Taking the Good with the Bad

This morning the school bus didn’t show up. Well, it did show up, but an hour and a half late. By then, I’d already packed up Kiddo and driven him to school. During the ride he was crying. He said he was sad. He told me he was having a bad day. 

Something as insignificant as a late (or no-show) bus has a huge impact on my son. An abrupt change in routine is akin to an earthquake in his carefully ordered world. Things are thrown off-kilter, and it is hard for him to recover from that. 

It took some effort for your not-so-friendly neighborhood Momzilla to offer condolences and gentle words to her confused child. Not because I didn’t feel and sympathize with his pain, but because I felt more inclined to make phone calls and pour some abusive epithets into the guilty party’s ear. I’m ugly like that when someone makes my kid cry. 

Kiddo had calmed down by the time we got to school, thank heavens. At least the tears were done. I walked him down the hall swarming with kids and other parents to his classroom.  

That’s where the blessing in disguise revealed itself. 

The class was just getting started. As my son entered the room, twenty-some heads turned to look at him. Suddenly, the air rang with glad welcomes. Faces broke out in smiles to see Kiddo was with them. Hands rose like a forest to offer high-fives. The cute little redhaired girl I’ve picked as my future daughter-in-law jumped up to give Jacob a hug. He was greeted like a long-lost friend even though they’d seen him just yesterday. 

I thought my heart might explode. My child, who had started the day in tears, grinned from ear-to-ear to see his classmates. He walked a gauntlet of kids who were happy to have him among them.  

News and social media are full of reports of special needs kids being bullied and victimized. I’ve almost accepted it as a given that this is the world Kiddo faces. I’m waiting for the day when something goes horribly wrong because someone feels they can hurt a child who is different. I’m expecting the worst long before hoping for the best. 

Today, I got a dose of hope. Thanks to irresponsible adults who didn’t have a backup for a sick bus driver who couldn’t make it to work, I got to see a miracle. I saw some terrific kids who not only accept my son, but delight in him though he thinks and acts differently from them. I got to see that at this time, my child does have a safe place where he is literally welcomed with open arms. Was it worth a few tears? That remains debatable. For now however, I’m smiling as big as my son did when he walked into that classroom filled with friends.

Ladies Man

It’s far too often that I read of kids with autism being bullied by others. It makes everything inside me clench to know the victims of such unwarranted attacks could easily be my son and my friends’ children who are not neuro-typical.

Yet Kiddo thus far has led a charmed life. Sometimes I’ve noted children on the playground who don’t quite understand his behaviors. For the most part they’ll give him an odd look and leave him alone. However, there are a few occasions when a child is more fascinated than put off. They’ll go to lengths to break through and get J-man to play with them in some way. It’s nice to see kids that age can let their hearts lead.

It helps that Kiddo has his moments when he wants to reach out to people. He has a particular affinity for girls and women. Boy, does he have an affinity.

I think he was three years old that one day we went to the beach to soak in the warm March sun. Kiddo loves the ocean, jumping and splashing his heart out in the waves. This day was no different. With Hubs and I nearby in case our fearless adventurer decided to strike out for open water ... which is a big temptation for him ... he was soon soggy and sandy.

Spring break was in full swing. The Golden Isles of Georgia are certainly not ground zero for wild frat boys and drunken coeds. We’ll never be Ft. Lauderdale, thank the merciful heavens. But we do get a few Breakers in our area, looking for a place to quietly soak in sand and surf.

It was no surprise to see a line of about half a dozen bikini-clad coeds sauntering down the beach. Lovely young sun-bronzed goddesses, they chattered and laughed about whatever it is young people laugh about. (I’m too old to remember. Did we laugh in my day? Had laughter been invented yet?)

Kiddo spotted them as he wallowed in the water. His eyes lit up. I suppose he felt rather debonair in his Go Diego trunks, because he immediately jumped to his feet and took off running to greet the goddesses.

Zeroing in on the middle of the line, he held his arms up to be picked up by the startled lovely. She didn’t pick up his soaked, gritty little body, but she and her friends did cluster around him, oohing and aahing over the cute little tike. He won hearts that day.

He’s still winning hearts, but now it’s those of a more age-appropriate level. He’s less into snaring barely clad cougars now that he’s in the company of girls around his general height. At our last conference, his teacher chuckled over how Kiddo is always surrounded by the cream of the 2nd grade crop on the playground. “The girls love him,” she said.

I used to swear up and down no woman would be good enough for her precious son. Oh yes, I fully planned to be 'that mom', judging my adored progeny’s potential mates. I knew I would find them all wanting.

 

This...

 

 

...and this.

 

It turns out I was wrong. When we joined Kiddo for his school’s Thanksgiving lunch, I met the daughter-in-law of my dreams. So what if she’s still only eight? Arranged marriages are still legal, right? 

Ah, there she sat with her slab of turkey-ish meat drowning in the second or third-finest gravy from a jar, a carton of white milk at hand. The little adorable redhead at my son’s side watched him carefully as he pushed aside the fluorescent orange round of yam in favor of the dinner roll. I learned Red always stuck with Kiddo for lunch and playground. She dotes on my boy. She cares for him. She looks out for him. She is perfect for him. 

But what is this? The teacher tells me that lately there is another little lady love giving Red some hefty competition for my son’s affections. Now he has two of them vying to be his grade school sweetheart. Romper Room Romeo is reeling them in, apparently. Hubby’s chest puffs out as he grins. “That’s my boy.” When I mention the girls’ names, Kiddo just smiles and ducks his head. He’s not talking about his conquests. “Stop it, Mommy,” I am warned. 

Far from being picked on for his differences, Kiddo is somehow charming himself a harem. It gives me real hope for his future ... no, not that he'll convert to some polygamous cult. I have hope that others will accept him for who he is. That they’ll even like him for who he is, rather than just tolerate him in spite of his challenges. He has a real chance for friends, allies, and defenders. 

Meanwhile, I need to discuss wedding plans with frontrunner Red’s mom. No sense in waiting until the last moment when you have a sure thing.

What Ya Got Cookin’?

Let’s face it. I’m not going to live forever. The world can barely handle a mere lifetime’s worth of me as it is, so that’s a good thing overall.  

However, it worries me as the parent of a special needs child. At some point Kiddo will have to brave this world on his own. That’s why I’m such a crazed fiend when it comes to teaching him basic life skills. Choosing clothes to wear, putting laundry away, clearing his place at the table ... stuff parents of neuro-typical (NT) children take for granted ... well it takes some doing in the Jock household. Every chance I get, I’m shoving some learning-based project down the poor boy’s throat. 

And speaking of shoving stuff down his throat... 

Cooking his own lunch has become Kiddo’s Saturday project for the last few weeks. He’s pretty good at pouring his own juice now, and he’s been popping waffles in the toaster for breakfast for months. Because my life isn’t complicated enough (ha!) I thought we might be ready to step it up a notch. 

Two reasons for getting my son into the kitchen to cook. First, the aforementioned life skill thing. Child cannot live by waffle alone. Second, like many kids with autism, Jacob is limited in what he will eat. Textures, the look, and the taste all come into play when it comes to what he will and will not shove into his mouth. Apparently the television remote is delicious, because he is always chewing on that. If plastic was a food group, we’d be in good shape. 

Alas, it is not. So in my attempt to get Kiddo to eat more of what Mommy and Daddy like to eat (that would be everything for us hogs), I thought cooking his own food would encourage the boy to expand his taste buds. 

I found an amazing weapon to wield in this new battlefront. Special Day Cooking: A Life Skills Cookbook was written specifically for kids with developmental challenges. It offers safe to prepare, quick, and easy to follow recipes. I nearly did a back flip when I found this treasure, available from http://specialdaycooking.com/. 

I can’t say enough about this book. Implementing just the toaster and microwave for cooking, kids can prepare all sorts of yummy meals and snacks for themselves. Kiddo started off with English muffin pizzas. He’s also made scrambled cheesy eggs and bacon, among other things. He’s so proud of himself as he takes his plate to the table and eats food he made. He’s even building on the recipes, adding ingredients he likes. I admit to bursts of unadulterated glee as I watch him create and enjoy the end result of his efforts. I can tell he gets a thrill out of it himself. 

It’s not gourmet food by any means. It’s something much better. It’s one less reason for me to worry when the time comes for me to exit the mortal coil. Kiddo may not have figured out the bathing thing quite yet, but at least he’ll have a full stomach while wallowing in his own stench.

Rewards: They’re Habit-Forming

I do not claim to be a great parent. Some days, I barely qualify to be sentient, and quality parenting goes right out of the window. I think we all have those days.

 

 

However, I do try. Bringing up Kiddo means preparing him for the future. In the case of a special needs child, we have a few more challenges than others face. I’ve written on the difficulties of instilling manners. Having my Wild One express anger and frustration in ways that don’t compromise his safety and our big screen television has been a struggle. Potty training happened late in the game.

Hubs and I have gone the usual route. Behavior that Kiddo knows is not tolerated and yet he insists on doing anyway is punished. Video games and much-loved toys are denied. That usually helps him snap back into darling mode. He’ll do just about anything to get his X-box back. Even behave.

 

 

If I’m really desperate, I turn to manipulation. I tell Kiddo his behavior makes me angry. Even worse is when I tell him it makes me sad. Because people with autism are profoundly empathetic in most cases, there couldn’t be anything worse than him imagining feeling sad. Please note, I only go this route when things have escalated into ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go to get this child to behave’ mode. I hate manipulating my kid.

 

Even though certain moments really do bring the tears.

 

When it comes to teaching new good-habit forming behaviors, a reward system has turned out to be my best ally. It’s a wallet-emptying practice with my kid, but the investment has been more than worth it. For example, it was extremely difficult to break Kiddo of overnight wetting. We were pretty sure he had the means, but not the will. Like many children, on the spectrum and off, you have to make it worth their while to switch a behavior they’re not bothered by. Autism had J-man extremely set in his ways. We had to make it REALLY worth his while to stop wearing overnight diapers. 

At the time, my son was enamored with Angry Birds. He played the games as much as we would let him. Those games made no bones about offering upgrades for a price...a sometimes hefty price. He wanted those upgrades. He begged and pleaded for them. He just had to have them. 

We saw an opportunity. We waved goodbye to our savings account and took it. Each night Kiddo didn’t have an accident, he earned an Angry Bird upgrade. It was an instant hit. Within two weeks, his underwear was dry every morning and I hear the Angry Birds bought a new vacation home in the Bahamas.

 

They got a few of the real thing from us. I wish I was kidding.

 We figured the money we spent balanced out with the money we saved not buying overnight diapers. Even when Upgrade-a-Palooza was over, the habit had been formed. Kiddo has not had an accident in over a year. 

I’ve begun applying the reward system in other areas of his life. His new passion is the line of toys called Switch-N-Go Dinos. He has a chart on the fridge that allows him to earn points towards these toys. Saying ‘please’ consistently has already gotten him his first reward...and we’re having to remind him to say it a lot less now. Life skill habit instilled. He now makes sure his toys and underwear are picked up at the end of each day, working hard to get that next dino. Not shouting and throwing things in anger is proving a little more difficult to accomplish, but he’s working on it. 

Okay, so we can call this what it is: bribery. However, I have no problem rewarding, perhaps overly much, in my crusade to teach Kiddo how he can best get along in a world that looks at behavioral differences with not so generous eyes. Society is slow to change when it comes to accommodating unseen disabilities, so we have to prompt our son to adjust to society. With empty bank account and dinosaurs that turn into vehicles in hand, I do what I must. 

Mr. Manners

A new war has broken out in my household. It’s one I think all parents have faced at one time or another. Or maybe you’ve faced it two times ... or twenty. I think I’m up to Fracas Number Forty-Two.  

Teaching a child to consistently apply manners in his everyday interactions is a daunting task. I think I’d rather face smelly Tamara-eating trolls. Or Lord Voldemort teamed with Sauron and Megatron. Or my housework ... and honey, you know I don’t do housework. 

We go through brief snatches of time when Kiddo remembers he should be polite and grateful for gifts, clothing, food, and the fact that Mommy isn’t on top of the roof pouring cauldrons of boiling pitch on those strange people who drive a truck around the neighborhood selling meat. Yes, that is a thing here in Brunswick, Georgia. I don’t know when door-to-door meat salesmen became the next great wave in entrepreneurship, but it needs to stop. I do not buy steaks out of the back of a Chevy Silverado or even a Ford F-150. I do not buy it from people who look like they might have gathered said meat from the sides and surfaces of the roads. I sincerely pray no one does. If you’re that desperate for a meal, give me a call and I’ll bring you a casserole. 

But back to good manners. Kiddo has them once in a great while. Right now it appears that he has lost them to whatever gremlin runs about stealing a child’s natural angelic sensibilities and my sanity. Each time he descends into a new round of rudeness, he does so with increasingly brow-raising results.

 

Heard in my house in the last week: 

“Move!” 

“Give me cookies.” 

“Go away.” 

“I won’t do it!” 

“No!” 

“Chocolate. NOW.” 

Okay, that last one was me. I never claimed to be Miss Manners myself. Plus I really do want chocolate right now and forever. 

Once more, polite utterances of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘excuse me’ have made their exit from my child’s store of speech. He knows better. He even occasionally remembers better when I give him my now-patented stare of ‘Sh!t’s About To Get Real All Over You’ (soon to be available through Amazon and other fine retailers for only $14.99). 

Yes, it’s irksome. Yes, it makes me wonder if I’m raising a feral savage or future pro wrestler, two stomach-churning possibilities. But I also remember a time when I would have given anything to hear my son respond to a question with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. That he does so now – often at the top of his lungs with his own kid’s patented stare of ‘Sh!t’s About To Get Real All Over You’ (soon to be available through Toys ‘R Us and other fine retailers for only fifty cents and a sticky handful of gummi worms) – is something of a blessing.  

Autism can steal a child’s voice. For a long time, it hoarded Kiddo’s. He spoke early, but it was only to mimic phrases and sentences he’d heard. Interactive speech and actual conversations were impossible for some time. That he can tell me some of what is on his mind now – even if it’s a grouchy snarl of “Move!” as he shoves past me to get at something he wants – is a blessing. As is knowing that he is capable of those precious manners. Someday he will appreciate them as they help him fit into and survive a world that all too often gives no quarter to those with special needs. Knowing that he will be able to shout “No thank you!” to purveyors of questionable meat at his doorstep fills me with joy and relief.

Meet Me in the Middle

People are funny, but not always in a humorous fashion. I’ve seen a lot of interesting reactions to Kiddo when it comes to his autism. There are two extremes: one that drives me up the wall, and another that makes my husband want to take up golfing just so he can club people.

My issue: the people who look at a child and assume that just because he/she is having a tantrum in public, he/she should be beaten into good behavior. Let’s break this down.

First, all children are going to have a bad day from time to time, and yes, they are going to do it in public. It’s inescapable. Kids are kids. Even the best behaved ones are going to melt down and become little terrors that make the parents want to crawl away and hide behind the 20-pound bags of dog food in the pet food aisle.

 

 

See how fast Daddy can run away!

 

Kids on the spectrum have it even worse. First of all, stores can be loud. There’s a lot to process visually. It can be overwhelming for an autistic kid to try and figure out everything going on around him. However, Kiddo’s sudden descent into wailing and screaming is no worse than any other child’s. It just happens more frequently. 

 

Full-on freak out in T-minus 3 seconds...

 

So I really don’t get it when adults, particularly ones with children of their own, give that disapproving look during a scream-a-thon. They level it at Kiddo and then at me, as if I’m some sort of criminal for not making my child behave better. As if I said, “Okay child of my loins and inheritor of the dystopia I plan to sow...when we get into the most crowded part of the store, make sure you lose your mind and shatter the unsuspecting public’s eardrums.”

Then you get the real winners of the bunch.

 

 

You touch my child, and YOU won’t walk for a week. It’s called defending my special needs kid.

 

I don’t care that my child looks neuro-typical and you can’t tell he’s on the spectrum. Just because you can’t see a disability doesn’t mean it’s not there. This is called compassion. YOU should try it.

Then there’s Hubs’ peeve: the overly sympathetic people who want to know all about our child. You know this type; they act concerned just to find out why the kid acts that way. 

This particular animal came out to sniff the air the last time Kiddo got his hair cut. It wore the distinctive camouflage of Nosy Old Lady. As we waited for my son’s turn in the barber’s chair, he sat on my lap. He chattered happily, though nonsensically, about whatever was playing in his head. The woman sitting two chairs away turned and sized him up. 

“Hello,” she said in syrupy sweet tones. “How old are you?” 

Kiddo was in his own little world, so I nudged him. This was, after all, an opportunity for him to practice interaction. It’s unwanted but useful, so I played along. “The lady wants to know how old you are.” 

After a little more prodding, he finally admitted to being eight. On the other side of me, Hubs’ lips are set in a tight line. 

Old Lady is really staring at Kiddo now. “What grade are you in?” 

Hubs is turning red. I ask the question a few more times, because my son is deep into his world and doesn’t want to be a part of this boring conversation. At last he sighs and says, “Second grade.”

Fortunately, the time has come for that haircut. The Inquisition is over.

However, Hubs is still seething afterward in the car. “I hate that. They know he’s different and keep doing their best to find out what’s going on. When you finally tell them ‘autism’ they light up like they just won a contest and say, “I knew it!”

 

Following Price is Right, win a new car on Guess That Disorder!

 

He’s right about such people. You’d think they’d just gotten their medical degree by figuring out Kiddo is on the spectrum.

 

Four out of five real doctors agree such people are asshats.

 

Look folks, it’s not that hard to deal with a special needs person. First of all, it’s not your place to judge anyone unless you’ve wield a gavel and wear a robe to work. Even then, you shouldn’t do your job outside the courtroom. If you can’t help but judge, keep it to yourself. If you still feel the urge to share your unwanted opinion, think of the kid (or his foul-tempered mother) as a big, strong guy who enjoys stomping others as a hobby. Ask yourself if you’d run your mouth at him.

 

 

This is my inner man. He will hurt you.

 

On the other side of the coin, don’t play like you really care about my child when all you want to do is satisfy your curiosity. I’m not grilling you on how old you are and what you want to be when you grow up (since maturity has still apparently not happened). Don’t interrogate my child in the hopes you can figure out why he’s talking gibberish at the moment. It’s rude.  

How does one treat others, particularly those with challenges? With the same respect you would want to be treated with. With the same sympathy you wish for when your kids or grandkids are having a trying moment in public. With the same regard you expect when you’re not at your best. With the compassion that should be there simply because we’re all in this together. 

See? Not so hard after all.

Hide-and-Go-Eat

As most parents know, vegetables are profane objects to kids. Jokes about getting them to eat broccoli and cauliflower have probably been around since God was a kid.  

Enter the child with autism who not only despises vegetables but also has a heightened sensitivity to textures. Oh joy. Now you’re talking the Battle of Dinner. 

I love the parents who say, “Let them go hungry. After a little while, self-preservation will take over and he’ll eat.” Oh, you are so cute when you’re condescending. Let me pinch your cheeks, you adorable naive creature. 

Let me clear up something right off the top here: my kid will starve to death before putting a food he doesn’t readily identify and like in his mouth. I am not exaggerating (for once). Animal instinct will not overpower his incredible sensitivity to taste and texture.  

Unfortunately, the vast majority of foods I can get the little fiend to unclamp his jaws for are nowhere to be found in the nutritional column. If given the opportunity, Kiddo would live on hot dogs, corn dogs, cheeseburgers, Kraft Mac ‘N Cheese, and PBJ sandwiches. This is his menu, along with anything that contains a pound of sugar. 

This calls for a little ingenuity on my part. Thank goodness, because a little ingenuity is about all I have. I have learned to hide nutritional items in the most non-nutritional creations posing as food. I smuggle in vegetables like a James Bond villain making off with plutonium to destroy the planet. 

Some things are easy to get away with. Gummi vitamins, for instance. What sugar-dependent kid can resist? Shoring up my son’s main diet of mystery meat and high-fructose corn syrup is the multivitamin that, yes, is also half candy.  

My second simple trick is V-8 Fusion juice. A serving of fruit AND vegetables in each cup? Oh yes, indeed. Sure it’s got mystery chemicals galore in there, but he’s already a walking scientific experiment after inhaling all those hot dogs. It can’t get any worse. Maybe he’ll even mutate into a cool superhero one day, and I’ll get free passes to Comic Con. 

From that point, it’s time to get crafty. I’ve convinced the child that white flour is a bizarre legend, and that such a creation is evil if it does indeed exist. All those gazillions of PBJ’s are made on whole-grain bread. He picks all the seeds and grains out, but I know some slip past. Bwa-ha-ha-ha. I win. 

My other big go-to is baby food. No, he won’t eat it...knowingly. However, I’ve discovered that the sweet potato ooze has little flavor. Mix it in with the other funky ooze of packaged mac ‘n cheese, and Kiddo doesn’t know the difference. He doesn’t have a clue! I win again. 

Every time I figure out how to get a veggie past Mr. Pre-Packaged Nitrates is a reason to celebrate. If I had the time and energy, I could probably take over the world. It takes Evil Mastermind levels to stir pureed plant matter into concoctions without being caught by that kid. It’s like he’s got some kind of anti-healthy food alert that starts pinging the moment I add something good for him into his meals. He appears at my elbow, staring suspiciously at the food I’ve doctored only seconds before. It’s an ongoing game of cat-and-mouse. It’s reached the point that I often have visions of him strapped to a table while I approach with plate and fork. 

“So Mother, do you expect me to talk?” 

“No my child. I expect you to dine.”

Autism is Not an Illness

A Facebook status has been making the rounds lately, posted by the well-meaning folks who want to show how much they care about others who suffer quietly.  It reads as follows: 

“Hard to explain to someone who has no clue. It's a daily struggle being in pain or feeling sick on the inside while you look fine on the outside. Please put this as your status for at least 1 hour if you or someone you know has an invisible illness: addiction, crohn's, ptsd, anxiety, bipolar, depression, diabetes, lupus, fibromyalgia, multiple sclerosis, ME, Arthritis, Cancer, Heart Disease, Epilepsy, Autism, M.D., Histiocytosis etc. Never judge what you don't understand, I know which of my friends will copy and paste.” 

Now, I completely understand the kind sentiment behind this statement.  And I appreciate that some people do care about those who are suffering from some ‘invisible’ issue that makes life difficult.  But at the same time, this status infuriates me and my husband because it lists autism as an illness. 

Autism is not an illness.  As defined on the PubMed Health site, it is “... a developmental disorder that appears in the first 3 years of life, and affects the brain's normal development of social and communication skills ... Autism is a physical condition linked to abnormal biology and chemistry in the brain.” 

Autism also often means extreme sensitivity to one’s environment.  Loud noises, chaotic visuals like a crowded store, and the feeling of certain textures can drive someone who is on the autism spectrum into overload. 

As the parent of a child with autism, I am perhaps more concerned with the proper definition than most.  The issue for me is the immense amount of misinformation out there.  And when that lack of accuracy continually presents itself over and over, it drives me up the wall. 

Those with autism are not contagious.  They are not suffering a malady that came from nowhere.  They are not ailing.  They were born this way, with a brain wired differently from the neuro-typical human.  And while it is a daily struggle for them to connect with a world that often doesn’t understand them, they are not ill. 

My six year old is a gifted boy with talents in art, singing, and mechanics.  His grasp of reading and math is ahead of most of his peers.  Yes, he deals with frustration by screaming.  His ability to talk to others in an interactive manner is limited.  He operates on pure impulse much of the time, which he has no control over.  But I wouldn’t change him or ‘cure’ him for all the world, because he is perfect.  Do I wish he had an easier life?  Of course.  Do I worry he will be ostracized by a society because he is the square peg trying to fit into its round holes?  Absolutely.  But he is such a unique, amazing person that I can’t imagine him any different than he is.  I trust that he will overcome his challenges in time, as most of us must, and he will be stronger for it. 

He is not sick, and putting him and others like him in that category is harmful to their self-esteem.  People with autism are not ill.  They simply deserve kindness and patience, as we all do.  If you must comment on people on the spectrum, please educate yourselves about them before you do so.  The greatest kindness you can do for those with development disorders is to not share incorrect information about them.  You may have noble intentions, but without knowing what you’re talking about, you are doing more harm than good.

Creating the (Almost) Alien with Asperger’s

I’ve been working hard on a follow-up to my sci-fi novel The Willow and the Stone.  Willow in the Desert picks up two years after the first book’s events, complete with characters familiar and new.

One of the new characters is Gordon, a man infected with the changes that turns humans into their alien enemies.  Rescued from one of the Old Ones’ Pyramids, he now fights at the side of returning heroes Leo and Carli Black Elk.

Gordon is a hero near and dear to my heart.  He has Asperger’s, a disorder considered by many in the medical community as being part of the autism spectrum.  As the mother of a child with autism and being suspected of having Asperger’s myself, I wanted to create someone who faces the challenges I see every day.  Gordon is based on the experiences I and my child have had, as well as others who cope with the obstacles we’re presented with. 

He doesn’t remember faces or names well.  He doesn’t always pick up on the feelings of others.  He hates looking people in the eyes.  He’s incredibly gifted with engineering know-how that sometimes intimidates others.  He gets stressed easily in new situations, almost to the point where he doesn’t function well.  His quirks sometimes drive others away.

He also has a crush on a woman, wants to make friends, and wishes to be of help to the embattled humans he still counts himself one of.  Despite the changes forever altering him and stealing his humanity, Gordon proves himself valuable to the leaders of the revolt against the Old Ones.  And he does it despite being a minority in a neurotypical society that doesn’t always understand why he acts the way he does.  In the end, despite his Asperger’s Gordon is simply another person, getting along as best he can … and because of the talents he brings, he often does it better than many of the so-called ‘normal’ people.

We’re all gifted in some fashion.  Some of us just need the rest to look a little harder to discover what we offer.  I think Gordon showed up to not only contribute a great character to a story, but to help others see the value in those affected by spectrum disorders.