Where have I been lately?

I've been more busy lately than Willie Nelson's one-handed hair braider.

Today we spent three hours at the Mapleton Center having our younger son tested for Asperger’s syndrome. That, in itself, is an entirely different kettle of salmon. For the moment, I’m going to discuss the screening process, and why I’m thinking they noted the parents should be the ones in therapy, and the kid should be given their condolences instead.

We sat in the blue-colored room with a very pleasant woman named Brenda and her booklet. My husband and I were asked a battery of questions in an effort to make some very real discernments regarding our son and whether or not he fits somewhere on the autism spectrum.

Questions were asked about things such as his behavior, ability to make eye contact, and whether or not we remembered if he used apropos body language as a young boy which would show emotion.

“I think he shrugged,” stated my husband to Brenda regarding that particular bodily gesture.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my chin. “No,” I said thoughtfully.

“No, what?” inquired Brenda, pen poised in limbo from note-taking excellence.

“I don’t think he shrugged,” I volunteered.

“He shrugged,” said my husband, insisting with his body language.

“No. I don’t think he was a shrugger,” I finished, waving palm-up hands together and from side to side. “I know shruggers.” [Meaningful finger wag]. “There was no shrugging action there.”

“Who are you?” he says. “Seinfeld?”

“My son, the shrugger. Who knew?” I finished.

“Next question,” continued Brenda, undaunted. “Has your son ever emulated … actions or behaviors as a young child?”

“Well, I have seen him pretending to smoke grass,” I said. “I mean, most kids chew it. He smokes it.”

Eyebrows raised at me.

“What? Oh! And he does this thing where he uses his finger to shoot at people who get on his nerves. I find that a little bit disconcerting. I tell him, ‘Bobby! Stop shooting your sister.’”

Brenda coughed. “You know,” she said demurely, “I asked about things he emulates that you do.”

“Oh!” I laughed, trying to avoid my husband’s wary eye. “Oh dear, no. I don’t shoot at people who annoy me or smoke grass.”

I heard the audible sigh and grinned, with a deep accent, “I gave that up years ago, when my Papa, Tony Knuckles Cavalogne, whacked his last mark. He’s made, you know.”

My husband leaned towards me and whispered, “No more Sopranos for you.”

“What?” I shrugged.

“Your father was Jewish!”

“He liked cannoli.”

Brenda looked worn as she patiently completed the interview (asking questions must be hard work), and finally, she brought us through another maze of fluorescent corridors. We were placed in an observation room with some nice young ladies who were going to help administer the next battery of tests given to my son for further review and assessment. I’d never been in a room with a one-way mirror before, and it was pretty exciting.

On our way out, ninety minutes later, my husband suggested we eat some lunch before he had to head back to work. As my son plucked a piece of frozen Kelly-green weed from a small patch of snow to place in his mouth and started to chew, I asked my son where he felt he might like to go. He looked at the sky and wistfully said, “I dunno.”

“AH! See?” I announced to my husband. “Not a shrugger. Note: no shrugging action.”

(I don’t know why he looked tired and sighed. It must be the cold air.)

My son, on the other hand, after being asked about blocks and forced to play with toys in front of doctors, looked alarmed and confused simultaneously. After all of the interviews he’d been through, he thought this was another test. I didn’t want to worry him.

“Nevermind, dear,” I patted him on the back, assuredly. “By the way-- when did you start chewing grass?”

“Mom, everyone knows smoking grass is bad.”

No matter how the tests come back, and what those findings might be, perched amicably behind institutional lab coats and laminated conference tables, I know I have a wonderful son, and I’m proud of him, no matter what.

I looked over at my beloved father of my precious boy, who was pretending to shoot a squirrel with his finger. I sighed.

He shrugged.