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?

Bodie's almost 2, and he's almost potty trained. I can make that very bold statement because the very first time I sat him on the potty he did a number 1 without much prompting at all. He knew what to do, he has seen his brothers do it a thousand times. We haven't been pushing the potty training issue with him at all. We figured it would just eventually happen by osmosis, just as every other skill he's achieved in the last 23 months has been obtained. He sees one of his siblings do something, and he's got to try it.

He copies me with everything I do, too. If I'm frying some eggs at the stove, he's right there standing on a chair next to me reaching for the spatula, saying "Careful. Hot." If I'm trying to find that invisible perpetual leak under our kitchen sink, he's sitting on my belly shining the flashlight in my eyes or clocking me with the wrench. I love it. He saw me plunging the toilet last week, now he thinks that is a regular part of flushing. He waits patiently with the plunger until you've concluded doing your business, then sets it in the toilet as a finishing touch.

The way his first pee pee time occured was like this: It was pre-bathtime. G,G, and B we're all buck naked, running around the house like a riotous pack of wild chimpanzees. I believe it was an airplane race they we're having, 10 laps around the couch is standard activity after supper and before bath. Gavin and Garrett like to fly their match-box sized jets and Bodie was flying a bulldozer, trying his best to keep up. Amidst the melee, Bodie paused, dropped his bulldozer and reached for his privates. I was lucky enough to be right there as racetrack official, I scooped him up and rushed him to the potty.

At first he looked confused, like "Hey, I was about to take care of business right here on the floor like I always do before bath!"  But then as he perched on the little blue stool, he got very quiet, and he looked at me with a determined stare that said "I know what to do. It's go time." I turned on the faucet for its subliminal effect.
Within 30-45 seconds, he had accomplished his first frothy deposit with minimal overspray and maximum fulfillment. I hollered for Sara to come witness the glorious event and we both lavished praise on him to the point of worship. He knew he had done well! Even after the accolades, he carried a smug glow of self-congratulation on his face only a successful potty trainee can exhibit. He proudly marched right out of the bathroom, but kept going back in there to look at what he had done.

I hope this blog post doesn't jinx us, but I think before too long he will be doing it on his own. No more pull-ups! Except at bedtime, of course, so we can all rest easy. One baby step at a time, you know.

Gavin has lost his first tooth. It has been a harrowing experience for him. When he first showed me that his tooth was loose, he was very worried about it. So concerned, in fact, that his eyes filled up with tears at the thought of not having that particular tooth in his mouth anymore. I reassured him that he would get another, bigger better tooth in its place that would last for the rest of his life, as long as he brushes it before bed every night. He still sat there, wiggling his tooth with his finger, quietly fretting and ruminating on what I had told him. Finally he said, his voice cracking with despair, "But if I never get a new tooth, I will be a silly adult!"

To lose a piece of yourself, I guess, is a little scary.  I guess that's why someone came up with the idea of the tooth fairy? She's a great diversion from the trauma of the extraction, but for Gavin that idea only added to his anxiety. When we put him to bed that night, he couldn't shut his eyes. He said he was worried about the Tooth Fairy, how she would get in, what she would look like, etc. I stayed in the room on the bottom bunk that night with Garrett, listening to Gavin toss and turn anxiously above us, constantly checking under his pillow to make sure the tooth was still there, until he finally fell asleep.

At some point in the night the tooth fairy did slink into the room and do her duty. She was so quiet even I missed her appearance. In the morning, I was already up and sitting at my computer when Gavin came out with an unsettled look on his face. He paced back and forth in the office in front of me, as he normally does when he has a deep thought.
Finally I asked him "Did the Tooth Fairy come last night?"
He looked in the direction of his bedroom and nodded, his tongue feeling the blank space on the  front of his grill.
"Did she take your tooth?"
"Yes," he stated with tear filled brown eyes. I hugged him and asked "Well, did she leave anything else under your pillow?"
"Two things," he whispered. "I didn't touch them."
I went into his room and retrieved the objects: A shiny 50 cent piece and a little pink thank you note. I handed them to Gavin and he held them cautiously. Eventually he sat on the couch and read the note, which praised him on the excellent condition of the outgoing tooth, and reminded him that soon he would have a new one to care for. After studying the note and the coin for a while, he simply commented that he "Never saw a penny this big before" and plunked it in his piggy bank, and that was that. Losing a tooth is not as bad as it seems, I guess.