Adjust and Proceed

As stated previously, The Bean is a manager on his high school football team. His duties include keeping the players adequately hydrated, being a general gopher (go-fer this, go-fer that) and laundry.

But laundry duties come with the “dad” package. Laundry.  How in the world did I get into a situation where I spend three to four hours a week cleaning 75 grass-stained, sweat-soaked, stink-to-high-heaven football uniforms? Well, the head coach asked and I readily answered “Yes.” After every game and through the next morning, The Bean and I collect, sort, treat, and wash some of the most sweaty, stinky and generally nasty clothes imaginable. We’ve gotten pretty darn good at it, too.

La Pistolita, my significant other, had a hard time wrapping her head around the fact I was spending my precious Saturday laundering football uniforms. My family and friends thought the same. “You have no time as it is, how are you going to spend three hours laundering football uniforms?” That is a fair point, but regardless, time is made for two reasons.

The Bean is learning how to work and how to do tasks upon which others rely. It is a great teaching tool – teamwork, efficiency and taking pride on one’s work. Most importantly, it gives The Bean a sense of accomplishment. It’s pretty cool seeing those jerseys and pants neatly folded and stacked, morphed from a pile of stink.

Secondly, it gives the coaches a few extra hours each week. These guys devote a lot of time to the school and the football team. If they’re not coaching, they’re grading papers, (they’re teachers too), fixing equipment, working on the field, studying film or taking graduate courses. They need a break. They deserve a break.

The way I see this situation, it is a win/win/win for all. The Bean is learning to take responsibility and pride in his work. The coaches have a little extra time and I get to watch it all happen.  As for La Pistolita, she’s come around. My family still thinks I’m crazy.

Football season is in full swing, which takes The Bean to the sideline. He is a manager for his high school team and he cherishes his position. He loves the camaraderie and daggummit, he just loves football.

As much as he loves it, when he’s on the sideline at a game and he’s left alone, he’ll become absorbed with whatever it is he gets absorbed. Unfortunately, it isn’t the football play happening 40 yards from where he’s standing.

During the first few scrimmages (where different teams practice against each other) I thought I’d leave Das Beano to himself. I would be impressed to witness how much he matured over the past year and to observe how he magically transformed into an independent 15 year-old with no hint of Asperger’s, ADHD or OCD.

Instead, I watched him wander aimlessly around the sideline, bite his hand, yawn and plop himself on the bench. Earlier in the year, I had the opportunity to ask Dr. Temple Grandin how I should handle this very situation. Her advice was to instruct him afterward and discuss things he did right and things to be improved. Going on to the sideline, near him and instructing on the spot would only embarrass him.

However, in the past couple of weeks, watching from the stands, my instincts told me otherwise. (Yeah – I know, there have been a time or two when my instincts were really wrong.) As much as I admire and respect Dr. G. and think her western-wear rocks, I, for the time being, have made a conscious decision to, respectfully, not follow her advice.

There is a time to teach and I time to stand by. Right now, class is in session. Someone once said, and I’m paraphrasing, being the parent of a special needs child means you have to let go of your embarrassment and inhibitions, step in and do what has to be done. Be there. Be engaged. This isn’t a job for coaches or trainers – they’re busy attending to the game. Yet, each game presents wonderful learning opportunities.

I, for the life of me, will not let these golden and fleeting opportunities pass by The Bean. His job requires him to tend to tasks and interact with players. He needs to constantly water the players, keep his bottles full and listen for the long whistle signaling a timeout. With guidance, he does these, all at the same time. With immediate direction, he becomes (important concept for TheBean) engaged. Without, he falls to a zoned-out state.

Along with keeping him engaged, he needs to be shown how to be engaged. Walking up to a player who just ran off the field and asking “Hey, would you like some water?” really doesn’t cut it on the sideline. “Hold a bottle in the air and quickly shout ‘water!’ If they want it, they’ll take it.” Of course after the game, we discuss the difference between a sideline environment and the classroom. I can see it now, The Bean walking in Algebra, holding his assignment in the air and shouting “Homework!”

For the record, The Bean does not want me on the sideline. He’d rather have me roped and tied to a kitchen chair while he goes off to a game. I know there is a fine line between what he wants and what he needs and I’m trying not to stomp all over it. Right now, I’m hoping a steady dose of direction with something he loves when he’s 15 will pay off when he’s 16, 18, 35 and 65. I just hope I’m right.

My turn has arrived. I’m on furcation, which is what we in the news industry call a combination of furlough and vacation. The down side is no paycheck for one week. (Furlough.) The up side is I am expressly forbidden from all work-related communication for a solid week. (Vacation.)

When I scheduled my furlough, I intended to use the time for productive and useful activities like going through all of the paperwork that has collected, cleaning out the closets, taking long runs, rebuilding the kitchen, cleaning the Gulf, making world peace – you get the idea. Instead, the universe in which I live found out I had a free week and filled in those empty time slots. I’m not complaining because they are useful tasks – doctor’s appointments, study sessions for finals and football camp for TheBean.

I’m not complaining about the lack of me time, just commenting on it. I’m thankful I have the time to ride roughshod over TheBean as he studies for finals and work with him through football camp. He’s not happy about it, but tuff nuggies for him.

Football camp brings the ever-ending question as to how much I should butt in when he’s performing his team managerial duties. Coaches don’t have time to keep him on task so I attend to provide direction.  I’m always surprised at how much effort is required to keep 70 young men sufficiently hydrated. Therefore, it’s an important job and I think TheBean is starting to realize its importance.

And today brings the annual physical, which I’ve put off for the past two. I anticipate a fair amount of grief from my MD – she’s gonna yell at me and I deserve it. I’ve been putting off this appointment for a while; every time I thought to schedule it, a convenient excuse was in hand – no time, too much work. Furcation provided a contiguous slice of time and further delay was no longer acceptable.

Tomorrow – from 7:30 AM to 2:30 PM – it’s me time. What to do? Next week, well that’s a different story. It’s not like the work went away – it’s waiting for me, all stacked neatly in an in-box.

It’s been mighty gloomy lately and I’m not talking about the weather. My disposition has been especially poor. Too much work, not enough exercise, not enough sleep, and too much work. (Did I mention work?)

So, when I have a bad disposition, I’m probably not the easiest person with whom to live. The Bean describes me as cranky. He’s being nice. He ought to say “Asshat” because I’ve been all over his ass.  When you get to that point when every little thing drives you over the edge – that’s where I was.

A parent of a special needs kid requires patience and I had none. After one particular sleepless night, getting ready for an early morning orthodontist’s appointment was especially rough. Waking The Bean on a normal school morning is tough enough. 45 minutes early was almost impossible. “Bean, get up.” “Bean, get ready.” “Bean, let’s go.” “Bean, let’s go.” “BEAN!!! LET’S GO!!!”

On the way to the appointment, a radio station reports the weather. “Mostly cloudy, a chance of thunderstorms.” We ride on. Suddenly, out of nowhere The Bean announces “Mostly cloudy, a chance of ‘BEAN, LET’S GO!!’”

Priceless.

Growing up in the 70’s and living in the section of West Virginia sandwiched between Ohio and Pennsylvania, my crew followed Pittsburgh teams. In the 70’s, a kid’s life was mostly good when following the Pirates. Our heroes were working class guys like Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell and Bill Mazeroski and they delivered on and off the field.

Life brought me to the D.C. area some 20+ years ago. When I landed, D.C. was the Purgatory of baseball; hope always hinted a team could arrive, but the dream never materialized.  As time passed, the dream faded and I became preoccupied with other things – like raising a son with Asperger’s Syndrome.

When your child has Autism, you continually work to close circles. This is the process of verbally and nonverbally making a connection, interacting and then completing that interaction. You do this over and over and over, looking for any sliver of progress and the slivers come in dribbles and drabs. Somedays it’s great, but often, it feels futile.

The Bean and I worked on closing circles for years and years, but still, our communication felt rote and regimented.  Then, the convergence of miracles occurred. The first was baseball coming back to D.C. (OK, some consider it a miracle, some a disaster, but for me, well, read on.) The D.C. Nationals were playing in their home opener and it was a big deal in the Washington area.

On the evening of the game, I picked The Bean up from after school care. We arrived home and I expected to quietly watch the game while The Bean did his thing. We enter the house and he said “Hey dad, let’s watch the game!” It sounds simple, but it was the first time he ever said “Let’s.” In fact, it’s the first time I can remember the two of us doing anything spontaneous. (Miracle number two.) We sat in front of the tube and ate hot dogs and watched the Nats beat the Rockies. The Bean and I had a great time.

Since then, I’ve told The Bean about Clemente and the size of his heart on and off the field; about Stargell and We are Family, and how Maz hit The One that Made a Difference. Of course, he’s asked what Barry Bonds was like before steroids (skinny and pure) and the Pirates (and Nats) have been basement dwellers his whole life. Both teams still, however, hold a soft spot in my heart. (And after today, the Nats are only one game out of first place!!!) GO NATS!

This quote hangs in the Pirate's locker room at PNC Park

The Bean passed a test this weekend. It wasn’t Algebra, Biology, English or History.  He passed the Blood Test or What you do when you slice your fingers with a Henckel Test.  (Dang, they’re sharp!)

He kept it together. Maybe he didn’t know how bad he sliced his thumb. Maybe he thought the blood was cool. Whatever it was, he was ‘pretty matter of fact’ about it.  “Dad, where are the band aids? Dad, where’s the cheese slicer?” (Hmmm, that an interesting pair of questions.)

So, I find The Bean, standing in the kitchen with a paper towel wrapped around his thumb, cursing that someone hid the cheese slicer on him. (He gets that from me. I do the same thing every time the cleaning ladies come and “organize” my mess. I can’t find anything… but, I digress.)

So, I find The Bean, standing – bloody paper towel, mumbling, more irked he can’t make a sandwich than–anything else. “Let me see, buddy. Ew, that’s gonna need stitches.” (Shoot – my team just tied the game… Oh well, time for a trip to the ER. Shoot, that’s gonna take hours… It’s a beautiful day, I want to run and I have a date with La Pistolita tonight. Oh no!)

Alas, I remembered the urgent care option. A quick call to the insurance company (wow, they answered the phone) and my insurance would cover a trip to a local office. The two hour we were in the urgent care office provided me the time to show The Bean all of my scars and share stories of stitching events. The nine-iron to the forehead, the utility knife in the palm, the utility knife to the finger, the bagel slicing episode. Maybe we both need a safety course on knives.

Inside of two hours, we were on our way home with three stitches, antibiotics and a newfound respect for sharp objects. The sun was shining, snow melting, my team won without my direct support and I was only 30 minutes late for date night. I’ll take it.

I got the note today. The one from a teacher that says my kid is not completing his assignments and is falling behind. It’s not the first, it won’t be the last, but lately, I’ve received quite a few of these.

First, I’m angry with the kid. Then, I’m angry with the teacher – she needs to let me know when he starts to fall behind. (She has, but that’s beside the point.) Finally, I realize at whom my anger is really directed. Me. This is on me.

It’s my job to make sure he’s doing his work. I know I can’t do this forever, but it’s, for damn sure, my job now. Right now, I’m too damn worried about pleasing editors, co-workers and vice presidents instead of attending to my own child’s needs. I’m too damn worried about making sure my little cog of a giant corporation remains greased while I leave my 14-year-old son with Asperger’s Syndrome to fend for himself.

Note to self: get your head out of your arse, determine what’s really important and do something about it.

This is on me, Bean. I’m sorry I let you down.

I wish I could take the credit, but I can’t. He did it himself, through determination, subtle and not so subtle changes and, thankfully, a growth spurt.

I’m writing about my son, to whom I should give a moniker — The Bean. He morphed from a butter bean, to a jelly bean, to a string bean in front of my very eyes.

In the fall of 2008, this 13 year-old boy weighed 260 pounds and was climbing into the 3XL shirts and pants. Getting him to do any kind of physical activity was a battle of wills. Getting him to eat vegetables – even harder.

On the edge of his teenage years, it was time to take some steps. We started by eating one serving of vegetables each night. It would have been easier if I instituted the “stick pins in my eyes” rule – every night was a battle. Watching him gag on salad made for great drama, but there are other things I’d rather do in the evening. (Watching spinach dangle from his orthodontic bracket while he gagged was rather amusing at first, but that grew old, as well.)

Two items constituted our saving grace – V8 Juice and Dr. Praeger’s Spinach Pancakes. Those he could handle and those he had every night. Chicken nuggets, fish, turkey burgers, or whatever – all came with a serving of V8 and a spinach pancake.

The other change: no more school cafeteria food. A bagged lunch with a sandwich, applesauce and V8 was in the back pack every day and the lunch line was verboten. We also made sure we were on a walk every evening.

It was a couple months later when I saw the first signs – his pants kept falling down. Smaller pants were purchased and in six weeks, they fell. He shrunk to my pants size and then, they were too big. The Bean lost 100 pounds. His waist went from 44 to 32 inches. His clothing size, from 3XL to men’s medium.

Kids like The Bean often experience the Asperger’s Spiral, which is like The Butterfly Effect in hyperdrive. Something happens which affects something else until it exponentially spirals out of control. This time, The Bean experienced a long-term occurrence of the Reverse Asperger’s Spiral. A little weight loss led to a little more energy, led to a little more physical activity, which led to a little more weight loss. When the growth-spurt came, he sprouted vertically.  For a parent who, all to often, experiences the Spiral, this is a joy to observe.

Many have expressed concern over his dramatic weight loss and to all I can assure, The Bean’s doctors (pediatrician, psychiatrist) are completely on board and were absolutely giddy during his last visits. His dad is giddy too.

For a kid who has many, many challenges ahead, obesity doesn’t need to compound them. Now, we’re trying to keep the incline pointed in the right direction by making healthy choices and proceeding down the road.

I miss my dad. I miss everything about him. His breakfasts, his handi-work, his way with dogs, his way with kids. I miss my dad.

My dad’s story is like a lot of others – a child of the Depression, a WWII vet who changed the course of his life with the GI Bill. A kid from a northern West Virginia steel town, who made his way to junior college and then to George Washington University through hard work and football.  He returned home, became a husband, father, teacher and coach. He built our house with his two hands and my family never wanted for anything. We weren’t rich, but we lived well.

As a high school coach, and later, the Athletic Director, my dad always integrated (probably, through necessity) his work with his family. I remember, as a boy, hanging around football and basketball games, track meets, wrestling tournaments – always having free run of the joint. (I have hilarious footage of my older brother and me hitting a blocking sled at the age of eight.) We worked, we played and we loved it.

In the summer, my father, taking full advantage of his downtime as a teacher, ran a small construction crew. Of course, my brother and I worked on it when we respectively turned twelve or thirteen. It was hot, it was tough, but it instilled a work ethic we both carry to this very day.

My son was born three years after my dad passed.  Like my father did 60 years ago, my son found solace in football. He isn’t athletically gifted; he has Asperger’s Syndrome, so kinesthetic abilities are few. Nonetheless, he loves the sport, and he became a manager with the high school football team.  Last December, he was awarded a varsity letter. Frankly, it may not sound like a big deal, but for my son – huge!.

Dad passed away 17 years ago this past weekend. I have a tickler that pops up every January 30 –  “Dad passed away – 1993” — as if I’ll ever forget. Every time the tickler pops, the memories accumulated since his death run through my head and I wish he could have been a part of them. Many times, I could have used his knowledge, wisdom, expertise and reassurance. I wish he and my son could have known each other. I wish my dad could have bounced my son on his knee, teach him how to “blow-up his bicep” and wiggle his ears.

At his football banquet, my son’s name was announced as a letter winner. As he walked to the front of the room to accept his award, my thoughts ran to my father. How proud he would have been.

I love you Dad. Rest in peace.

What would be a good name for a blog about a guy who works for a newspaper, has a teen-aged son with Asperger’s Syndrome, a significant other (I’m too old to have a “girlfriend)  and not enough hours in the day? I had some good candidates:

DirkDiggler’sDiary

Friends were over for dinner and conversation and out of the blue, my teen-aged son yelled “Dirk Diggler!” For those who don’t know the name, check this out. Truth be told, I lack the cojones to go with it, but it underscores the humor one needs with such a child – and it underscores the humorous moments said child has provided in the past.

WorkingSteady

I grew up in a blue collar town in northern West Virginia. (70 percent Yinz, 30 percent Y’all) Whenever I return to my old neighborhood, my best friend’s father always asks how I’m doing, but in a certain way – “Working steady?” This statement says a lot about who I am and the attitudes that shaped my life. It’s also, now, a very appropriate greeting in the newspaper industry.

TranscendentalBlues

Lord knows, I really like Steve Earle and I really dig this song, but out of respect for Steve, I should come up with my own title.

SnuggieGospelChoir

See DirkDiggler’sDiary

AdjustAndProceed

This title pays homage to my father, who passed away from cancer in 1993. Before he died, I was able to spend a glorious day with him, where he ran into one of his good friends and they regaled me with stories of the old days. Towards the end of the conversation, my father spoke of his failing treatment, not with self-pity, but with a stoic, matter of fact attitude that seems to behold everyone of his generation. At this point his friend inquired as to his next steps, to which my father answered, “adjust and proceed.”

With that, my little blog about life begins — a chronicle of wins, losses, and draws and how I hope to handle them. Adjust and proceed.