My daughter cried herself to sleep; it made me happy

I didn't enjoy watching her heart break, but the reason she was sad absolutely thrilled me.


G has two emotional settings: angry and bored. Occasionally, she'll be mildly pleased. Joy and sadness rarely enter the mix. So I was surprised the other night when I entered her room to investigate the strange noises, to find her with tears pouring on her pillow. She was hugging a drawing of a sunset from a classmate (the only other one on the spectrum) who'd been home sick all week.

"I'm nothing without her," G sobbed. "I have nothing to do at recess except stand there. She's the only friend I have at school who doesn't hate me."

G tore the words "To my bffL" off the top. "Why?"

"Because that's the part of the picture that makes me saddest about her being sick. I want her to feel better."

She let me hold her and sweep her wet hair out of her eyes. I hated seeing her in pain...and yet. Here was my usually blunt child, assessed as lacking age appropriate social skills, range of emotions, and awareness of others, crying for a friend in pain.

"Is it weird to cry for someone else?"

No, honey, not weird. It's called empathy. It's called affection.

And it's a very good thing.

making a friend with her own fair hand

Yesterday G and I went to a "special kids" day at the Red River Ex, a free two-hour trip to the petting zoo, kiddie rides, and free hot dog lunch for kids who can't handle the noise and line-ups (or who would get lost - literally - in the crowds) of a regular day at the fair. She was looking forward to skipping school (and meeting an alpaca); I was looking forward to a little bonding time with my girl.

While feeding the goats (enjoying a few minute's respite from the pouring rain), we ran into someone I'd met a year ago at my moms of autism support group, there with her eight-year-old son. We'd been wanting to schedule a date to get our families to connect for almost the whole year. We were just discussing how to convince the kids we wanted to stick together, when they announced they were going on the rides (in the rain).

Between moments of catching up, I snapped photos of our kids screaming and laughing on the swings and coasters (I'm sure they were hamming it up for the camera). I learned that her son has some of the same challenges as G, and some strengths that G does not. As we walked from one ride to the other, G entertained him by sticking her hand through every recycling bin.

I wanna hold your hand...

"She's being goofy, and he's laughing: that's a good sign," the other mom whispered.

We stayed together for the rest of the morning. "I'm lucky I get to do this because of my autism," Mr. Nice-guy said as we walked into the lunch area. Sitting on the picnic table with their hotdogs and chips, G bent down and planted a kiss on Mr. N's sleeve. He didn't flinch, even when she got embarrassed and washed the kiss off with her freshly licked fingers.

At supper, my husband asked G about her day at the Ex. When she mentioned her new friend, her eyes sparkled.

One of the hardest things for me as I look into the future is wondering if G will be able to live independently, make healthy relationships, be happy, or raise a family. Meeting Mr. Nice-guy was a boost in my discouraging, assessment report-burdened week. Even if his parents someday reject my proposal of an arranged marriage, knowing there are sweet boys like him on the spectrum gives me hope.

A time to love

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven...

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love...
time

I don't like getting flowers. Oh, I love flowers. I spend hours playing in my beds of daisies, roses, lavatera, petunias, and flax. But I don't love receiving bouquets because I don't have a lot of counter or table space. And most cut flowers come in my least favourite colours: pink, orange, and purple. My kids ensure there's enough mismatched clutter on every flat surface without anyone sticking vases of orange everywhere. I feel guilty, but when I stare across the table at flowers where the face of my husband should be, inside I'm chanting: "Die. Die." (To the flowers, not my husband.)

And I don't always like getting hugs. Sometimes it feels like I'm being held captive (particularly if they come when I'm in the middle of something), other times it feels like bugs crawling on my skin. I love the thought that comes with a hug: "Oh, he or she must really care about me," so I don't want people to stop doing it. But the feeling is sometimes kind of icky.

I don't always like complements, either. If they are specific ("You have soft hands." "I loved your story on kids with anxiety disorders."), I know the person has thought through it, and I assume they are sincere. but if their praise is too general ("You look nice." "You are a good writer."), I wonder if they really mean it or if they have a motive for their flattery. (Incidentally, parenting experts say we should be as specific as possible in our praise to children: "Your floor looks so clean" sinks in farther than "Good girl!" Maybe I think like a kid.)

So, if you are up on your love languages, you'll know that mine is not gifts, meaningful touch, or spoken words.

I have many friends who care about me. I can call them for prayer. They ask how I'm doing. They hug me every Sunday at church. I feel loved.

And lonely. Because my love language is time.

Most of my friends are married with several kids, a full time job, a house (in many cases, on the other side of town), community and church involvements, and extended family (maybe even parents or grandparents needing care). The one thing they don't have is time.

Unless...they are campers. Camping is all about time. Things we normally rush through, like cooking, washing dishes, making beds, are slowed, simplified, and done together. We have time to gather stones, time to speak, time to embrace, time to stop in the middle of the highway and take photos of a giant snapping turtle, who is also very slow.


We bought a camper trailer this fall. It's old. It's cramped. The first time we set it up at a campsite was in the dark, in the freezing cold, with both kids running wild. The second day we broke the light fixture (wiring was worn) and two flashlights. We bought another one at the campground store. And we broke that too (kids mistook it for a lightsabre). We were dark. We were cold. We were together. And I'm glad.


A while back, I asked my pastor to pray that I would make a new friend. Lucky me, I met a camper.

My kids get along with her kids. My kids get along with their dog. Our husbands have things in common (Blah, blah, Mac OS, blah, blah, Windows updates). We spent the weekend together in the bush collecting rocks, roasting marshmallows, and taking pictures of creeks and waterfalls. (And dragging angry turtles off the highway by the tail.) I don't know what we'll do next.


But we have time.