“Well, Mommy what spell do you want” Goldi says in her angel wings and magic wand.  Waving and twirling, she confidently grants my wish with her own magic spell. She talks and acts like a child.

“Will you please pile the pillows for the pea to go under.” Goldi says grabbing her favorite satin lined blanket.  “There! Now, I must pass the test.” she declares referring to the Princess and the Pea story. She imagines and dreams like a child.

“Mom, tell Santa not to come tonight. Mrs. Claus can come instead. ”  she states. She draws up her covers and will not close her eyes until her request is certainly granted. She reasons and thinks like a child.

Goldi is nearly seven years into her childhood.  Her thinking, speaking, and reasoning are childish.  Each and everyday, she is a walking, talking, pretending, child.

Lucky for me Goldi is delayed. Yes, I said lucky. Because of her delay, Goldi will have a childhood. She will have time to play, pretend, storytell, imagine, be silly,  be innocent, and dream. She will have time to be a child. We will see to that.

Without her childhood, there would be no play, no dreams, no laughter. Without her childhood, there would be no innocence and no memories of endearment. She  needs her childhood to equip herself for the complications of adulthood. She needs her childhood to shape her and mold her to the masterpiece God is molding even now. She needs her childhood to humble us, the adults, and realize we have so much to learn and are still growing as well.

Goldi’s delay is unlucky too. This Hurry up World  is attempting to erase the child in childhood.  Hurry has had a lot of influence. Hurry and get that child’s name on the list of hockey players because it’s the begining of an academic letter for college. Hurry and read a chapter book.  Preferrably at the end of kindergarten so that you could maybe just skip first grade. Hurry up and learn your times tables so that  you can take advanced calculus in 4th grade. Some children are so gifted. They can do all those things at such a young age. Hurry up helped them along. Go figure.

Hurry came from out of nowwhere. Perhaps since the launching of Sputnick. Perhaps because the empty nest syndrome has run havoc. Perhaps since the age of technology. But it’s there and it’s not for Goldi.

Hurry says there is no room for play.  Instead, it says get involved in soccer, dance, football, piano lessons, science class, hockey, running club, and anything that spells activities instead of play.  Play is Goldi’s prerequisite to work.  So Goldi is acting out fairy tales with different customes. She’s making birthday soup with food coloring. She’s playing hide and seek with her dad. She’s playing tree doctor in the woods.

Hurry says don’t wait. The time is now.  So give them an X box, or take them to a PG movie.   We’ve always been mindful of appropriate timing.  She’s learning Nursery Rhyme songs. She’s seen G movies at home. We’ve waited on video games. We’ve not taken her to exciting, whistle and bell places.

Hurry has a voice. It’s a lippy, mouthy, and way over the head.voice.  Did you ever hear Hurry’s microphone talk through the mouth of a child? It might sound something like:  “Don’t mess with my fingernails, I just had them painted and  they are ready for my trip to Florida. I want to look pretty.” We try to silence Hurry by watching  DVD’s chosen very carefully instead of TV. We watch what we discuss as adults in front of our kids.  We explain things like how it rains, or what happens to garbage  in easy to understand vocabulary.   We are not lippy towards her and she follows suit.

“Could we please make a swimming pool for me so I can practice being a mermaid?” She asks. She pretends and dreams.

“Let’s have a book picnic with lollypops!” She announces on Saturday. She creates and plays.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Lilly,” she starts. Goldi stories.

Goldi is a child. She thinks, reasons, and acts like a child. At the right time, she’ll give up her childish ways, strengthened and well equipped for adulthood.  Then again, Goldi is a child. A child of the Heavenly Father, who will ask her to come as a child and live with Him forever.

” I just don’t know what to do with this kid. I know how to help them if they can’t  read. I know how to help them if they can’t  add or subtract.  But I don’t know what to do with this autistic child.  They’re just exasperating!”

This is what the teacher told me me , another  long time teacher, who recently became a parent of an autistic child.  Those are the words that would have been minor way back when.  I would have actually echoed those words.  But when autism became one of my” life and breaths” of daily living,  those words  were piercing and painful , bringing me to tears.

“You are talking to a parent of an autistic child!” I declared. The teacher offered a blank stare and a shoulder shrug.  I was silent and numb. If only I had the choice words to reverse the spell.   With one deep breath, I  walked back to my classroom.

My silence was noised with thinking. I  thought of  bright eyed Roberta, whose world fell apart when something was not in its place. I thought of Sally Sue  who told me the ” ooooooo”  ghost  story all too often. I thought of Willie who flapped his hands and never looked at me.  Something was up with those kids. That something exasperated me. That something spelled autism.

When my Goldi was newly diagnosed, as teacher, I concluded that she would be like Roberta,  Sally Sue, or Willie. As a parent, I prayed for bigger hopes than what I offered those kids from my way back when teaching,   when autism was still  more of a “something is up” label.

Three years later I can tell that teacher and any teacher.  I have the words. I didn’t realize it but they’ve been with me for 23 years.  Let me tell you, teacher,– any teacher,  what to do with an autistic child.  It’s not rocket science. The most important thing to do is not something from special education experts.   It’s something that should come as natural as you as getting your morning coffee before the school day.

So you are Teacher to an autistic child?  Let me tell you. Plan your lessons and share with them your learning day. Be the conductor of your symphony. Practice the day’s pieces with everyone.   Make learning appropriate.  Make adjustments and take heed to implement different learning styles. Give crayons instead of pencils.  Guide them step by step.  Give praise. Make them laugh. Recognize their potential. Appreciate their uniqueness. Miss them when they are gone. Their unique contribution  will not be offered to that learning day.  Giving up is not the answer. A “Whew I am done with that child”at the end of the year is not acceptable. Let them know that you consider them a star that will always shine in the world’s sky and extra brightly in yours.  Let me tell you teacher, teach that autistic child- and every child. It’s what you’ve been doing and should be doing all along.

You must know that the autistic child will always be there. The gap of whose not autistic is narrowing. Look in your classroom and they will be there:  flapping with excitement, jumping for joy with anticipation, plugging their ears and straining to listen, pacing and needing direction, humming and needing a song,  stemming and needing comfort, expressing their amazing imagination and needing a smiley validation, watching the crowd and needing a friend.

What should you do with an autistic child? Let me tell you teacher, do what you have been called to do.  Teach. Do it well.

Another February session,

of high regard expression,

to all those she holds dear.

The words she’s written, names of friends soon to be smitten,

by their mailboxes full of cheer.

Some write ‘ Roses are red ‘and  some  ‘violets are blue’,  but for her this is challenge and chore,

To use rhyming  is dumbfound,

cause it’s sound all  turned around ,

it’s nonsense and a bore.

It’s another delay –  and surely a sign-

Sorry friends , Dr. Suess  she’s not!

For she can’t rhyme your valentine!

“Next one is Kate”  she eyes on the list .  She knows each friends’ name by sight.

I give her the beginning sound of each name,

For each one she’s accurately right!

Roses are red and violets are blue, – too hard to grasp for her brain.

To match sounds alike,

She responds “take a hike”

That way of  thinking — insane!

Sometimes she won’t  even write on one line,

and she can’t rhyme your valentine!

“My friend Mary looks like a princess,” she says, ” A sparkly one she will need.

She carefully pens out the letters, as I slowly give her the letter sound feed.

She embellishes each name,

treats each one the same,

with swirls and circles galore.

I won’t ask her to do anything else. That would be quite a chore!

Though cat rhymes with bat and cake rhymes with snake

This  headwork, she can’t even fake!

She proudly tells me “There, they all look just fine!”

But  she can’t rhyme your valentine!

To read well, you need phonemic  awareness,

a study of sounds, blending, and rhyming.

It’s early childhood reading- foundational.

Of great matter and appropriate timing.

To understand my early literate,  with a teacher and mom hat I wear,

I see writing  sometimes sloppy

and her left to right direction choppy,

Something I give a cold stare.

But what matters to her this season,

Does not give valid reason,

For me to feel worse for the wear.

She’s happy to bring, a smile that will sing

To her, each kid counts and she cares!

In this learning process,  I’ve discovered her way ,

to read, write, and show she’s a friend.

This Valentines Day she’s made a card, that some may simply not send.

So what! She can’t rhyme,

at least not at this time,

She’s not missed the important part:

For each Valentine card despite absence of rhyming,

I found she’s put forth her heart.

The street lamp shone down on the snow that did not gently twirl, swirl, or float gracefully down like a crystal ballerinas. Instead they literally pounded and howled– kind of like  tiny snow bombs from the sky. It was the start of the first long winter that I can remember as a child.

First thought was that our house had been buried in snow. I couldn’t see anything outside my bedroom window but a white blanket packed on the glass.  School was closed and time stood still for wondrous exploration. The sun had dazzled up the blizzard aftermath.  First sight of everything was pure shimmer and sparkle.  I had played outside many times and knew my way around blindfolded. Yet, the blizzard had quickly disguised our playground to unfamiliar territory.  Little did I know it, but my play would be like never before.

The ocean of snow had created depth up to my shoulders. ( Short Greek stubby people couldn’t walk wonders in this snow)  Muppet, our dog, sunk down with every step. She had to doggy paddle her way around. Being white furred wasn’t such a help either.   The roses, bushes, and other familiar territorial marks were buried.  The most amazing thrill was that there was a gigantic drift that had formed off the roof of our house.  We had ourselves a  rooftop sledding hill! With adult supervision and permission, we walked up the drift to the roof and pointed our sleds towards the street. It was the biggest zoom of our lives. (we weren’t into roller coasters and still aren’t)

School was closed day after day. Soon, we were running low on food. My  dad and a neighbor decided to brave the storm and head out to the grocery on foot. The streets weren’t plowed. The wind and snow were still in their prime. The nearest D and W was a few miles away. We watched them from the front window walk down the windy white blur with a sled trailing behind hoping for a safe return.

As a child, it was one of those first experiences of a long winter.  It was the first time we wondered if winter took over spring’s thunder.   The thrill of sledding off the roof soon wore off and we wanted our house back to normal. The winter wonderland playground was foiling plans of baseball, basketball, kite flying, and hide and seek. The extra pounds of clothes and Vaseline smears ( mom used that trick to keep our faces warm) felt itchy, greasy, and not fun when you had to use the bathroom all of the sudden. The no school freedom had erased our memories of our friends, the smell of a fresh sharpened pencils, and taking our turn at round robin reading.

The Long Winter had put to hault all of our days of being out and about in the world learning and growing up. It came and went. The time in between time was exciting, new, memorable, mysterious, and long all in one—much like childhood.

It seemed like the news about our daughter spread like the song Grapevine says: “I bet you wonder how I knew...”  People heard it through so and so, who was a close friend or family member. “I am so sorry”,  “Really? I never thought so”, or “I thought there was something…..” or “Don’t worry it’s going to be okay” were all comments along the grapevine.

In a small way,  it was like there was a death in the family. People  were waiting in line to offer condolences.  I’ve been there- you wait and watch others say their two cents. You wonder if your two cents is worth even that.  You try to muster up something to say. Something that might put a band aide on the bad and make it feel better. There is no band aide of words that can make it all better.

The truth is the only one who really told us that all is well is – the one who was the reason for all the sympathies. Our daughter, the one burdened with autism is the one who has given us something stronger than a band aide to make things better.  She was the one who truly tells us that all is well.  It has been her attitude since she was able to show one. It comes natural to her as flapping her hands when excited. Despite our important discussions about what to do about this or that, and discouraged when such and such happens, her attitude seems to always be-    What’s the worry.? All is well!

We know it when we are eating our breakfast and barely moving, when she jumps up and says: “Hey look there’s Chippy Chipmunk!” He’s looking for his breakfast!” We see it when she stands up on stage in front of hundreds of people and sings “Joy to the World.” We’ve heard it recently when she was tired of putting on 5 extra pounds of clothes, wiping her nose for the twentieth time, and wishing desperately for spring and sunshine….she says “Mommy, God gave me a smile.”

There it was. Out of the blue really. Maybe it was out of a script that I don’t know about. Maybe someone told her this. Nonetheless, God gave her a smile. She believes it and lives it. She knows already at the age of 6 ,that the world is at her fingertips despite her autism. She knows that she is more than special. She is amazing because God made her. She knows that her dreams may come true just as sure as Cinderella’s. She believes it. God gave her a smile.

It’s a reminder to me that because she has autism, she knows more about the glories and love of God than I do.  No one else I know notices the sunsets, the sparkle of the snow, the really good taste of a pizza slice, or carries the same Christmas morning excitement to see their friends and teachers at school every day.  It’s a reminder to me that God’s glory and masterpiece is in fact displayed in her. It’s a reminder to me to look for a smile from God always and forever because my daughter does.  She has the joy that only God can give. He gave that same joy to me with a smile but I need to receive it as easily as she does.

“God gave me a smile” she says.  That is the truth of the story.  I’d better start a new Grapevine.

The first Christmas I can remember, I instructed my mom to tell Santa Claus not to come. My oldest brother was furious. I simply pointed out the scariness of Santa. His thick beard hid his face. His glasses were hiding his eyes. His big fat figure put him in the giant category. He came to your house at night. That is what burglars did.

“Santa can skip our house,” I told my mom.
I remember mom picking up the phone. I remember brothers in their rooms grumbling.

I would get presents despite Santa’s visit. My parents provided. Nothing to worry. Christmas Day would be exciting anyway.

Grandma spent the night that Christmas Eve. She would sleep right by the fire on the brown pull out couch. She told me if he came, she would talk to him. Another added assurance. Grandma would stand guard. We would leave no cookies or milk. That would be another incentive to skip our house.

I lay in bed thinking. If I hear so much a jingle bell or reindeer paw clomping or a ho ho- I am going to……- what? I had no plan just a feeling of suspense as to what would happen. I lay there awake as long as I could and the next thing I remember is a thump.

This wasn’t Santa landing on the chimney’s bottom. It was my brothers hitting the floor and running down the hallway. Rustling and whispering followed. Then I felt a big pounce. My brothers enjoyed using the morning pounce as my alarm clock– especially on exciting mornings like this.
“We are rich!” said one.
“You have about 16 presents.” said another.
My brothers felt it their job to inform others of the wealth we had gained overnight.

I got out of bed and walked with them to the living room. My grandma sat up and stretched.
“Well, Santa was so quiet, I didn’t even know he was here.”
I looked over at the tree. Sure enough, Santa had come.

My parents came out rubbing their eyes. ( It was probably only about 6 am)
“Wow! Look at all those presents.” they both said.
“Did Santa bring them?”

Just then my older brother pointed at the floor. A trail of ashes led from the fireplace to the tree.
“I’d better get the broom” said mom.
I just stared at the trail wondering….Why did he come? He was told to skip our house. Right?

“Here, open up the first present- this one is for you from Santa,” said my brother.
A Christmas miracle that he let me go first. The wrapping paper was covered in beautiful Christmas trees. I didn’t want to rip it but carefully open it. Inside was a smiling red hair doll. She wore a light pink dress and had such long smooth hair.
“It’s Cinnamon!” I exclaimed.
“This is the doll I always wanted!” I cried.
Everyone just smiled.
I couldn’t believe it. My mom said “No” to Cinnamon several times.

Soon the room was filled with wrapping paper and bows. It looked like a burglar HAD come and torn the house apart. Mom got a garbage bag and starting picking up papers and bows. We all held and had our special moments with our new treasures.

“Boy, I think we need to give Santa a big thank you.” she said.
I held my Cinnamon Doll. Her hair smelled of cinnamon. I pressed her belly button and her hair became longer. I turned her back knob and her hair became shorter. This long wished for doll was mine.
Santa had come despite my fears. Santa came and gave me a longed for gift. Santa had come to bring me joy because that is what he does.
“Thank you Santa,” I whispered.

I had just turned five. Mrs. Skilling had decorated the room with things that made me uneasy. A ghost and a witch that seemed straight out of Madam T’s Wax Museum looked especially convincing when the lights were turned out. This was the moment when we sang the “Old Lady who lived alone”. The song tells of an lady who heard a noise on a stormy night and something was going to jump out and get her. The kids sang- “OOOOOOO” like ghosts. At the piano, Mrs. Skilling looked over all the kiddies she held so dear to her heart, and saw me in tears. Dear Mrs. Skilling took my hand and walked me to the piano bench to sit right by her. Some kids giggled and wondered “what’s her problem?” Some shared their extreme courage to face anything- even if it meant seeing sharp teeth, blood, claws, – or the scariest thing their little minds could muster up way back before Freddy C. The lights were turned back on and in seconds I was back coloring the perfect jack o lantern. Just a little test of bravery that I failed at again. Oh well, another time I was going to show em. It was just that getting a year older around Halloween was tough.

Trick or Treat night that year was especially important. This was my first time. Several neighbors, my brothers, and the dad’s were all going out together. I had my wand, my long pink paper dress, my princess fairy mask, and my pumpkin. It was going to fine and fun. Each dad had a flashlight and the lights on the houses shone all down the street just as it did at Christmas.

Next door, Mrs. B gave us sweet tarts. Then came Mrs. N followed by Mrs. VD. We circled the culd-de-sac and my pumpkin was getting heavy. We were already at the end of the street and one dad said,
“You kids want to go down Sandford Street?”
In the day time, we were only allowed up and down Glenmoor and in the culd de- sac on our bikes. Sanford was like a foreign land. Nothing was familiar. But with flashlights and dads, we were assured it was no problem. Sandford Street was lit up just like Christmas too.

The first three houses had ladies with smiles and sweet voices. My pumpkin was filled near the top with goldmines my mom never let me have before. We reached the last house on the street. The porch lights were off. It was later in the evening so the night sky was even darker than when we started. The rule was always “If the lights aren’t on, no one is home.” But the boys and even my very sensible friend Suzie said,
“Let’s ring the doorbell anyway.”
I hobbled up the sidewalk and did not walk up the steps to the porch. I looked behind me for that spot of safety. Dad was waving the flashlight around as he storied with Mr. N and Mr. B. My brother rang the bell. No one answered. Most of us shouted “Trick or Treat”. Slowly a door opened and spooky music played. A white glove holding a silver bowl of candy peeked out with no head. I began to step backward. The rest held out their bags. “Show offs” I thought. A hand with no head and no problem- they want the candy anyway? I saw that inside the bowl were very large candy bars. Not worth my life, I decided as I ran towards my dad at the end of the driveway.
“Thank you!” the kids shouted as they skipped down the driveway towards me and all the dads. Right then, a werewolf head came peeking out the door and nodded. The door closed. “You don’t want a giant candy bar from this house?” my dad asked. I shook my head. I wanted to go home. I wanted to head toward the lights where it was warm and safe.

There were plenty of words of pleasure at the scariness of that moment. All the kids were proud that they were brave enough to visit the “Haunted House” and got a giant candy bar. A giant candy bar reward for knowing the difference between real and fantasy. A trick pulled, they weren’t fooled, and they got the treat. My pumpkin pail of candy suddenly felt light. I am sure it had at least one hundred pieces of candy in it. But it still felt light. I dumped my pieces on my bed and did count past one hundred. (I was a little shrimpy scaredy cat- but I could still count) The sweet smell of treats soon served as a pleasurable air freshener for my room. I heard my brother say- “This candy bar is a foot long!”

I put every piece back in my pumpkin and got dressed for bed. That night, the safest place in the world was under the covers in my room. There, I was no longer a scaredy cat but a tired little girl.

The next day, we drove down Sandford Street on our way to the grocery store. I pressed my face against the car window – looking carefully at each house. The car reached the end of the street. In the daylight, I saw that last house. The house with the werewolf and the foot long candy bars. The house that was so dark I didn’t even know what color it was. The house in the daylight was brown. At the mailbox was a lady with glasses smiling and waving.

Getting a year older around Halloween was rough. Knowing reality beyond the trick was more than I could handle. It takes more than bravery to train the imagination to control itself. It takes much to convince the seer not to believe everything they see. It takes a real grown up to believe in something that is beyond what we see. 40 Halloweens later and a year older again, I am still growing up.