One of the many talents children with Asperger's Syndrome posses is clinically referred to as "parallel play" or, the ability to play alone, even when in the midst of a crowd of their peers, and to be quite content doing so.
Such is the case with my son.
When he was in elementary school, I didn't recognize this as a talent or an asset. Instead, I made several attempts to place him in situations that would force him to integrate with his classmates.
Christopher is the fourth of five boys. Following in his brothers' foot steps, I enrolled him in Cub Scouts. While he made it all the way through the program, from Tiger to Webelos, he didn't make a single friend with any of the scouts in his den. As I watched the other boys make connections, arrange play dates and become fast friends, I saw Christopher simply existing amongst them, not able or seemingly interested in forging any bonds.
Participating in teams sports held some promise. After all, he did enjoy kicking the soccer ball around the backyard. But, like Ferdinand the Bull, he stood on the field, oblivious to the fact that there was a game going on around him. His career in soccer lasted one season.
Meanwhile, as his older brothers reached middle school, they joined the cross-country team and loved it. We all seemed to get sucked into the rhythm and revelry of the short, but vibrant season. Shunning the crowd, Christopher would do his part by joining his dad at the finish line where he would help hand out water bottles and time cards to the runners as they crossed the finish line.
When he entered the 6th grade, Christopher was eligible to join the team and reluctantly agreed to try it--once. After that first practice session, though, he was unable to shake the self-imposed pressure he felt to perform.
Eager as we were to have him tread in his older siblings' well-heeled footsteps, we recognized that he just wasn't ready.
"Maybe next year," we thought and hoped.
When 6th grade ended, like his peers, he looked forward to summer break--a time to recharge his batteries. His oldest brother, however, had other plans, seizing the opportunity to "get some miles on his legs." Hitting either the nearby college track or the local nature path just about every day, Christopher ran alongside his brother, steadily increasing his endurance, if not his speed.
With his new school year just weeks away, we again raised the possibility of joining the team, asking him if he would like to give cross-country a go.
We assured him our only expectation was that he do his best. After much hand-wringing, he agreed. When his brothers suggested that he set some goals for the season, he came up with one--finish each race.
The season got off to a quick start. After only two practices with the team, he found himself lining up with the rest of the 6th and 7th grade boys at his first meet. No interaction was required, but not sure what to do with the strange mix of nervousness and excitement that he was feeling, he stood twirling a curl that hung at his forehead--a favorite soothing gesture.
We hung back, hoping for the best, and watched as the first clump of boys darted past in a blur.
"Where's Christopher?" we wondered. My first thought was that he pulled himself out of the race. I hiked the video bag over my shoulder and was about to set out to find him when we saw him making the first turn, shuffling along. A relieved laugh escaped me. There he was--the little engine that could.
Lap after lap, same thing. The first clump would rush by and several minutes later Christopher would amble by, alone.
At the finish line, the fastest blew through, victorious. One by one, the rest followed, winded and sweaty. With much of the last lap hidden from view behind trees and bushes, we were left to wait and wonder. Where is he? Will he finish?
We didn't have to wait long. In the distance, we saw the red sleeves of the t-shirt he had worn under his jersey as it slowly approached.
As he approached the shoot, the cheers started--not just from us, his parents and little brother, but from other parents and members of his team who had already finished.
Maybe it was the physical exertion. Maybe it was the sudden attention. Or, maybe it was the yelling that to him, unable to discern the emotion behind it, was just too loud. Whatever it was, it brought tears to his eyes as he crossed the finish line.
His official time hovered right around 25 minutes. He didn't see the smiles that were big enough to crack our cheeks. He didn't see our own tears that we blinked back as he approached.
He just wanted to go home.
After he cooled down, though, it began to soak in. He did it. He ran a race and he finished. Maybe running wasn't so bad after all. Maybe he wasn't so different after all.
Every race since then, his time improved substantially. Clocking in at just over 17 minutes for his last finish, his self-esteem and confidence were never higher.
Having just started his 8th grade season, Christopher has set a new goal--encouraging other special-needs classmates to join him. As he explained to his coach, "They don't know what they're missing."
Barb Valentin - Barb is a freelance writer and over-scheduled, but blissful mom of five boys, one of whom is special needs.
