04-15-2005, 02:36 PM
EVERY SCHOOL has one: an outcast. That kid who just doesn't fit in.
At Sandshore Road Elementary School in Budd Lake, N.J., he was Billy Jennings.
Billy Jennings was uncool for so many reasons. He wore button-up plaid shirts every day.
He had just about no social skills. He never knew how to join in when we were playing. He rarely talked to us. When he did, he always talked too loud or said dumb things.
Rumor had it he never bathed.
Guess who had to play his wife in the third-grade play?
It seemed just about everyone had words of sympathy for me. They all crowded around to make Billy Jennings jokes.
Just as I was about to respond, I overheard the music teacher talking to my teacher. She said that she had chosen me to be Billy Jennings' wife because I was the nicest kid in the class. She worried that any of the other kids would make fun of him.
I shut my mouth.
And even though I had it on good authority that Billy Jennings never washed his hands, and I had seen him often stick his finger up his nose, I held his hand. On stage. In front of everyone.
I was the nicest kid in the class.
I never once talked to Billy Jennings. I didn't ever invite him to sit with me in lunch. Never smiled at him. Or in any way cared about him.
I was proud of my kindness.
And I never thought about it again. Until a few years ago.
Because my younger son is a lot like Billy Jennings.
He does bathe. And he doesn't wear plaid shirts to school.
But he's nothing like the other kids.
Ben taught himself to read when he was 2. When other kids drew rainbows and stick figures on the sidewalk, a 4-year-old Ben filled ours up with addition problems. Now, nearly 7, he can find his way anywhere just by looking at a map. He knows how to get to Texas, although we've never been there. He watches the Weather Channel for fun.
But he doesn't know how to join kids in play. Doesn't quite know how to hold a conversation, unless it revolves around sports scores or Thomas the Tank Engine. He doesn't get jokes, and he doesn't know any of the cool lingo kids use these days.
Ben is different.
Looking at him you probably wouldn't notice at first. You'd look at his big, chocolate-colored eyes and assume he was like every other kid. But talk to him awhile and you'd figure out he wasn't quite like the others.
Doctors now have a name for what makes Ben unique: Asperger's syndrome. The stereotypical kid with the disorder is extremely bright but socially awkward. People have theorized that Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein and Thomas Edison have all had a form of Asperger's.
My husband and I didn't know what to expect when the doctors told us Ben has Asperger's. It was a form of autism, a condition we knew a lot about, since Ben's older brother has a severe form of autism. We'd slowly gotten used to life with a nonverbal child.
The doctors said we would have different challenges with Ben. They wouldn't be easy.
I thought the doctors were liars. Ben's autism is mild. How could that be harder than his brother's severe form?
In so many ways, it turns out.
Xander's autism, while more pervasive, is simpler. He doesn't speak, wouldn't understand if another kid made fun of him. The obstacles are more obvious
With Ben, it's a world we don't know how to navigate. Had he waited for me, I could have taught him to read. I don't know how you teach a kid to make friends.
When I first entered the world of autism, I met many people whose children had mild autism or Asperger's. I used to wonder why they complained. At least your child can talk, I would think.
Now I see the worries and frustrations. It's true I don't have to guess what Ben wants to eat. But I have to worry every day that today will be the day he discovers he's uncool.
So far, I haven't had any reports of kids making fun of Ben. He's only in first grade, though. And I know it gets rougher as you get older. Pretty soon, he's going to be in a third-grade play. Or in an activity where someone will have to be his partner.
I have two things to say to that future partner. First, I promise to make sure he washes his hands. And, second, please be nicer than I was.
http://www.fredericksburg.com/News/FLS/2...05/1726496
At Sandshore Road Elementary School in Budd Lake, N.J., he was Billy Jennings.
Billy Jennings was uncool for so many reasons. He wore button-up plaid shirts every day.
He had just about no social skills. He never knew how to join in when we were playing. He rarely talked to us. When he did, he always talked too loud or said dumb things.
Rumor had it he never bathed.
Guess who had to play his wife in the third-grade play?
It seemed just about everyone had words of sympathy for me. They all crowded around to make Billy Jennings jokes.
Just as I was about to respond, I overheard the music teacher talking to my teacher. She said that she had chosen me to be Billy Jennings' wife because I was the nicest kid in the class. She worried that any of the other kids would make fun of him.
I shut my mouth.
And even though I had it on good authority that Billy Jennings never washed his hands, and I had seen him often stick his finger up his nose, I held his hand. On stage. In front of everyone.
I was the nicest kid in the class.
I never once talked to Billy Jennings. I didn't ever invite him to sit with me in lunch. Never smiled at him. Or in any way cared about him.
I was proud of my kindness.
And I never thought about it again. Until a few years ago.
Because my younger son is a lot like Billy Jennings.
He does bathe. And he doesn't wear plaid shirts to school.
But he's nothing like the other kids.
Ben taught himself to read when he was 2. When other kids drew rainbows and stick figures on the sidewalk, a 4-year-old Ben filled ours up with addition problems. Now, nearly 7, he can find his way anywhere just by looking at a map. He knows how to get to Texas, although we've never been there. He watches the Weather Channel for fun.
But he doesn't know how to join kids in play. Doesn't quite know how to hold a conversation, unless it revolves around sports scores or Thomas the Tank Engine. He doesn't get jokes, and he doesn't know any of the cool lingo kids use these days.
Ben is different.
Looking at him you probably wouldn't notice at first. You'd look at his big, chocolate-colored eyes and assume he was like every other kid. But talk to him awhile and you'd figure out he wasn't quite like the others.
Doctors now have a name for what makes Ben unique: Asperger's syndrome. The stereotypical kid with the disorder is extremely bright but socially awkward. People have theorized that Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein and Thomas Edison have all had a form of Asperger's.
My husband and I didn't know what to expect when the doctors told us Ben has Asperger's. It was a form of autism, a condition we knew a lot about, since Ben's older brother has a severe form of autism. We'd slowly gotten used to life with a nonverbal child.
The doctors said we would have different challenges with Ben. They wouldn't be easy.
I thought the doctors were liars. Ben's autism is mild. How could that be harder than his brother's severe form?
In so many ways, it turns out.
Xander's autism, while more pervasive, is simpler. He doesn't speak, wouldn't understand if another kid made fun of him. The obstacles are more obvious
With Ben, it's a world we don't know how to navigate. Had he waited for me, I could have taught him to read. I don't know how you teach a kid to make friends.
When I first entered the world of autism, I met many people whose children had mild autism or Asperger's. I used to wonder why they complained. At least your child can talk, I would think.
Now I see the worries and frustrations. It's true I don't have to guess what Ben wants to eat. But I have to worry every day that today will be the day he discovers he's uncool.
So far, I haven't had any reports of kids making fun of Ben. He's only in first grade, though. And I know it gets rougher as you get older. Pretty soon, he's going to be in a third-grade play. Or in an activity where someone will have to be his partner.
I have two things to say to that future partner. First, I promise to make sure he washes his hands. And, second, please be nicer than I was.
http://www.fredericksburg.com/News/FLS/2...05/1726496
