Thirsty

The age old expression "Kids say the darnedest things" has the tendency to be an understatement in my family. Before Pres was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome a little under a year ago, one of the most telling symptoms was his seeming complete lack of a social filter. He says what he's thinking at any given moment, regardless of the situation. And he only has one volume: LOUD.

At seven years old, most children his age have at least some reservations about blurting things out in public. I've seen it in his in his peers and cousins and often wondered why Pres was so unable to hold his tongue. But my son, God bless him, is the one who shouts to his father across the crowded swimming pool, "DAD! That guy next to you only has ONE ARM! Where is his other arm, Dad?! He's throwing a ball with that kid and catching it with his ONE HAND! What happened to him?! Gross!"

He's also the kid who turns to the booth behind us at our favorite Mexican restaurant and asks incredulously, "WHY are those two people so FAT?! They really shouldn't eat so much!"

As a parent, it's not easy to recover from these situations. I embarrass very easily, which is why I am rarely the first to speak in social situations. I was the meekest, quietest wallflower of a child growing up and not much has changed with age. Presley's faux pas drag so harshly against my grain that most days I'm convinced there's no way we share the same DNA. The disgusted glares from anyone within earshot only exacerbate my speechlessness and rather than taking the time to explain that he has a form of Autism, I bury my red face in my hands and shuffle away as quickly as possible, mumbling apologies as I go.

This week is Spring Break, so a friend and I took our collective brood of little boys to the Great Plains Mall to burn off some energy at their indoor playground. It was very crowded because apparently everyone else had the same rainy-day idea, and the large circular enclosure was packed with 20 to 30 families. Widely diverse families.

I will preface the following series of events by saying that I take great pride in my family's "Celebrate Differences" philosophy. We live in a predominantly white neighborhood and Pres therefore attends a predominantly white school, but my husband and I find opportunities as often as possible to teach our children about diversity in all forms. Color, size, culture, language, disabilities, etc. We try. Really.

After two hours of the boys running, jumping, tackling, and sweating buckets, it was time to pack up and leave the play area. I rallied Pres over and he promptly grabbed his Gatorade from our belongings. He took a swig, wiped his mouth, smacked his lips and proclaimed, loud enough for ALL to hear, "Ahhh! I'm as thirsty as an African-American!"

My heart fell to my stomach.

What. Did. He. Just. Say? What does that even mean?! Surely I heard him wrong.

Cautiously, in a tiny, dry whisper, "...what?"

"I am! I'm as thirsty as an African-American!"

At this point, people are looking. My friend's eyes are wide and she's covering her mouth, turning away to hide her laughter. I wanted to spontaneously combust and die on the spot. He said it so confidently! As if he knew exactly what he was talking about. Then I remembered our recent discussions about the starving children in Africa, and how so many people throughout the world have no clean water to drink. I figured this must be what he was talking about, a misplaced memory in his complicated little mind. So I explained to him, "Honey, you're referring to Africans. In Africa, where they're thirsty because of lack of water. Not African-Americans, who live here in the US."

He looked right at me and shook his head. "NO, I'm not. I mean I'm thirsty like BROWN people!"

It's going to be a long time before I show my face at the mall again.

Poo Done It?

When my seven-year-old son does something he's not supposed to, I usually don't have to worry about him covering up the evidence, leaving me to find out about it later. Rather, and much to my amusement, he tends to give himself away at the first opportunity.

"Mom, I accidentally yanked a toy that I wanted out of my baby brother's hands and now he's crying."

"Mommy, somehow my milk spilled on the floor when I was pretending to shoot it from mouth like a human water fountain."

"Mama, that new bottle of shampoo got all used up while I was in the shower. Oh, and the tiles are all really shiny and smell nice now."

It's always so hard to keep my Mom Face on when I'm compelled to giggle at his hilariously strange defense mechanisms. It's like he tries to point out the problem before I find out on my own, because the one who draws attention to it couldn't possibly be the culprit. Right?

This conversation actually took place tonight.

P: Mom? Did you poo today?

Me: Umm... What?!

P: Did you poo today?

Me: I didn't, actually. But why in the world are you asking?

P: Well, I just went poo a second ago. And when I stood up, there was some brown stuff smeared on the toilet seat. I didn't do it! I'm just letting you know that it's there. And it's gross. That's gross, Mom.

Me: *blink* Son. You're the only one in this house that's gone today. Not to mention that the toilet was clean right before you sat on it! Who else could've possibly been the offender?

He then opened his mouth to respond, but instead just stood there looking at me, trying desperately to find a flaw in my logic. Anything to clear his name. I could see the little wheels turning for full minute, while I sat back and concealed my smile.

He narrowed his eyes and jutted out his lower lip. "I still say it was you."

The "C" Word

My precocious Kindergartener asked me one morning as we climbed into the car for school, "Hey, Mom? What's that one bad word?" I looked back at him from the driver's seat, eyeing him cautiously.

He looked back with his little eyebrows raised. "Well?"

We have a fairly strict language policy in our house. Words like stupid and freaking are off limits, and I'm confident that he's never heard me utter a single curse in his entire six years. With this reasoning in mind, I wasn't overly concerned at his curiosity on this particular morning.

Still, I chose my words carefully. Hoping that redirection might allow me to deflect the subject entirely, I replied, "I'm not sure, honey. What's on the schedule today at school? Do you have P.E. or Music?"

He scoffed. "Moooooom-uh. Just TELL me. You know which word. It starts with a C."

I quickly turned back around and put the key in the ignition, fighting back a giggle. I knew from experience that his level of curiosity would raise in triple proportion to the emotion behind my response . My diversion tactics were not lost on him, not even for a moment. Smart little bugger. And I would certainly have a bone to pick with my husband, who will admit he is much more loose-lipped than I in the way of curse words. Great, I mused. He's taught our son the word Crap, and I am left to clean up the mess.

I had to think fast. Pulling out of the garage, I assessed that I had exactly two and a half blocks to either buy myself some time, or dissolve the issue. Only one idea came to mind: Play dumb.

"I'm sorry, buddy, but I really don't know which word you're referring to. You'll have to ask your dad tonight. Somehow, I'm sure he knows."

It was perfect. Not only did I wiggle my way out of an answer, but my husband would feel like a total shmuck as we sat down to dinner that evening and I opened with, "So, honey. Our son has something to ask you." Two birds, one stone.*


And that is where things went terribly wrong.


"I already asked Dad yesterday! He told me I had to ask YOU, because you're the smarter one and you always have the answers. C'mon, Mom. You know the bad word. It starts with a C, and it's something only girls have."

In that moment, my heart dropped. Not into my stomach. Not onto the floor. It dropped straight through the earth, came out the other side (presumably somewhere in China), and kept right on going into oblivion. Something only girls have?! Oh, God! How could my sweet, innocent little boy have been subjected to this vile word? And what could I say to him?

My pulse was racing. Sweat was prickling at my temples. The school was nearly in view, and I knew that if I didn't have a suitable answer for him, he'd ask his teacher. Probably in the only volume he knows how to use at six years old (LOUD), and probably in front of the entire class. A wave of nausea overtook me as I imagined the phone call I'd get from the principal shortly after dropping him off. My son's walk of shame to the front office would surely be the catalyst for a string of offenses to come. Soon he'd be beating kids up in the hallways, smoking in the boys room, skipping school. My firstborn son would be a delinquent. A gangbanger. An Irish mafia member. He'd be in prison for petty crimes by the time he's 17. So this is it, I thought. This is the beginning of the end.

As we entered the circular drive at the front of the school, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, I searched desperately for the right parting words: Please don't mention the "C" word to your teacher today? That would only result in a long round of the Why Game, which we obviously had no time for with the morning bell only two minutes away, and he would still end up asking her anyway. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see his little brow furrowed with the strain of trying to remember the terrible word, trapped somewhere in his recent memory. I was resigned. Defeated. I pulled up to the curb and took one last lingering look back at my son, the future inmate.

"I love you, bub. I hope you have a wonderful day at school."

"I love you, too, Mommy. OH!! I remembered the word!"

The blood drained from my lips, and I squeaked through clenched teeth, "Oh?"

"Yep! COOTIES!"


* Yes, we are normal parents and play those twisted games, just like the rest of you.