The little professor

TH's kindergarten teacher is a seasoned, fantastic teacher who, even three years after TH left her class, shows in many ways how much she still thinks and cares about him. One of those ways happened at the school's open house a few months ago, when I arrived with TH in tow to visit his younger brother's first-grade classroom. His kindergarten teacher, Mrs. L., was there, and when she saw TH, she pulled him aside and had a lengthy talk with him.

The upshot of the talk was that she wanted to email with him to keep in touch and to invite him to come share some of his ample scientific knowledge with her class.

Of course, TH was immediately anxious at the prospect. When she did email him and include the invitation to speak, he decided he didn't want to do it. But I'm his strict and intractable mother, and I decided that he would. A promise of a Pokemon 10-deck, and I had him right where I wanted him. Yes. I bribe my autistic son with Pokemon cards. I'm willing to use extrinsic rewards for intrinsic benefits that will last far longer than a pack of 10 cards featuring Turtwig and friends.

Mrs. L. and I set the date for the talk, but I didn't tell TH until just the day before. An earlier reveal would have led to several days of perseveration and anxiety. This way, we had only a few hours of it. But the thing is, when he got up the day of the his presentation, he immediately grabbed his favorite bug book--his talk was to fit in with their unit on bugs--and some Post-It notes and marked about 50 pages of the book. On his own. Planning it all out by himself, without my having to urge him at all. These marked bugs, he told me, were his favorites and the ones he was going to talk about.

I had him present a handful to me, just for practice, and suggested to him that he tell his audience facts that might interest them. Things like the fact that the hercules beetle is longer than your hand. A lot longer. He also decided he wanted to take the kids on a bug hunt, so he grabbed one of his many many bug catchers. Bug book and bug catcher in hand, away we went.

When we arrived in the classroom, TH immediately dove onto the floor, hiding in the book nook. But when Mrs. L. stood up and introduced him, he bravely picked himself up and took the seat she'd set out for him in front of the assembled group of about 17 kindergarteners. And then he began. "My name is TH, and I'm here to talk to you today about insects." He was bright pink, obviously almost petrified with fear, using his flattest, most controlled voice because of his extreme anxiety.

And then...it just rolled. He went through, bug by bug, telling size or level of venom or whether or not it could kill you or where it lived. The kindergarteners were rapt, watching this newly minted 9-year-old who was twice their size tell them these minutiae of insects and arachnids. One of the children in the classroom was a special needs child whom TH knows well. He interrupted TH frequently from enthusiasm, and TH was so patient with him, answering him and promising him full possession of the book later.

The little professor then led a Q&A session, fielding questions like, "What bug is the largest bug?" (this one lobbed about 10 times, TH patiently answering it each time, quickly flipping to the page in the book that showed its picture), "What bug is most deadly?", "What's the smallest bug?", "What's your favorite bug?" His answers were clear and almost scholarly. Responding to the query about the deadliest bug, he actually said, "Well, that's complicated. Some have deadly venom but can't get enough in you to kill you. And some could kill someone who's allergic to them, while someone else would just feel a sting." He also entranced them with his True Story of having been stung 20+ times by a swarm of hornets, an episode that ended in his throwing up three times over the course of two days.

Yet, he still captures bees and other stinging insects, as he demonstrated for his audience when they went bug hunting.

While he was doing the Q&A, he took on this...persona...of a knowledgeable entomological professional, indicating audience members with a brisk, "OK, now you," and a finger point, and wrapping up his response to a question with, "All right, I think that sufficiently answers your question." I was just about dying of laughter off in my corner watching this little professor routine, it was so funny to see this overgrown 9-year-old acting like world's foremost bug scholar. Later, after the talk, he tossed all that control out the window and had a full-on self-reg fest, complete with flapping and echolaling and vocalizing and generally having a big ol' post-self control free-for-all. It was good to see him let go like that because I knew he'd really earned it for himself.

But I also had enjoyed a flood of surprise and pride while watching my son exercise this control during his talk. You see, we have a history in that room. TH began attending public school within those four walls, complete with a classroom aide and a multitude of struggles. I volunteered in there every day with him, working as his personal aide and struggling along with him, trying to keep his focus, get him to complete even a single task or even say a complete sentence that made sense. Trying to manage the inevitable reports from the other children of his social transgressions every single time I walked into the room. Getting a figurative punch in the gut every day from some other manifestation of how his autism, his deficits, made him so very different from everyone else, and not in a good way. Wondering if it would always be like that, with my son so checked out, disengaged, incapable of learning or interacting or engaging. Incapable of having people like him.

And there we were yesterday.

My little professor couldn't have returned to the scene of that earliest year and done what he did yesterday if it hadn't been for his autism (and his wonderful, insightful kindergarten teacher). There aren't a lot of 9-year-olds who are so perfectly self taught in the mysteries of the entomological world. That child had that almost 200-page book of bugs memorized--it's one he pores over obsessively every day. He could immediately flip to any bug and cite from memory its facts and figures. He could answer without assistance questions about everything from what wasps eat to what the role of the workers is in a bee colony. He was controlled, articulate, helpful, and patient. But I firmly believe that what he did yesterday wasn't something that any ordinary homeschooled freshly-turned-nine boy would have done. His autism was a deficit for him three years before. Yesterday, it was a true advantage.

An aide in the classroom leaned over to me at one point during his presentation and whispered, "You're really doing a great job with him." And I whispered back, "I didn't do this. He did it all himself."

And he did.