A few days ago, my daughter Janie walked into the kitchen, which my frantic holiday baking had turned into an indoor winter wonderland, covered in soft mounds of flour and dustings of sparkling sugar.  "What are you making, Mama?" she asked.

"A pie for a potluck dinner with some friends," I answered.

"Mm," Janie said, "Is it a cherry pie?"

"No, it's apple."

"Is apple your favorite kind of pie, Mama?"

"No, actually my favorite is blueberry.  Although I really like cherry too.  I like both of those better than apple."

"Why didn't you make blueberry then?  Or cherry?"

"Actually, come to think of it, I've never made a blueberry or a cherry pie in my whole life."

"But you should make what you like!  Why haven't you ever made those other pies if you like them best?"

"Because I usually make pies for holidays and parties and a lot more people like apple.  Apple is Daddy's favorite kind of pie and Aunt Kim's.  And at Thanksgiving, apple is more traditional than blueberry.  It's what more people want to eat.  Also, I've made so many apple pies that I know I'm good at them, because I've practiced it a lot.  So, I know they'll taste good.  Hm.  So I guess I make apple because I know other people will like it.  But you're right, Janie.  I should try something new and make what I want to eat sometime!  I never even thought of it before."

"Mama?"

"Yes, Janie?"

"You're a weirdo."  And Janie giggles.

"Yep.  I think you're right about that," I say.  And I giggle too.

Most kids (at least those who grow up in safe, middle class, American neighborhoods) don't see every new face at the front door (from evangelists to pizza delivery guys) as a potential threat.  But Austen is not most kids.  Unless they come bearing an Amazon.com box with a video game in it, he is not a fan of strange people on our front step, and he reacts more like a defensive pit bull than an eight-year-old boy.  Intruders!  They startle him.  They frighten him.  They alarm him.  And he makes it clear.

He'll eye the door warily when he hears a knock, and like a dog sending out its initial warning bark, he'll demand "Who is it?!"  Because it could be a UPS delivery guy with a package full of games (sure, it's highly unlikely, but as far as Austen is concerned, you never know), he always hesitates and waits for more information before rushing in ferociously to drive the miscreants away.

A few weeks ago, there was a knock on my front door.  "Who is it?!" Austen demanded anxiously.

"I don't know, buddy.  I'll find out." I said.

He followed me, and as I opened the door to reveal two smiling elderly women holding Bibles, Austen stood with his body huddled slightly behind mine, clutching my arm and glaring around my side.  My daughter Janie, curious, peeked around the door frame smiling up at them and grabbed my other hand.

"We're here to talk to you about the love of Jesus," one of them said.

"Thank you, but now is really not a good time," I said as Austen pulled on my arm trying to simultaneously get my attention and drag me from the door.

"We understand you must be busy.  What lovely children."

"What do they want?!" Austen growled.

"Thanks, yes, I'm sorry.  I really need to go."

"Maybe we could stop back sometime.  When are you free?"

"What do they want?!" Austen yelled, continuing to tug furiously on my arm.

"Yes. Um..."  At this point my brain was struggling with several competing demands.  I wanted to tell Austen who these people were to reassure him.  But more than that I wanted to close the door between him and the offending strangers who were not bearing video games.  In order to do so, I needed to figure out how to extricate my hands, one of which Janie was holding and the other Austen was tugging on.  And of course, part of me was automatically trying to process the question that had been posed to me.  When would I be free?  Good one.

I decided to answer Austen's question to buy me some time to process the rest of it.  So I said, calmly, with a warm glow in my voice that lingered on the word "God" and was meant to come out like a comforting verbal version of a motherly hug, "They want to talk to us about God, buddy."  At which point Austen screamed, so loud that it shook the foundations of neighboring homes, "I HATE God!"

Ok, oops.  Didn't expect that.  Apparently I got the order of operations wrong.  It should have been extricate arms and shut door first, then explain.

The two elderly ladies gasped and their smiles faltered.  "Well, God loves you anyway," one finally stammered.

"No!  There is no such thing as God!  I HATE God!" screamed Austen furiously.  He had stepped forward, advancing to drive off the enemy and in doing so had (mercifully) released my arm.  He was standing, leaning forward slightly, stiff and straight as a board, fists clenched with his arms tight by his side, face screwed up in rage.  The women looked shocked, clearly convinced that my house was demon possessed and I was poisoning my child's mind.  So much for that verbal motherly hug of mine.

"Um, ok.  Well, maybe-when-the-kids-are-back-in-school-then-thank-you," I said in a hurriedly cheerful voice as I shut the door.  The women have not come back.  And I'm considering a sign that says "Beware of the 8-Year-Old."

He grabs his swim suit
and for the first time ever
puts it on himself.

He rushes outside,
swim trunks proudly on... Backwards.
Off we go, smiling.

I was looking through Austen's school papers this week and found an exercise he had done describing what things would be like if he ruled the world. He had filled in blanks to complete several sentences, one of which read: "If I ruled the world, there would be no..." And before I read his answer, I thought about the kinds of things I'd want to do away with if I ruled the world: war, disease, abuse, famine... All the things a nice, neurotypical adult abhors.

Then I read Austen's answer: the answer of an autistic eight-year-old boy who hates to eat, who hates new tastes and textures in his mouth, who is a confirmed neophobe and resistant eater. Yes, next to "If I ruled the world, there would be no..." Austen had neatly printed the word "food."

I love him very much, but given my own strong anti-famine stance, I don't think I'll be voting for him for world ruler anytime soon.

No, you can't move that.
Mama, that roll doesn't count.
You go back to start.

Now blue skips a turn.
Red gets to go twice today!
Hurray, almost home!

Look! I rolled a... two?
No, wait... Three? Try again... Ten!
Yay, I win! I win!

Image created using Wordle

In the year plus that I've been writing here, I've never been able to give my children pseudonyms. My husband and I named them with such love and care that it's hard for me to bring myself to call them anything but those precious real life names. Yet, I find I'm growing tired of calling them "my son" and "my daughter."

So, this weekend I was playing around with their names, trying to see if I could find some variation that I would be satisfied with, when I realized something that hadn't struck me in all the past five years since we named my daughter: if you combine the right elements of their real life names just the right way, you get the name of a celebrity.

Since I love to play with words, it tickled me to learn this, and I thought I might be satisfied with their pseudonyms if I could pick the name of one my favorite superstars and form their new names from it. I did, of course, consider naming them Clinton and Hillary, after one of my modern idols. However, while that might fit the sex addiction/codependency theme, I did want all you Republicans and Obama voters to be able to unabashedly love on them too.

Instead, I decided to go with one of my classic, old school, literary idols. And so, dear friends of the blogosphere, I am delighted to announce that henceforth, my bloggy progeny will be known as Austen and Janie. May you enjoy their antics as much with pseudonyms as without!

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Yah Wah."

"Yah Wah who?"

"I didn't know you were Mario!" (That's your cue to fall down giggling until you can't breathe then get up and tell the joke again. Repeat until you fall asleep tonight. Wake up and start again first thing tomorrow.)

And yah wahoo! It's a holiday here in the U.S. tomorrow. Happy Independence Day to all. Enjoy the joke and the fireworks!

I fell into a light sleep, listening to the kids alternately giggling and bickering as they got ready to leave, then slipped into a deep sleep and into a dream. In the dream, I had just received a letter from a music teacher at my son's school (which proves it's a dream. Music teachers? No Child Left Behind didn't mandate those. Next I'll dream about Siberian Tigers.)

The dream letter described my son's imaginary (but realistic) behavior in the dream music class: he had started screaming at the sound of recorders being played by elementary students during rehearsal, then he yelled at the teacher and tried to push past other kids to get out of the room when the teacher tried to hand him a chocolate chip cookie for a snack. The letter went on, in an arrogant tone (you'll just have to believe me), as the teacher ranted, indignant at my son's disruptive and rude behavior. He signed the letter, "Sincerely, Allan Holle, Music Teacher."

I read the letter and thought, "Of course my son would react that way! He's extremely sensitive to sounds. Screechy elementary recorder playing gives me a headache, for goodness sake. And he's scared to death of non-preferred foods!" I ranted to my husband about how this was going to come up in the IEP meeting, and instead of working with us to help my son and the music teacher understand each other, they were going to blame my bad parenting and punish my son.

Then I woke up, and thought, "Wow, I sure am stressed about that upcoming IEP!" Then I thought, "Why Allan Holle? Where did that name come from and why do I remember that detail now that I'm awake?"

Allan Holle. Allan Holle. A. Holle. a-hole.

Ha! My subconscious is the best! It was calling the folks at my son's school a-holes in a joke designed by me, for me. Thanks for the laugh, Subconscious!