now, if she’ll just get up.

My son keeps trying to convince her to go. “Just go for a little while,” he said. “Wouldn’t you rather go see Star Wars than stay home from school for one day?” “Oh, are you nervous about finals?” he is asking right now. “No? Just an old-fashioned stomachache, I guess,” he says. He’s really giving it his all. Despite years of what I would categorize as resentment towards her, he loves her. She is the biggest Star Wars fan in our family and now she might miss out. This could be tragic.

Last week I had a meeting with Maddie’s special ed teacher and the assistant principal. I had been trying to make things happen strictly via email with the teacher, Mr. L., but I haven’t been satisfied. Nothing beats face-to-face, so I called this meeting. I left there feeling very optimistic. Not necessarily optimistic about Maddie’s behavior changing, but optimistic about the school’s approach to handling her. Mr. S., the assistant principal, clearly understood the problem. He is going to be firm with her, but he also understands that many of the protocols applicable to truant kids aren’t appropriate for Maddie. This is part of her disability, and everybody at the table understood that.

Pause for a pointless drive to school

My son’s attempts to convince Maddie to go to school were effective. Sort of. Maddie had been crying at one point, a rare occurrence. When she cries, it means something. But somehow all of my son’s efforts had the desired effect.

“She’s up and even has her shoes on!” he announced proudly. There have been times in his thirteen years of life that he has driven me absolutely crazy, but there are times when he blows my mind with his insight, his thoughtfulness, his initiative, his kindness. This is one of those times. He really wants things to work out for everyone.

“Maybe you should bring Otter,” he suggested to Maddie once she had gotten up and dressed. Otter is a Beanie Baby who has been with us for the last 13 1/2 years. It has been a source of comfort since Maddie fell in love with it so many years ago on a trip to Carmel. I can’t believe we still have that thing. Maddie grabbed Otter, held it close, and walked upstairs. She was reluctant still, but she was moving in the right direction.

So I said goodbye to everyone, and Maddie and I set off for the 25-minute drive to school. We brought our puppy Banjo along for good measure. Puppy snuggles are always better than no puppy snuggles!

As we pulled into the drop-off zone, Maddie just sat there in her seat. Banjo was on her lap, and nobody was making a move. “I can’t do it,” she said sadly. Her stomach hurts too much, she had said. She did the best she could, she said. She had really tried. The tears welled up in her eyes again.

Well, now what do I do? I thought. I had tried to convince her to go to school for even a just part of the day. I would pick her up if she couldn’t do it. “Just go say hi to Mr. L.,” I had suggested. Her classroom was so close, but that didn’t matter. The distance from the car to the classroom was still too great for Maddie. This wasn’t happening.

And here I was again, having given a very clear reward offer for a very clear set of expectations, but still finding myself in the middle of a rather murky moment. Did this count as “going to school”? Have we already arrived at the no-Star Wars moment? That just didn’t feel right. She clearly wasn’t feeling well. She had done the best she could. But I didn’t know what to say, so I called my husband and explained the situation. I guess what I wanted was permission to give Maddie permission to go home. That was my inclination, but I am in a constant internal fight with myself about things like this. Another rational person sharing in decision was important. And my husband came through. “She did her best,” he said. Oh, thank goodness.

Thank goodness for two reasons: First, I really didn’t want to leave her out of the Star Wars viewing. When the first one came out in 1977, it was near my tenth birthday, and our parents took my sister and me out of school to go see it. I will never ever forget that day because of the movie itself and how special I felt getting to miss a little school to go see it. I had planned to take Maddie out early, too, but it turned out she was getting out early anyway. My son does get the special early pickup for the occasion–on pajama day, no less.

Secondly, it seems to me that when the carrot is no longer available so early in the game, there’s no point. If I say “you have to do this thing all week to get a reward,” and Maddie blows it on the first day, what in the world is going to motivate her the rest of the week? That’s a huge problem.

So my husband and I agreed to let her go home and still have a chance to see Star Wars Friday after school, and we turned around and came home. Nearly an hour trip for nothing. Well, I guess it was for something because Maddie got credit for going to school in a way.

Soon after I got home, I got an email from Mr. L., who wanted to know if Maddie was going to be at school. It turns out that the extra time she is allotted for test taking was front-loaded: she could start early in the week (i.e., today) and finish with the rest of the class. Well, now that’s out the window. He thought perhaps she had anxiety. My son had asked her about that as well, and she had denied any such thing, but I had to wonder. One of the defining aspects of autism is an inability–or diminished ability–to identify emotions. Maddie has always had difficulty with that although she’s made significant progress over the years. Still, it’s not uncommon for stress to result in stomach issues. And even I sometimes experience physical manifestations of stress before I can identify what’s going on in my mind. So the likelihood of that being the case with Maddie seemed high. After all, this is the first time she’s really had final exams. She’s most certainly feeling some pressure.

In fact yesterday she was given her history exam, and instead of making progress, she made a paper airplane. Yes, this is my child. I have the child who makes paper airplanes instead of taking a test. When I asked her about it, she said he had been bored. Bored. Hmm. I wonder if bored was really stressed.

So I asked her again this afternoon if she was nervous. “Maybe,” she admitted, probably just accepting the idea herself. I assured her that all she had to do was give it a good try, to do whatever her best work is, and that just doing it was more important than her grades. I also explained that she couldn’t make airplanes instead of doing her work. Even if she got an F on a final exam, I explained, maybe she’d get 50 points out of 100, which is so much better than a big fat zero. I think that made sense to her.

Maddie spent the day wearing her parka and hanging out in bed watching TV.  Mostly she looked sad and pitiful when I checked on her or brought her food. The only thing I required of her was a shower. She didn’t argue, fortunately, although there was bargaining, as usual. I shampooed her hair, the promise of which seems to be a big relief to her . We blasted music (“Fergilicious,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” etc.) and danced, she in the shower, I on the other side of the shower door. We danced and laughed and made funny faces. That put us both in a good mood, after a stressful day for, apparently, both of us.

“I have to go to school tomorrow,” she says now. I nod in agreement. Today I think she had talked herself out of that idea. Today wasn’t an official final exam day. But tomorrow is. I am optimistic at the moment. We shall see. We shall see.