This morning

Nick descended into a dark place when a couple of his legos pieces wouldn't fit together.  Flinging handfuls of legos, kicking, screaming, crying and then the full body throw down onto the tile. This took place approximately 3 minutes before he needed to walk out the door for school.  I had seen him in this place before and I knew there would be no quick recovery. 

I did all I could to try and coerce him into his jacket and backpack.  Two minutes until the bell.  With urgent orders for everyone to get into the car he meandered out after us . . . and refused to get in.  "I want to walk," he stated.  I'd start to pull away and then he'd scream at the top of his lungs that he wanted a ride.  He was working me.

And then the Love and Logic kicked in.  

If Nick wanted to walk, then by all means, he could walk.  I pulled away, leaving him standing on the curb.  The car fell silent as we drove the block and a half to the school.  I dropped off the stunned siblings and hurried back.  I'd been gone 4 minutes flat.  

There was Nick . . . and one of our neighbors.  She was standing over him, arms folded, face solemn.  Oh boy.  

"I just didn't want him to run into the street."

"I wasn't running into the street," he screams at the top of his lungs.

"Well he was so upset I didn't know what he what he might do."  More high pitched screaming from behind.  

I thank her and she returns to her wide eyed children waiting in their own driveway.  I invite Nick into the car. He refuses.  I park and wait.  The work man unloading another neighbors new wood flooring tries his hardest not to stare as Nick screams and screams and screams.  The neighbor to the other side of us runs out her front door, her face twisted in fear and concern.  I smile weakly and wave her on.  She quickly reenters her home. Five minutes turns into fifteen.  I turn on the radio to muffle his cries and to keep from crying myself.  

Finally his tears run out.  He climbs in through my door, lays his head on  my chest and we embrace without words.  We sit this way until his body is warm next to mine and the redness has left his eyes.  We drive to the school, I walk him into his class.  They are singing a song about the months of the year.  He hangs his coat and backpack and turns  to blow me a kiss.  He signs "I love you" and walks quietly to his seat.

I don't like Autism today.  And neither does Nick, I can tell.