Crowds, carrots, choruses, and inconsistent capabilities

My friend shared a Youtube video of a teen with Aspergers with me. The boy says Aspergers means he's half and half: sometimes he's like everyone else and sometimes he's autistic.

I see that with my kids. K. hates crowds. He can't stand eating in a restaurant, or even the lunchroom, but he did five straight days of Walt Disney World. He ran away when his class went to the symphony because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to sit with his friend, but when I took him a few weeks later, even though there was a mix-up with our tickets, he was cool as a cucumber. Sometimes when I pick him up from school and see him talking to himself or zigzagging through the hallway, I think: is this the same articulate kid who tells me how to save the planet over dinner? Yes and no. Half and half.

That could go for most of us. I'm half-typical and half-terrified. I vacillate between thinking I can overcome anything, and thinking I should focus on my strengths and cut my losses.

Like Saturday night at the grad banquet. The staff always serve all the students their plates. I'm not anti-service. I would have stood in the kitchen and dished every baby carrot onto every plate with my pinkie, but interrupting their conversations with relatives I've never met, in order to lean over them (was that serve from the left, clear from the right?), and then put their plate down without spilling white wine sauce on them, that's stressful. But, hey, I could have climbed on stage and given a speech (something that would make most people wet themselves) no problem. What's that about?

I made it through waitress duty, but then came the worship band. Seeing every other God-lover in the room sing like they could actually see the face of God on that Powerpoint screen, made me want to run out of the room, just like K. does when the math problems get too hard. I did turn to leave for air, but the person behind me, her hands raised and eyes closed, was blocking the aisle. Listening to worship choruses is supposed to make me feel close to God. Give me a lecture or commentary over music any day. Worship music does affect me, probably the same way touch or eye contact affect many with autism--it cuts too deep. Interestingly, hymns, with their nostalgia, theology, poetry, and four-part harmonies blending, don't have the same effect.

So, who am I? Who are my kids? Are they typical or unusual? Are we capable or stuck? It depends.