Gavin and I did a Storycorps interview yesterday afternoon. Storycorps is a non-profit organization that travels the country recording conversations between two people who have a special relationship. I've been listening to the Storycorps stories on Friday mornings on NPR for a long time, and I'm always moved by the interviews. They feature a 5 minute segment of a conversation that is consistently inspiring and thought provoking.

The format is just a 40 minute conversation. One person usually interviews the other and tries to guide the conversation, but I really wanted Gavin to ask me some questions too. I knew he could probably ask me some really wacky and potentially embarrassing questions like "Dad, did you know that your singing in the car doesn't sound nice to my ears?" Or worse.

When Storycorps came to our town, our friend and local "Surfers Healing" organizer John Pike suggested that Gavin and I do an interview. "Heck yeah!" I said, and we signed up. Gavin would make a great interview, since you never know what to expect out of him. His thoughts are sometimes deep and many times off the wall. He is still in a place in childhood where he believes anything is possible i.e. "Dad, lets get some wood and some metal from Home Depot and build a rocket so we can see Saturn better…"

I also wanted to get some serious thoughts out of him on autism.

Well, the date arrived and we were both very excited. The Storycorps recording booth is an awesome Airstream trailer with a soundproof room and an office space built into it. Really cool. We went through the initial waiver signing process and explanation of the recording equipment and how it all works, etc. It took quite awhile to get started, at least for a kid with autism. Gavin started getting really nervous and antsy during this pre-recording process. The recording booth was small and dark, very comfortable for me actually. To Gavin, I think it was a little overstimulating. The microphones were huge and expensive, so "Please try not to touch them," our gracious host advised. Of course, that is really all Gavin had on his mind the whole time. There was this giant black foam ball virtually floating in front of his face, and he couldn't touch it? Yeah, ok.

Aside from that, Gavin was also distracted and mischievous to the point where he really wasn't listening or thinking at all about talking with me. He had ants in his pants. I got a few good comments out of him about what he thought his future would be. He plans on being married and living in an apartment in England by the time he's 26, (news to me) drive a monster truck to work and explore the solar system to get paid. Not a bad gig, I figure.

His thoughts on autism were just that "It's not good." No revelation there. I tried to bring up a few of the benefits of autism, like being able to remember lots more than other people, but he wasn't buying it. That line of questioning ended with him under the table, trying to untie my shoes.

The interview was supposed to last 40 minutes, and ours went 35. Way longer than I anticipated, actually. If nothing else, it'll be something we can listen to throughout our lives and get a chuckle. They take your picture at the end and give you a cd recording of it, and the interview is archived at the National Library of Congress in DC.

I was hoping for an awe inspiring dialogue that would have people weeping in their cars on the side of the road all across America one friday morning when it aired, but somehow I doubt it's going to get any airtime.

19 years from now when Gav is driving me around England in his monster truck, we'll play back our interview and give eachother a high five. That'll be good enough for me.

Gavin accompanied me on a post-Christmas trip to the local Goodwill, and he learned first hand what goodwill means. After "receiving" so much at Christmas time, it was a good opportunity for him to do some giving.

Incognito, Sara had packed up a big black lawn bag full of forgotten toys and tied the top the best she could. To further avoid a huge confrontation on which toys to keep and what not to keep, I only casually mentioned that we had to take some "things" to the Goodwill, and not that his toys were involved. Most of the items are toys these kids have outgrown and had been shelved for more than year. A major un-cluttering was needed. I was silently hoping not to have to explain all of this to Gavin.

He cheerfully hops in my truck, happy to be in the front seat "where he can see the speed limit signs".

We arrive at the store, and I begin to remove the black bag. Gavin is now curious. I've used Goodwill as a threat in the past, i.e. "You boys better take care of your stuff, or I'll take it to Goodwill." Those threats were now surfacing in Gavin's brain as he eyed the overstuffed lawn bag.
"What do you do with the stuff here?" he asked.
"We leave it here at this building, and the man in there will give me a receipt."
"What can I do with a receipt?" He looked puzzled.
"Well, it's for my taxes, and it's like money." I wondered where his line of interrogation would take us, as I struggled to hoist the bag over the side of the truck.
"Can we go to Target with the money?" he pressed onward. Perfect! I'll deflect his questions by turning the conversation to income and deductions, rather than face a showdown over his, ahem, "donation".
"No, it's not really money. Its just a piece of paper that says I can keep more of the money I earn this year. The more toys we give away, the more money I can keep." Oh great - now I've done it. Toys, I said. The cat is out of the proverbial bag, and also Gavin's "Wheels On the Bus" game is plainly protruding through the top of the Hefty sack.
"Are those my toys?" he asked. I could instantly tell his blood pressure was rising, and I knew bomb defusion was my most critical skill at this moment.

"These were our family's toys, and since we have lots of new stuff to play with from Santa, we get to share these with other kids."   He pondered that for about 1 second, then started to pull the Wheels On the Bus game out of the bag. I let him struggle with that for a bit as I thought about the most tactful way to make this a teaching moment.

In the back of my mind, I guess I invited him on this mission to show him that my previous threats were not a bluff, that Goodwill really was a place I could - and darn well would - take his toys. So then I thought, to heck with it, let's get all the cards on the table here. What's the worst that could happen? "Well," I thought to myself, "He could scream at the top of his lungs and onlookers would think I'm a terrible dad." So what else is new? As long as he doesn't run out into traffic during the apocalyptic meltdown, I'm doing alright. Besides, I like to be glared at.

I opened the sack. He pulled out his Bus game, looked at the box with its happy bus full of students and singing driver, then held it under his arm as he probed further into the black bag. He was frantically trying to salvage anything he could. His breathing was becoming shallow and accelerated. Not a good sign.

I chose my words very carefully as I asked him, "Do you remember the last time you played with this game?"
"No."
"Well I do, and we had a lot of fun, but you were four. That was 2 years ago. Now we can let another little 4 year old have fun with it." I emphasized the phrase "little four year old" because Gavin relishes being an older, wiser, superior-in-all-ways first grader to the younger kids. That statement reached him, I think.

He didn't get a chance to respond. Just then, as if sent from above, (or maybe she had just been eavesdropping on our parking lot face-off) a smiling older woman approached us with a question for Gavin:

"Did you bring that here so that somebody else can play with it?" She asked, gesturing to the Wheels On the Bus game he clutched to his side. He stood silently looking at the game. He gets shy and clams up around people outside of our immediate family.
"Yes we did," I answered for him.
"Well my four year old grandson would just love to play with that at his house. He loves school busses. Would you like to give it to him?"
Again Gavin said nothing. He quickly scanned around the parking lot for the 4 year old she spoke of, as if the kid were there hiding, ready to burglarize all the toys.
"I can take it to him. He would be so happy," she continued.
Gavin loosened a bit, but remained non commital and silent.
"See Gav? This game is already going to a good family!" I prodded.
He stood as still as a statue, eyes staring at me, avoiding the nice lady. His eyes were full of conflict, like Frodo at the brim of Mt. Doom, wavering on his resolve to toss the One Ring into the fire.

I didn't know which way the scales were going to tip on this one. Previous data is saying that it'll probably end up with Gavin flat on his back in the parking lot, full blown melt down, and an awkward confused look from any adults present. For me, it was another one of those moments when I wished I had a sign. A sign to explain that my son isn't "neurotypical." A sign that says "He's not a brat. He has autism. He's really a sweet, loving kid. He and I are both doing the best we can."

Turns out no sign was needed.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, his eyes became teary and he straightforwardly held the game up to the lady.
"Oh thank you so much!" she gushed. "My grandson will have so much fun with this!" She took hold of the game. He let it go. The transaction actually went down without a hitch. Unbelievable.
"You're welcome," Gavin said sheepishly, then buried his red-flushed face in my coat.

That's my boy. Learning to be a giver, not just a receiver.

Nevertheless, I didn't waste any time tying the bag back up and carrying it into the donation center. He seemed smugly pleased with himself as he said to me,

"Dad. If we come here again we will just bring a small bag of stuff."

Now I'm the confused one. Did that statement mean he got the point, or not?

It was Christmas morning, and Gavin (6) was up at the crack of dawn. He popped out of bed, ready to go look and see if Santa had been there. I brought him into our room so he wouldn't wake his brothers and so they could all approach the bounty under the tree as a unit. (You know, for the best pictures!) He really wasn't saying much, but I could tell he had a lot on his mind about the previous night. He was just humming and stimming around the room like a bee in a mason jar. Of course, there was no way he was going back to sleep. Finally, I got him to lay down with us and just wait a bit. He laid there quietly for a while, but soon I heard his little voice whispering something. I looked at him and saw that he had a perplexed look on his face,as if something were completely out of order. I've seen the look before. His autism gives him a passion for order and regularity. Everything must go as planned, or all is failed. It's one of the issues we deal with regularly.

"What are you thinking, Gav?" I asked.
"Daddy," he whispered, "Last night I didn't see any sugar plums dancing on my head. Did Santa come here anyway?"

Garrett (4) and I were talking in the kitchen the other day about growing up and being an adult. He sat at the table munching his breakfast and pondering life. We have these great talks where he'll really get me thinking about things I'd never considered before. Today wasn't like that, he just wanted to know what he would do when he didn't have to go to school anymore. I always remain neutral on the subject and tell him the obligatory "You can be anything you want to be" type answer. He responded immediately that he wanted to be a doctor. I told him he would make a great doctor, and I'd be very proud to be a doctor's dad. He then asked me how he can become a doctor.

That's an easy answer for dumb ol' dad, "You just have to go to school to become a doctor."

He thought for a few moments, then his face brightened and he said, "Okay, when it is circle time at school and we get to raise our hands to ask a question, I will ask the teacher to make me a doctor."