They say conversation is an art. My seven-year-old thinks it’s a bitch.
In an ongoing effort to help Tyler to improve his social skills, his therapist recommended we practice communicating. Each day I think up a topic for discussion, and his job is to come up with comments and questions throughout. We toss a ball back and forth with every exchange. It’s a way to keep the conversation rolling, so to speak.
Yesterday’s talk was somewhat typical. I decided to tell him about how I almost lost Clarabelle the Cat, who is anything but mindful of her curfew and prefers to risk being consumed by a pack of wild coyotes to dodging three children running amuck in the house. Especially now that the clocks are turned back, it is becoming increasingly difficult to call her in before dark.
“So last night I was really scared,” I began, and I tossed Tyler the ball.
“Why were you scared?” he asked, then tossed the ball back. (That was an easy one.)
“Because I lost Clarabelle!” I tossed the ball and waited.
“Did you end up finding her?” Toss.
“Hey! You can’t just jump to the end of the story,” I objected. “If I tell you I found her, the conversation is over!” I rolled the ball back to him. “I call a do-over.”
He looked down for a good minute. Then he quietly said, “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Oh, that’s terrible! You lost your cat? Where did you look for her?’” I suggested.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” he repeated in monotone. “You lost your cat? Where did you look for her?” He tossed the ball right back, like he couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
“Well, I looked everywhere!” I explained. “I walked around the yard three times in the freezing cold with a flashlight. I was clunking around in Daddy’s camouflage jacket and boots, so I’m really surprised the neighbors didn’t call the cops on me.” Toss.
“So where was she?” he asked.
“You’re doing it again,” I critiqued. “You’re jumping to the end of the story. Try again!”
He looked at me and blinked. At that moment, Clarabelle stuck her head in the doorway, meowed, and rammed her face in the corner as though trying to scratch an itch.
“Why don’t you ask me if she has any favorite hiding places?” I pitched.
“Does she have any favorite hiding places?” was his weary reply. He tossed the ball.
“What an excellent question,” I commended. “I checked all her favorite roosting spots. I looked under the shed and in the doghouse. (A $400 doghouse, by the way, from which Clarabelle has ousted the dogs and declared occupancy.) Then I thought, maybe she snuck in the house while I was out looking for her. I checked in the storage closet, on the rocking chair, in every open drawer. No Clarabelle.” Toss.
He caught the ball and stared at it.
“Ask me how I felt,” I instructed. (At the same time, I was teaching him how to score with the ladies, thereby securing the possibility of future grandchildren. I have yet to meet a man who’s uttered the words, “How did that make you feel?” At least, I’ve never been asked that by a man who wasn’t getting paid by the hour.)
He continued to stare and threw the ball back at me. “How did it make you feel?” he asked. I sensed he whipped it a little bit harder than usual.
“Well, I was scared!” I answered. “I finally gave up at around 11:00 and went to bed. I dreamed she was being chased into a bear’s mouth by a rabid pack of coyotes. (Or foxes. Or fisher cats. Or bobcats. Or any of the other wild beasts we’ve caught posing for our critter cam our backyard at any given moment.) I snapped awake at 2:00, got out of bed and opened the kitchen door. And who do you think was there waiting for me on the deck?”
“Clarabelle!” he shouted.
“That’s right!” I shouted back. “There she was, just sitting there staring at me with a look on her face like, ‘Can’t you see I’m freezing my tail off? What took you so long?’”
He smiled. I sensed relief, but not because I’d found his cat. More so, because the conversation was finally over.
Or so he thought.
“Say, ‘That’s great!’” I continued. “Tell me how glad you are that I found our cat. And then say something like, ‘You must have been happy to see her!’”
“You must have been happy to see her,” he sighed.
“Actually, I was pretty mad at first. I bet she was crouched in the shadows watching me trip around the yard with the flashlight, having a good laugh at me. I told her the next time she does that, she’ll be in the doghouse for good!”
I waited for him to laugh at my joke. Instead, he said, “Do we still have that leftover pizza?”
They define autism as a disorder characterized by marked deficits in communication and social interaction. But I, all too familiar with the symptoms of my boy’s affliction, have my own diagnosis.
He’s male.
Fax me a copy of my medical degree for developmental-behavioral pediatrics. Just don’t ever expect me to find a cure.