From the Wolf Den: Fortitude in Failure

Absurd moments are inevitable in any travel experience; as a journalist, I witness them every day, usually because they involve me. Normally, the abject absurdity results eventual resolution and laughter over a bottle of wine that evening, and life goes on.

When one is traveling with a child on the Autism Spectrum, however, the ability to laugh over a snafu is a bit more difficult. Actually, it feels downright impossible today.

Wolf was/is due in at Mountain Time Zone this morning after what should have been a great dual-parent trip where we could all march into the school together as a family united in treatment with our disabled child. As is typical when important decisions are made on Friday afternoons, however, the travel-planning-discharge wheels did not grind forward at all on Monday morning, and Yukon and I were again faced with a "who will go-who will stay" coin toss. After considerable contemplation and consultation with every medical authority at New Facility, and after Wolf promised to take an anti-anxiety med to hopefully calm his nerves, Yukon volunteered to once again deliver his son to a new and strange facility.

Supposed travel arrangements were made, but not actually confirmed, as was discovered late last night when we arrived at the airport. Ticketing agent to counter and back again we went, trying to figure out where, exactly, these two would be going, and aboard which airplane. A decided lack of paperwork in hand (yes, we left the facility without a formal itinerary; Wolf needed to go and go then, we could not wait another day, a truly AS behavior), I sent Yukon to the Alaska Airlines counter, where a fabulous agent/supervisor spent the better part of an hour tracking down the reservation (only one leg was actually secured), finding seats together (big fail on the part of New Facility), and eventually getting the boys to Colorado Springs.

Yes, you heard correctly. Colorado Springs. Not Denver. Seems New Facility Discharge Planner never mentioned that the flights to Denver were booked so she booked them to the next-closest in her mind. Right.

Before any adult melting down could occur, Yukon and I looked over at this child, who was watching our every move, pacing, muttering, and also fading fast from the anti-anxiety meds, and bent over to have a brief confab with Agent, who was by this time looking at us like we were positively crazy to even be there without the proper information.

"This child must. go. tonight." The words came out just like that, along with a 60-second synopsis of the Wolf and his long, arduous situation.

She jumped around her kiosk counter, said "I'll be back in a second, sit down," and disappeared into the back room of the Alaska Airlines offices.

Around 30 minutes later, she reappeared bearing printed tickets for all flight connections (it was the best she could do), Yukon's return flight itinerary (oh, yes, did we mention Discharge Planner did not even book Yukon to come back to Alaska?), and coupons for a few free drinks (for Yukon). She had also contacted United Airlines by phone, informed them about Yukon and Wolf, and asked on their behalf for early boarding in Chicago.

Agent told Wolf that O'Hare was a great airport, and listed a few things he should make sure he saw during their 2-hour layover. He brightened considerably at this, and said a "thank you" in his best monotone voice, hands still shaking as he clutched the Cinnabon I bought him as a reward for behaving so well during this crisis.

I had planned to capture all sorts of family photos illustrating our family goodbye; group hugs and all that. Yukon was also going to take the camera from me and use it to record Wolf's arrival at Mountain Time Zone. Drat. Instead, Bear and I hugged our big guys (it was almost 11 p.m. by this point), waved them through the MVP line (at least that was a good perk), and then I picked up my weary littlest son from the floor and we headed to the parking lot.

Yukon and Wolf made it to Chicago safely, I have yet to hear about an arrival in Colorado Springs. But I'm sure things will go smoothly from here.

Won't they?

Quick Update From the Wolf Den

Yukon, Bear, and I are now home from our 14-day excursion around southeast Alaska. Be it ever so crumbled (haha), there is indeed no place like home.

With our return, it is time for me to unpack and pack again for a trip, north this time, to see Wolf and his new digs at Arctic Manor. I have been saving posters and important "stuff" I know he wants just for this occasion. We've talked a bunch over the course of these past few weeks, and I am so incredibly blessed to have such a compassionate, open-minded team of houseparents who are looking over this next phase of Wolf's life.

I will leave on August 10th for a fast trip to Fairbanks, where I'll meet with the school district to begin negotiations (because that is what it will be) of how, where, and in what form Wolf will return to a mainstream high school. It will be hard for me; I have one set of expectations, I am sure they have another; and I am not the easiest person to communicate with when I think (or know) I'm right. But this is my kid, who, if not me, will advocate for what he needs most?

Bear desperately wants to go with me, but I think I'll leave him behind this trip so I can completely focus on my tasks at hand, and so that Wolf and I can get outside, take a hike, shop for new bedding and such. It's funny to have two kids to get ready for school, the first time ever.

Feels pretty good, all things considered.

From the Wolf Den: He Got to Tie His Shoes

Wolf is back in Alaska. A bit shaky, a bit nervous, but back in the state he has missed so much. Arctic Manor's director flew down to CHYC last night to receive his paperwork, meet with Therapist B. and get to know Wolf a bit before they boarded a flight north at 8 a.m.

I cannot imagine what was going through my son's head and heart this morning. I do know that he tried so incredibly hard to keep it all together before he left; both Yukon and I (and all of you who know him as well) are very, very proud of him. He reported to me his stomach was upset the whole trip and that cannot have been comfortable for him. Arctic Manor called tonight to tell us all was well, and in Wolf's voice I could hear relief. That's good enough for me, especially since we couldn't be there ourselves to welcome him home.

Wolf also got to tie his shoes today. Most of us don't even think about the act of tying shoes. It's automatic and trivial, unless you live in a residential facility where anything that could be used as a tool for self-harm in this litigious world we live is taken away. Same with belts, hoodie strings, and the like.

When Wolf left CHYC this morning, he was wearing new shoes I bought for him during my visit a few weeks ago. They had bright white laces in them. Brilliant, white strings that demanded attention.

What a liberating feeling it must have been for Wolf to thread those laces through the shoes' holes, to feel the smoothness of the material on his lanky fingers, and to loop with finality a bow on top. I bet he stared at those white laces a while before walking out the front door of a place that has been both is most comforting haven and worst nightmare.

Those shoelaces were more than trivial to Wolf, they were freedom. They were a connection to home, and they were, finally, his own.

Bless him, and bless all of us as we lace up our own shoes tomorrow.

The tie that binds.

From the Wolf Den: Time Keeps on Slipping Into the Future

Wolf's current obsession is, understandably, his discharge date from CHYC to Arctic Manor (Yukon and South Neighbor came up with that name last week while having cocktails on the deck in my absence. I will allow them the luxury of naming the new home. Ha).

During today's Hour of Power, he must have asked three or four times for hints, "ideas of when", "general ballpark days", and any other term that could be utilized to establish a firm date for when he will depart CHYC and fly north. Fortunately Therapist B. has a good sense of humor and answered his questions with a spontaneity that impressed me. "Between now and the first day of school" is as close as he'd come with Wolf, and by the end of the session it seemed to placate him fairly well.

Yukon and I are scrambling to accomplish the myriad tasks required to move a disabled child from one state to the other in a fairly short span of time. The week of July 18, in fact. Right smack during our Alaska Marine Highway trip. Of course, fate has a way of doing that to us. But we'll manage; in fact, I think we'll manage better due to the fact Wolf will have an escort in the form of Arctic Manor's clinical director, who will have ample opportunity to bond with Wolf on the airplane. Probably more than he ever anticipated. Wolf will be able to get to know the other boys (there will be five total, such a nice chance from 19 in his current situation), and the house protocols before I ever show up. Nothing more embarrassing than having your mom there to ask questions for you. In so many ways Wolf is a typical teenager and I constantly have to remind myself of that: "Don't embarrass the boy, don't embarrass the boy."

This morning I am printing off and signing Releases of Information, HIPPA documents, applications for psychiatric med management, and creating a whole new file folder for this whole new chapter.

The file is labeled "Wolf-Fairbanks" .

It is a pleasure to have it sitting on my desk.

From the Wolf Den: "What a Marvelous Puzzle You Are"

"Extraordinary things only happen to extraordinary people. Perhaps this is the merely a chance to go beyond your dreams." - Reepicheep

Reepicheep is a rodent braveheart and important figure in the latest "Chronicles of Narnia" film. With his gallant yet sometimes cutting personality, he manages nonetheless to establish a relationship with a young, snooty, somewhat boorish English lad named Eustace in "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader." Unfortunately, at the point of the above quote, Eustace has found himself turned into a dragon. Reepicheep is trying to comfort Eustace and encourage him for his uncertain future.

For Wolf and I, watching this movie was our final activity together. It was, I believe, a preface for the coming weeks of uncertainty and awkwardness for Wolf, who can, as we all know, act boorish, quite irritatingly so.

Wolf will be transferring the week of July 18 to Northern House (I just made that up). He might find, as Eustace eventually did, that being a dragon might not be so bad. But, as Eustace also discovered, it is up to him to find out how. Wanting so much to be the coolest but not knowing how, Asperger Syndrome has created a wonderfully intelligent but socially confused young man, desiring the best of friends but only succeeding in pushing others away.

Perhaps, if he looks at himself for what he is and what he can be, he will be the stuff of his dreams. Dragons aren't so bad. They spit fire, have wings and, as Reep said so eloquently, "have skin of chain mail to deter any swordsman."

To be a dragon. To be extraordinary. To save the day. For Wolf, the sky's the limit. His chance is finally here.

Join me in wishing him that.

From the Wolf Den: A Loss of Words

It's been a tough week for Wolf. One of the more difficult aspects of life at CHYC is that each kid shares a room with another resident, in part for logistical purposes, but more to increase social skills and the all-important concept of getting along with anybody.

Wolf has been sharing a room with one, two, and occasionally three other guys for the majority of his time at CHYC, and when he was transferred back to his original unit, we all hoped for a more harmonious situation.

Starting off well, Wolf's first roommate subsequently graduated and left the community, and, seeing glimmers of leadership beginning to emerge from our son, staff crossed their fingers and placed a new boy as Wolf's room partner.

Thursday morning Wolf called for the Hour of Power with an angry, resentful, and frustrated tone to his voice. It seems that Roommate New Guy got angry when Wolf and some other guys wouldn't let him play Dungeons and Dragons (don't get me started on that game with Asperger boys, but I'll save it for another post someday), and flew into a rage, stomping into the shared room and wreaking havoc upon Wolf's stuff.

Wolf was willing to let go the bedding flung around the room, the Pokemon cards hitting the ceiling and such. What really hurt was the books. His favorite titles (and some of mine) ripped in half, torn with a retaliatory fury. As an avid reader and the mother of one, the idea of someone sacrificing books in the name of his own personal insecurity gave me great pain, and I could empathize with Wolf in a way we have not, to this point, been able to connect. I got it. I get it. I am angry too.

The other boy has been dealt with, for sure. But that's not entirely the point. Yukon, Therapist B. and I have all been working really, really hard to help Wolf understand that stuff like this (figuratively or literally) happens all the time in life. And sometimes we (figuratively or literally) are at a loss for/of words. And wow, does that hurt. But not fighting back and carrying on is so hard to explain to a child who thinks in the now and not the later except from a revenge sort of mantra.

But then, my words are sort of lost right now, too.

From the Wolf Den: What Can I Say?

The reality of Wolf's contact (or lack of) with his natural father is slowly beginning to resonate, and I am now faced with the delicate dance of saying enough but not too much.

Information that would have been discussed and processed much earlier than at 17 1/2, had Wolf been a typical teenager. Information that might be too much for him to process and decipher in a healthy fashion. I can't tell Wolf some things. I can tell him others. It is difficult.

What he really wants, I think, is to be loved by his father in the way most kids are; because no matter how much or how often Yukon says and demonstrates his love in a thousand and one ways to Wolf, Wolf still clings to a distant memory of a dad who took him motorcycle riding, to McDonald's, and to the movies. Oh, and sent him photos of his tour in Afghanistan holding an assault rifle. Lovely.

Like so many impulsive teens with Asperger Syndrome, Wolf sees something he deems as cool and grabs hold with a grip of iron. He lives, eats, and breathes this "coolness" and forgets about the potential risks. The image of his dad is cool right now. And he wants it. He does not feel it.

It is difficult to help Wolf separate the reality of his father from the idea of his father. During the Hour of Power yesterday Wolf asked me at least five times to call his dad and ask why he hadn't contacted him. I told him to write a letter. Therapist B. backed me up.

We are looking forward even more to Wolf's return to Alaska, where he will be busy and working hard, and won't have time to dwell on what makes him despondent. And he will see his family often. I need to remind myself that Wolf has been gone a long time, and he is aching to see familiar faces as much as we are aching to see him.

Enraptured by the Rapture

I will say that this whole Rapture silliness was funnier before I talked with my teenager, who believed all the hype and truly did think the world was coming to an end.

This must be terribly confusing for he and others with similar disabilities like him, who take everything literally.

Part of me thinks, though, that I busted his bubble when I said the zombies were not coming to take over the earth. His favorite book is the Zombie Survival Guide.

Good gracious. Enough already.

From the Wolf Den: A Lesson in Suffering and a Light Through the Darkness

I just hung up the phone after talking my teenage son down from a ledge of darkness. I hope.

(Yes, all appropriate staff have been notified at CHYC of the current situation, before anyone becomes alarmed)

I almost wasn't here tonight to take this call.

Wolf called tonight and almost immediately I could sense all was not well in his world. It's so, so hard to gauge his mood, affect, and sense of self over the phone that my brain has to do a mental checklist of possible reasons for his lowered voice and muttered answers to "How's it going?"

He was still doing well on the Unit. Still on Level. School was going "fine". Medications were still okay. I'll bite: "So what seems to be happening to make you so sad-sounding?"

"I can't tell you because I'll disappoint you." Bingo. This is a tactic used by Wolf to preface a really, really big announcement that once probed and pulled and yanked, usually results in what's really on his mind. From a parent's perspective, however, there is no worse feeling than a child saying he can't tell something because he fears repercussions. My brain said "Oh Sugar." But not really Sugar.

I took a big swig from my Red Chair Ale (my mom-evening-alone-beverage), followed that with a big breath, and said in my best therapist voice, "Tell me about it."

What he told me factually doesn't matter. What he told me figuratively does. Bottled up inside that constantly-revolving and evolving brain of his was the "whys" of suffering, death, and pain. Still grieving the loss of his cousin a few months ago, Wolf is consumed. He is confused and is grasping at anything that will be sympathetic to the darkness he feels.

It is hard enough to explain death and dying to grownups; it is doubly so when explaining such to a young man in a child's body. Going back to the basics of love, life, and learning, I reiterated how much the people in his life love and cherish him for him, and nothing could ever change that. But also, that Life as a rule is full of suffering. Things are born and, if lucky, live full lives. But sometimes they do not. We talked about God and the power to change this fact if He wanted to. Yes, indeed. He could.

But, I asked, who would we be as humans able to make decisions about what we do and how we act, if God made all the decisions for us?

I don't know if I made any sense at all, but the whole exchange gave me pause, especially after the suffering in our family this spring.

I left Wolf with one final thought: You are never, ever, ever alone. Not for one second.

From the Wolf Den: Mud Song

As Wolf nears the end of his time at CHYC and three years of joy and sorrow for our family, we here at home celebrated another holiday without him. This Easter was filled with a bit more visceral emotion than those I've experienced in the past, in part due to the knowledge that our family will at last be collectively residing in one state instead of two come July. While I know in my heart I am not the same mother who waved goodbye in May 2009, anymore than Wolf is the same child who held his hands together to resemble a heart that evening, I am reticent to admit how terribly tenuous the road ahead truly will be.

It's been a week of trials in our house and I will freely admit Wolf has been on the back burner out of psychological necessity. His brokenness and my brokenness and our family's brokenness all combined together to create one Big Broken Thing that I just couldn't touch. Not this week. And I felt bad for that.

So, sitting right up front of our standing-room only church service this morning was me, the mom and wife of Family Broken, in between two of my three men. Easter, we heard our friend and pastor say, was about finding; an original game of hide-and-seek, as it were. Except we don't do the finding. Someone Else does; because we're too worn out to find Him ourselves.

My oldest friend, D. has posted similar thoughts this week about brokenness and difficulty and pain in parenting children with disabilities. It is dirty work, whether these kids be at home with us 24/7 or away, like Wolf. Just when we think we're on top of medications, behavior plans, treatment reviews, or dietary changes, somethings happens, and we're back to the beginning, stuck, as in a muddy puddle.

This is the Mud Song. It talks about that, and of being found. It's sad. It's happy. Just like parenting.

"...you made me yours, found my orphan heart, and brought it home, and I'm safe here and I sing..."

From the Wolf Den: Fearful

It only took about five seconds of the Hour of Power on Thursday morning to discover what the trouble was.

Wolf is terrified to leave CHYC; and he's willing to fight like hell.

Not that I blame him, mind you. For three years his world has been a self-contained unit of careful supervision for everything from handing out toothpaste to telling him, verbatim, what he should say to someone else in certain situations. While staff makes every effort to assist students in making the transition, for some kids, this is the most difficult move they will ever make. Wolf, it appears, is one of these.

Fear does interesting things to people. Fight or flight. Stay or go. Walk away or punch the other guy in the nose.

Illustrated in a very Alaskan way, it's sort of like meeting up with a large, brown bear while hiking. We're told how to handle various outdoor scenarios in which bears figure; from a distance, up close, with kids, yada yada. It's drilled into our brains, but unfortunately, it's not always drilled into our body. The biggie safety tip, after making noise and hiking in groups of five or more (I prefer ten or twenty slower people than me, personally) is this: Don't Run.

Gotcha. I promise I won't run away from a thousand-pound, stinking, potentially new-mother-bear who finds me tragically in the wrong place at the wrong time. Try telling that to my Fight or Flight reflex. Or my knees. But that's the advice, and it's the correct advice, and if ever in that situation, it will take every.inch.of.my.willpower. not to run as fast as my legs can or cannot carry me. And I don't have Asperger Syndrome.

Wolf listens to his body most of the time. He can't help it; the signals coming from one side of his endorphin-fueled brain sending signals to his arms and legs and blushing face are stronger than the signals from the other side of his brain saying "Whoa, now, mister, let's just think about the options here before we lay into this dude and you get in major trouble."

While I have the ability during a crisis to (try, anyway) to think rationally and make a decision based upon the environment and others in it (bears included), Wolf feels something happening and lets his body decide for him.

He's scared he'll get beaten up. He's scared other kids will make fun of him. He's scared no one will understand. So he'll fight back. Hard.

All Yukon and I could do on Thursday morning was repeat, over and over and over again, "We're here. We'll help. We love you."

By the end of the Hour, things had calmed down. Yukon talked with Wolf last night and reviewed some of the things he could do to let his brain catch up with the arms and legs.

This could be the longest road, yet.

From the Wolf Den: Admitting I Was Wrong

Oh, but that's the hardest part of being Wolf. Admitting he screwed up, took the rap, assumed responsibility. We're not exactly sure why this is so darned difficult, but whenever he is found at fault a big falderal takes place, never ending well.

So was the case today, apparently. The most challenging environment for Wolf at CHYC is during Gym class, most certainly not his favorite after being tossed around like a wet noodle at a school in Anchorage and blamed for it due to his argumentative behavior. Today was not a good day. Argument-> Fight -> Bigger Fight -> Restraint. Damn. Damn it all to that Dark Place.

If he'd just let it go he'd be in such a better place. But he can't. All he can do is respond with some primal instinct that keeps telling him not to flee but fight; and fight he does, with all 6'2", 155 pounds of wiry bad self.

In nine hours the Hour of Power begins. I'm struggling tonight with how to respond when he calls. Part of me wants to say nothing. Part of me wants to lay into him like a drill sergeant. Unfortunately, I have not much hope for either choice. Were the stakes not so high, I would be less inclined to put on the pressure for proper behavior.

Perhaps I was wrong for saying that.

From the Wolf Den: Helpless (But Not Hopeless)

It's been such a long, long time since I've read the ID on my sort-of-smartphone and seen "Wolf-CHYC" listed there. When my phone rang this morning I was at a coffee shop trying to get my writing assignments in order after almost two weeks on vacation. It was a beautiful day today, full of sunshine only an Alaskan winter morning could provide, and I was expecting a wonderfully productive day (now that Bear has gone back to school).

Seems there was a little tussle at CHYC; somebody aggravated Wolf (so easy to do, and the other boys know it) and he neglected to walk away, instead trying to charge headfirst into the other guy. Thankfully, staff got to him first and held him back.

It's so hard to control impulses for these kids. Wolf doesn't even have the most basic ability to say to himself "Don't do it." When you were a kid, did you ever see something in a store so incredibly cool, so absolutely beautiful, that you had to touch it, even if the sign said plainly, in big block letters, "DON'T TOUCH"? Yeah, that's my kid. Always.

I remember one time when Wolf got suspended from school in the first grade for jumping on a kid just because the class bully told him to. When I asked him "Why? Why would you do such a terrible thing?" He just stared at me and said "I don't know."

Now, all parents know there is nothing quite so aggravating as the "I don't know" response. Even in the best of circumstances it makes us feel helpless, as if this child to which we gave birth is suddenly and unexpectedly a stranger. It's not a good feeling.

At this juncture of Wolf's life, when he is so close to coming back to a less-restrictive living situation, losing one's cool like today simply will not do. Consequences will be swift and dire, and that leaves me with a degree of helplessness I cannot describe.

But not hopeless. Yukon and I have pledged, in the most painful way a parent could, to support Wolf to the best of our ability, to talk openly with him, to share suggestions where they are wanted, to coach and remind and remonstrate. And that's not a message of hopelessness. It's a message of reality, of positive parenting, and we'll try as hard as we can.

It is easy to feel helpless with respect to our disabled children. But hope is indeed the thing with feathers, and sometimes it flits here and there and lands in the most interesting places. We must hold on to hope when it comes anywhere near.

From the Wolf Den: So Proud

It's been a very difficult 24 hours for Wolf. He lost someone very close to him in a tragic turn of events that has left his natural father's side of the family stunned, confused, and asking questions.

After trying all day to contact Wolf I finally reached him about an hour ago, and, after a conversation with the staff member who has been with him since receiving the news last night, had the chance to talk briefly to my oldest child.

His voice was shaky, his nose very obviously running, and his emotions were wildly swinging. But as I myself struggled with what to say to this grieving young man, one thing became clear. He was acting appropriately, and had been since receiving the news.

Beyond sad, yes. Crying, of course. But no hitting, no running away, and no attempts to sabotage any of the week's progress because he could not process the events of the last day.

In the wake of this river of sadness flowing through him tonight, I am so very, very proud.

I am sure there are those reading this who understand completely.

From the Wolf Den: The Shape of Things to Come

There was an abundance of drama yesterday as I made final preparations to visit Wolf in SLC. A situation was brewing that caused a lot of running around and fretting and contingency-planning, leaving me with a big old headache.

Seems that Wolf's dad was sending mixed messages about making a visit during the same time frame as I. Complicated. I spent the morning in constant contact with Therapist B, who showed superb effort in his creation of a plan. I flew out on a red eye from Anchorage around 1 a.m. and arrived in SLC by sunup (a lovely sunup, too, I might add), ready for anything.

Wolf looks great; another inch or so of height, another shoe size in length, and a decidedly more mellow attitude, save for a walk-about from the cafeteria yesterday that put him back on ReFocus and squelched our plans for outings (a good thing in the end).

It was only a few minutes into our conversation with Therapist B that Wolf told us his dad called and said he couldn't visit, after all; that the event he was attending didn't give him "any time". Wolf rolled his eyes as he said it and B and I saw a slight quiver in the now fuzzy upper lip.

My friend D. wrote a lovely post on her Urban Servant blog about the difficulties in managing not just a child with behavioral disabilities, but one parent, too. She used the analogy of a triangle to describe how I, at the top, must still exist in a this odd shape of caring after almost 15 years.

A triangle is an interesting shape, if you think about it, and an appropriate one to describe Wolf and his father and I. Sharp, angular, not at all comfortable, a triangle is a visual reminder of a, b, and c. Connected but not at all close.

When I visualize all the individuals who love and support our family, I think of a circle, with Wolf in the center. Everybody is connected to everybody else through words, deeds, or simple acts of compassion that continue, around and around, forever. Not one person in one place, but a never ending loop of loving.

That's the shape of Wolf's future, and that's the one we care about most.

From the Wolf Den: All is Calm. All is Bright.

I've received quite a lot of questions regarding my last Wolf Den post in which I express a desire for my son to understand the meaning of Christmas in the practical realm of "quality versus quantity".

Really, I can't rationalize to him. I know that. The same brain that prevents Wolf from conceptualizing the idea of Jesus as a real human being but made by God is the brain that also stops short from understanding that giving and getting are different terms for the same holiday. I have struggled with this ever since Wolf first started understanding the boxes under the Christmas tree contained his beloved "stuff".

But here's what I do understand: Christmas contains magic and wonder and joy, even for this child, or rather, especially for this child. I hear on the phone mounting excitement as boxes bearing Wolf's name are delivered to CHYC, and as he outlines Christmas morning for Yukon and I. Special wake-up by staff with Santa hats and candy canes, presents piled up outside doors, hot chocolate in their jammies while the cacophony of 10 boys (all who love stuff) builds and builds until, at last, all the shouting and showing and jumping around winds to a hum of satisfied glee.

Christmas Eve, Wolf will go to bed with anticipation for morning and sleep, undisturbed by nightmares. If I know my son, he will wake early, with joy in his heart and undeniable tranquility in his soul.

He will have peace. He will be happy. And if one single night and one single morning a year of pure childlike contentment brings peace to my child, this must be part of God's plan, thanks to His.

And surely, surely, Wolf, and I, will sleep in heavenly peace.

Peace.

From the Wolf Den: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas. Darn it.

It's the holiday season once again, and once again I, and many other parents like me, are gnashing teeth and wringing hands over one of the most stressful times of year.

Wolf and his cohorts at CHYC love Christmas, as they love birthday, Valentine's Day, and any holiday representing the accumulation of "stuff". Children with Asperger Syndrome love stuff; cheap stuff, expensive stuff, stuff from the vending machines at Wal Mart, doesn't matter, because it's STUFF.

I remember taking Wolf to Minnesota to visit my friend D. one summer. Even at four he had a nose for gift shops and collecting things, and we brought back a few trinkets (I established a rule early on that all things from tourist traps had to fit in my backpack) and a zipper bag full of sticks. Yes, sticks. At least they were cheap.

Now that Wolf is older and the stuff seems to be exponentially more expensive, Christmas and birthdays are something else, indeed. Yukon and I are beginning a new trend for we family here at home of reducing the amount of our own stuff, so Christmas this year is more about experiences than things (as a travel writer, too, I am practicing what I preach on a daily basis to my readers). But explaining this to my stuff-happy 16 year-old is not so simple. He knows the facts about Christmas, sort of cares about the Reason for the Season, but moves on to the loot faster than Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. In this respect, he selfish, but through no fault of his own, and this is something Yukon and I struggle over. Do we try to teach compassion for Baby Jesus and the Star in the East even though we know it is almost futile? Do we hold back to try and keep Wolf involved in our family's intentions of giving more and receiving less? These are tough questions.

Wolf told us on the phone last week that his pile of presents last Christmas took up two chairs in the Common Room. Oh boy. I laid out the "quality as opposed to quantity" spiel and was immediately blown back by the forcefulness of the "WHAT???!!!" over the miles.

To many kids with AS, more is always definitely better, which worries us on many levels. But Therapist B was on the line, too, and heard this outburst of defiance for present-dom, and I believe will be working with all the boys to level out their expectations for Christmas.

Don't even get me started with the fact that Christmas break throws them all off their routines. Argh.

From the Wolf Den: It's Not About Me

My lifelong friend D. wrote an interesting post on her blog (Sub)Urban Servant today, talking about all the ways parenting a child with behavioral disorders is not about her.

The lack of sleep, lack of private time, lack of ability to dress up and go out and be a "normal" wife and mother and woman. But it's not about that.

It's also not about putting our kids inside the typical box of proper appearance and behavior. How many times have I taken Wolf somewhere and done a double-triple check to see what he is wearing, if his face is clean, if his socks match, if he looks "good enough" to go out with me, forgetting that the wiring in his brain allow him to forego looks for comfort.

It's so easy to want our children to conform, to fit in, that for some it becomes a desperate effort. I wrote yesterday about Wolf wanting to be someone else, and in a way, I wonder if I might have fostered some of that by wishing and hoping and begging him to act/dress/look a certain way.

Something to chew on, tonight.

From the Wolf Den: "Who Am I?"

Wolf told us last week he wanted to be somebody else. Didn't matter who, he assured us, just somebody not afflicted or affected by the disabilities surrounding his own person like a black cloud. Teenagers, as I recall from my own moody years, is often full of doubts and despairs and little moments when kids wish they could have someone else's life. But probably not like Wolf.

One of the challenges Yukon and I face is addressing the backstories behind Wolf's behaviors, digging and digging until we see a glimmer of understanding. Past bullying from kids back here in Anchorage, either real or perceived (you must understand Wolf does not totally understand the concept of "bullying" when often he, too, could instigate an incident with the worst of them) weighs heavy on Wolf's mind.

We reflect with him, debrief, and then encourage a move out of the past and into the future, hoping that Wolf will see his progress at CHYC as a stepping stone to positive relationships with peers in the future. But with a penchant for not remembering or using the skills he has learned these past few years, it is no wonder Wolf sees himself as a pretty hopeless case.

This, as I understand it, is pretty common; for although kids with Asperger Syndrome see the world as not complying with their expectations and desires, they are still indeed children who are incredibly sensitive to treatment by other people, even if they do not understand those feelings. It is a paradox, and it is one of the most frustrating parts of AS.

The blank looks and muttered "yeah, yeah" when we try to explain drive us nuts. But I also must remind myself that the words I say probably drive Wolf nuts, too.

The happy medium must be out there, somewhere.

Update From the Wolf Den: Dad is Prime Time

I'm sitting in front of the television tonight, sipping on a beer, eating Vermont Smokey Cheddar popcorn and marvelling at my calm. Funny how that always seems to happen when my husband is away.

Yukon flew down to visit Wolf early this morning, with little fanfare but high expectations. We've realized, after such a long, long time that building ourselves up for a letdown at CHYC upon arrival is not productive to any of us. So when Yukon hopped out of his rental car this afternoon, it was with mixed feelings. Trepidation, excitement, and a little bit of dread, all mashed up together with travel exhaustion.

But he told me on the phone that few things meant so much as when Wolf came through the doors and said "When do we leave?" Yep, that's right. The kid held on and kept going and was able to go out with his dad. O.U.T.

Where did they go? All the favorite places. Sonic Drive-In for a sour apple slushie and burger, Old Navy for some new clothes (and not with mom, what fun!), and the ultimate; Barnes and Noble.

Could have been rough, not having left school for months and possessing a typical Asperger-y love of books, but Wolf hung in there, even, Yukon noted, looking at books the rest of the family might like and not just those of his own interest. True story.

There could not be a better day for Wolf. Or Dad. This was a good idea.

Yukon and the two therapists most involved with Wolf meet tomorrow, with me on speakerphone. We need to begin to address the most frustrating of issues, what Wolf's future looks like, and when and where. Stay tuned.