Visions of Sugarplums Dancing in my Head, Not Jail

I just remembered that I had a dream last night that my son, Nick, was in jail--and at 14, too. Oh, Geeeez!! Please don’t tell me that I’m a fortune-teller and didn’t know it and that my visions come to me in my sleep!!

What was strange about this dream—as all dream usually are—but are also an outlet to our subconscious and psychological state of mind—as we know. In this dream I was in jail with him, too; and so was Jodi Foster, for that matter. Weird! But we were counting the days until Nick was released and that I was praying (and protecting) that he wouldn’t do anything to ruin his chances of ever seeing “the outside” again. It was that same usual feeling of worry that I would normally have with raising a son with AS and holding my breathe that everything goes his way, and that no one pushes his (hot) buttons for fear of a “melt down” (And in this case: more jail time.)

I think this fear comes from being with friends, family, new play date hosts, or witnesses of any kind; and that someone makes the mistake of telling Nick that he is “Growing up” or “Wow, you’ve grown” or God forbid telling him that he’s becoming a man—Yikes! (He’s 14 and he still tells people that he’s 12, or 11 if he can push it!) It’s a hot button for sure—so you’d better watch out!! And when this unfortunate person tells him such a (dreadful) thing as that, then he can become very upset. In the past it was like watching a crime scene unfold: He would get so red in the face and I could tell that he was gonna blow if I didn’t get him out, and out fast…or switch the subject very quickly so that maybe Nick didn’t notice, hear, or simply forget what they had said. And if he did hear (and didn’t forget) and that I’m just plum out of luck and he doesn’t take it well (80/20% chance and against me), then what could happen next is not pretty and I warn you NOW because he could say: The F-word. Yes, it’s happened—twice, as I remember—once with a nice play date mom, all dressed in her nice summer whites, hair bonnet and pearls… Just kidding! But she might as well have been; and the other time was with my mother. (Aahh!) Talk about horror!!

Now I’m not a saint of a mother but I don’t say that word around my son, unless, of course, something dreadful is about to take place, like, for example: almost hitting a deer on the road. I mean what do you say when you swerve to avoid hitting one: “Oh Gosh Darn a deer,” or “Oh Shoot a deer”—NO, you say: “Oh, F… and brace yourself for bloody impact. I live in Plymouth—there are lots of deer here!

So there it is! I took the stand and told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth … and admitted that my son is in “dreamland-juvenile-jail”—at least I hope it’s the juvenile kind—I mean just for saying the f-word in “good company,” I think they’d go easy on the poor kid with ASD, his mom and Jodi Foster, too? NO?