Image source: Cheryl Hansen
I was not the cool kid, but boy, I wanted to be cool. I remember thinking as a kindergartner that the kids would like me if I wore dresses to school every day. In fifth grade, I’d listen intently to my dad and brother during football games so I could recite facts, figures and opinions — not my own — to impress the boys at school. I eventually developed my own opinions about football and preferred jeans to dresses, but I never really discovered the key to popularity. Instead, I decided I was far happier being loved by a few great friends than being liked by many. It works for me.
But when my son Jack started kindergarten this year, I secretly hoped he’d be that kid — the one everyone wants at his birthday party. Along with all of the proper mother worries — deep down in the corners of my conscience where all of my shallow thoughts live — I wondered if he’d make the “cool” cut. He’s smart, bubbly, loving and quite possibly the coolest kid I know, but ever since he was diagnosed with autism at age two, I feared that friendship wouldn’t come easily for him.
After four years and thousands of hours of therapy, Jack has come so far. He’s got the eye contact thing down. He knows the right way to get your attention. He’s able to order for himself in restaurants — looking at the server and saying please and thank you.
We’re working on facial expressions — some are harder than others to identify; sarcasm still eludes him. We prompt him to really hear what others are saying and ask good questions (“Ask her what her dog’s name is!”). We’ve tackled soccer, t-ball, swimming and basketball. We host play dates and sleepovers and even had our first-ever backyard birthday party — with a bounce house — last month (something we wouldn’t have attempted even a couple years ago). At age six, he’s mostly able to blend in with his peers. Many people don’t even see his autism. But it won’t be long before his classmates will expect him to talk and act like they do — and when he doesn’t — because I suspect he will always be fabulously, but perhaps frustratingly different — I worry what those classmates will do. During a visit to Jack’s preschool last year, I was asked by a little girl with cherub cheeks, “Why does he do it?”
“Do what?” I inquired, my own cheeks burning.
“Run around and say weird stuff.”
I had no response, but silently promised myself to come up with a good one when I had a moment. I’m still working on that.
Lately, Jack’s awareness of how others see him has increased. This is both good and bad. While it means he’s growing and maturing, it also means that others’ words and actions can hurt him. And they have. A group of boys locked him out of their room at a holiday party a couple months ago. He was crushed. So was I.
I crave the secret to acceptance more now than when I was a kid. We’ve cobbled together a few ideas we hope will help him along the way — things like helping him to find his passion — that spark that makes him want to leap out of bed each morning. The idea, of course, is that he’ll share his passion with others and together they’ll pave their way through critics. We load him up with atta-boys and make a point to compliment his strengths — he has many. Confidence helps you soar, we feel. But we also try to prepare him for failure — because it’ll surely happen. While we hate to see him disappointed — we’re not big believers in that newish t-ball philosophy: Everybody wins! Give ‘em all a trophy!
We’ve yet to discover the key to cool.
I’m certainly open to suggestions — but it’s possible that my son will figure it out all by himself. And it’s likely that in the end, he won’t really care if he’s cool after all.
That definitely works for me.