Downhill

I always kind of brace myself for the emotional kick in the chest that often comes when introducing Owen to new people and experiences. I should be used to it after 4 1/2 years (crazy that it's been that long since he was diagnosed), but expecting it isn't the same as being used to it. It still knocks the wind out of me. I'm writing this while still catching my breath.

We enrolled the boys in snow sports. Aidan's been asking to snowboard since he was 5, so this year we finally signed him up for a local team where he can learn and hang out with other kids and eventually compete if he wants to. He tends to make friends easily and we don't have to worry about whether people know what's on his mind (he never stops talking), so signing him up for activities isn't a source of anxiety for me.

Owen, on the other hand, tends to meltdown when he's scared or frustrated or overwhelmed. Learning new things - physical things - can be really hard for him, so I was a little relieved when he said he wasn't interested in snowboarding. But he surprised us by saying he wanted to learn to ski. We live next to a ski hill, so we signed him up for lessons.

I had a knot in my stomach the whole first lesson, knowing he was up on that hill with strangers and having no idea how he would do. But when I picked him up, he was beaming. He didn't just love it, he felt like he was actually good at it. He told us that he was the best in the class at turning. He talked about it the whole afternoon.

I sent him off again last week feeling great, knowing he was excited and that he was learning to do something that he might actually use the rest of his life. Again, he came back chattering away about how much he liked skiing and how next week they were going to go up the big hill, which would include riding the chairlift! He was so excited.

So when we dropped him off today and the teacher asked us to stay for a minute, I guess I was a little caught off guard. I thought we were in the clear and that somehow, someway, skiing had turned out to be an activity that he could learn and enjoy just like all the other kids.

Alas, Owen's group scooted off to the bunny hill and the head of the program came over with a furrowed brow to tell us that she didn't think Owen was going to be able to stay with his ski group. "He's getting really frustrated," she explained, "and the instructor is having to spend all of her time on him." Bam. That was the kick. She went on to tell us that it could be a real problem to take him on the chairlift, so he might be put with another instructor so he could spend more time on the bunny hill. Kick #2.

Owen, of course, wasn't there to hear this - the adults always talk about these things behind the kids' backs. I know they think it's kinder that way, but all I could think about was how upset he was going to be if all the other kids went off to ride the chairlift and he was suddenly left with a stranger on the bunny hill. He was so excited. He thought he was doing so well.

And now, here I am, feeling once again like it's my fault for trying to pass my kid off as "normal." I feel bad. Because maybe I should have called out that he has autism when we signed him up. But what would they have done with the information? They don't offer special classes for kids with autism - and even if they did, he likely wouldn't fit in there, either, because he's so high functioning. He doesn't qualify for adaptive phys-ed, which means he participates in athletic activities at school right alongside the rest of the kids. He's not physically unable to participate and so far, I haven't found any type of special instruction for kids who are easily frustrated.

Naturally, following that guilt comes the guilt that I should be thankful that he can participate in the first place. That I have the option of sending him off to ski class at all. That he is so high-functioning. That somehow, despite the fact that he's apparently been having meltdowns out on the ski hill, he's still been coming back in with a smile on his face. And of course I am thankful, but I still want him to have the same opportunities as everyone else. If he wants to learn to ski, I want to make that happen. It sounds so simple.

I keep thinking that not everything has to be harder for him. Maybe I'm still in denial. Maybe I just don't know what else to do. Am I being unfair by throwing him into these situations designed for typical kids and hoping that he'll adapt, or am I helping him learn to function in life? I don't know. What I do know is that I'll put up with endless kicks in the chest if it means he can grow up knowing he can do anything he puts his mind to...I'm just hoping that I get the brunt of those kicks and not him.