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Picture Credits:
JACKSON's TREASURE
By Nan Jacobs c/2000
My friend Sherilee dangles her legs in the toddler pool; her three year old, Joshie, splashes by her knees. Several mothers lounge near her, conversing, sunbathing. Their respective tots cavort close by while a multi-colored cement clown gurgles a fountain of spray in the middle of the pool. Occasionally a child looks around and calls, "Mommy, look!"
I envy them the luxury to relax and chat as I watch my three-year-old Marco Polo impersonator reconnoitering the far perimeters of the small-town community pool park, a sunlit grassy square bordered by chain-link fencing and century-old trees. Dappled sun gleams off Jackson's floppy blond hair as he explores. He's oblivious to his separation from Mommy, indifferent to Mommy's full attention. I cast a wistful glance toward the sunny pool then trundle off toward my son in the shadows.
I try not to feel resentful toward Jackson for being different; for making me chase him when I want to relax. Resentful toward every single person in this park who watches me trail after my son without offering to take over so I can relax and chat, too.
Jackson points and chatters. "Ah-tee! Yook at da ah-tee!" He bounces from foot to foot. On a twig trapped in the untrimmed grass by the fence, hangs a Styrofoam cup, coffee-stained and squirrel-chewed. Jackson reaches toward it.
"No, Peanut, that's not hot tea," I say. "That's trash. Yukky." He wails a protest as I pull him away.
I remember the day "Ah-tee" became his first word. His eyes gleamed like two copper pennies as he sat in the restaurant high chair and proclaimed, "Ah-tee, ah-tee!" when the waitress brought us coffee.
Hot tea... We're still waiting for "mama" or "dada".
Now he grumbles, "Not yukky. Ah-tee. You want ah-tee cup." When Jackson speaks, "You" means "I" and "I" means "you".
One of the kiddies yells, "Mommy, look at what me do!" I turn to watch. Little Joshie stands next to the spewing clown. He squeals as the cold shower splatters his back. The mothers applaud his bravery, and soon all the kids follow Joshie's lead. A chorus of "Mommy, look!" rings across the grassy slope to Jackson and me.
I gaze down at my bright-eyed son. He's still ogling the Styrofoam cup in the weeds. He's not interested in the kids, or the pool, or the clown. In a few years, the kids in the pool will be wielding T-ball bats, chasing soccer balls, learning to ride two-wheelers. Will Jackson ever want to do any of those things?
He tugs my hand; he wants that stupid cup.
How I wish he were a normal-- no. I don't. I will allow Jackson to be Jackson. He takes exquisite delight in one sweet-smelling pinecone in the woods, one broken clamshell on the beach, one red maple leaf in the yard ... one ugly Styrofoam cup in the park.
How dare I wish he'd fit a mold?
I can deal with not getting to lounge and chat. I can deal with no T-ball, no soccer, no two-wheelers. To me, Jackson's 'puzzling nonconformity' is a gift. A gift not to be recklessly torn open, nor the wrappings carelessly discarded. But for some reason I believe that if Jackson would only call me Mommy, we'll cope with whatever tune his different drummer plays for us.
Tears squeeze into my eyes. I blink away the glaze. When will you call me Mommy? I wonder. Can't you at least call me Mommy? Another trash treasure catches his attention. He pulls me toward it, we discover it's an old sock (even he says, "Yukky!"), and we move on.
Suddenly Jackson yanks his hand from mine and darts toward another damned cup in the weeds. "You want dat ah-tee!" He grabs it before I can stop him.
"No, Jackson, this is trash." I try to wrest it from his hand. "Peanut, if you want a cup, Mommy will get a cup at the food stand."
"You want dis cup. Dis cup." His voice quavers.
I inspect the cup. It's relatively clean. Still white, no gunk inside. We have death grips on opposite edges of the cup. If the thing splits, Jackson will grieve for it the way other kids mourn a lost pet.
Suddenly I laugh. "Oh good grief. Keep the cup. But no more trash picking. Let's go play in the pool."
Jackson clasps the cup like it's the Holy Grail.
We wander back to the pool. Jackson kneels on the edge, dips the cup in, pours out the water, dips and pours, dips and pours. He is content. At last I get to lounge and chat. I wonder how long the respite will last.
The other kids migrate toward him, curious. He ignores them as usual. Dip, pour. Dip, pour.
"Where'd you get that, Jackson?" an older one asks.
Dip, pour, dip, pour.
"Can I play with it?" a younger one asks. Katy, I think.
To my utter amazement, Jackson hands the cup to Katy. She dips and pours a few times, he holds out his hand, she gives him the cup.
"Where'd he get that?" she asks me.
I don't want to admit it's trash. "Tell you what, I'll go get some more." I ask Sherilee to watch Jackson. I rush off to the food stand, beg them for a stack of Styrofoam cups, and return with my booty.
I pass out the cups, and soon the kids are dipping and pouring. They pretend they're wizards casting spells on mermaids and each other. I know Jackson's indifferent to the others, but it makes me feel good that he's willing to share his space. Perhaps that's his idea of making friends.
The assembled mothers laugh about piles of expensive toys gathering dust while their kids play with empty boxes. I laugh along, but don't mention the five grocery bags full of toilet paper rolls we've accumulated. Jackson rescues the tubes from the trash and keeps tabs on them. Right now we have exactly four hundred thirty-three toilet paper tubes.
At age three, he can count to a thousand. But he doesn't know yet to say Mommy.
A shriek sends us moms three feet into the air. "Mommy, Jackson tored my cup!" Katy wails.
"Jackson, no!" I cry. Jackson has torn Katy's cup into pieces. He pours water from his cup onto one of the pieces. It sinks, then pops up. Jackson giggles.
Katy giggles, too. "Mommy, look!" She presses a piece under water, and it pops back up. Her mother, looking relieved, says, "Oooh!"
Suddenly Jackson, too, presses a piece under water. It pops up. "Mommy, yook!" he says. He sinks it again. "Mommy, yook!" This time he looks directly at me as he speaks. His eyes glow just like the first time he said "Ah tee".
A tear trickles across my cheek. The other moms console me. "It was only a cup, Suse." If only they knew.
Katy's mom adds, "Nobody hurt anybody, that's what counts."
"Mommy, yook!" I hear Jackson saying, and through the mist in my eyes I see a white cup bobbing up and down, like Jackson's future, up and down.
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5/1/2002
This story was out on the main pages last fall, before the workshop pages existed. I received helpful critiques in both areas, and this is the revised version.
I have had a couple comments (not just here) about the readers wondering what is 'wrong' with Jackson. THe reason I can't seem to find a logical place to put in an explaination is, I finally realized, because, at the age of three, although the parents likely sense something's not quite right, they often credit those differences to the simple fact that individual kids develop at different paces.
I hoped to give the reader that same frustrated sensation of the parents knowing but *not* knowing.
For the record, the boy in this story is an Asperger's Syndrome child.
Nan
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