“O, that way madness lies; let me shun
that; no more of that.”
William Shakespeare, King Lear
Lear’s warning is not about trains or parenting. He is warning himself away from thoughts he fears will drive him mad. As the single father of an autistic son, I have seen that road plenty of times. I simply choose not to walk it.
Yesterday morning, I took George to the train museum west of Chicagoland. We spent hours in his world... a place filled with rails, cabooses, whistles, and the kind of detail that would make most people dizzy.
George has the bloodline for it. One grandpa built trains, and the other played with them. That passion passed from them, through me, and into Georgie.
George knows more about railroads than I ever learned from my father. My father-in-law had an expensive O-gauge model railroad in his basement, and George was the only person PopPop trusted to manage it. That trust began when George, still in toddler mode, fixed an electrical issue that had stumped PopPop for years. Ten minutes under the train board, and the problem was gone.
From the moment we stood in line for tickets until we saw the last display, I noticed I was not alone. The place was packed with parents of autistic kids. Kids who were walking encyclopedias on the Chicago & Northwestern, the demise of streetcars in the 1950s and how many bolts hold a coupler in place.
We parents walked the same tightrope, letting our kids run free inside their passions while keeping the day on the rails.
When George’s mom and I first learned that he was on the spectrum, the doctor told us the halls of the University of Chicago and Northwestern were filled with students just like George Shepley. So were Metra’s trains, pharmacies and even the offices of the people combing through our tax returns.
He wasn’t kidding.
Three and a half years ago, George ran away in the middle of the night and moved in with me full-time. Since then, it has been George and me, with occasional visits from his little brother and sister.
The “challenge” people talk about?
It has been much more of a reward.
George sees things I cannot see. He often finishes my sentences or hijacks them.
Hazel came over this weekend partly to take a nap and partly to collect her birthday present, but to have George hack her laptop. He not only reset her password but also installed something that might allow her to break into her grade-school computer system.
That Is my George.
When he was in fifth grade, he hacked into his school’s system and bypassed its security. The school “invited” him to finish the year at a therapeutic school instead.
Gen Xers will remember Weird Science. My son is one of those nerds, but without the hot chick.
My marriage failed, but my ex gave me the greatest gift of the divorce, the opportunity to raise this boy.
He is the best roommate a divorced dad could ask for.
Yesterday afternoon, the rain came, and the other parents scrambled to keep their kids from melting down. George got loud and angry, but by the time we returned to our neighborhood, he apologized for his anxiety.
I told him it wasn’t necessary and that I was grateful that he recognized it.
I don’t know what the future holds. I worry about him after I am gone. George doesn’t think much about angel numbers or guardian spirits. When I go to heaven, he will not be looking for my signs.
I just hope he finds a train that carries him calmly along his way when I am gone.
I pray the world continues learning how to make room for minds like George’s. Until then, I will keep enough steam in the engine to pull us forward.
Lear wanted to avoid the thoughts that might lead him toward madness.
Not me.
Parenting an autistic son is not madness. The madness would be ignoring who he is and trying to turn him into something he isn’t.
I will take the tracks as they are… curves, switches and slow signals and just try to keep my hand on the throttle.
I apologize for the lack of a smiling sun today. Our reward might be the smell of August rain.
I will take that everyday
William Shakespeare, King Lear
Lear’s warning is not about trains or parenting. He is warning himself away from thoughts he fears will drive him mad. As the single father of an autistic son, I have seen that road plenty of times. I simply choose not to walk it.
Yesterday morning, I took George to the train museum west of Chicagoland. We spent hours in his world... a place filled with rails, cabooses, whistles, and the kind of detail that would make most people dizzy.
George has the bloodline for it. One grandpa built trains, and the other played with them. That passion passed from them, through me, and into Georgie.
George knows more about railroads than I ever learned from my father. My father-in-law had an expensive O-gauge model railroad in his basement, and George was the only person PopPop trusted to manage it. That trust began when George, still in toddler mode, fixed an electrical issue that had stumped PopPop for years. Ten minutes under the train board, and the problem was gone.
From the moment we stood in line for tickets until we saw the last display, I noticed I was not alone. The place was packed with parents of autistic kids. Kids who were walking encyclopedias on the Chicago & Northwestern, the demise of streetcars in the 1950s and how many bolts hold a coupler in place.
We parents walked the same tightrope, letting our kids run free inside their passions while keeping the day on the rails.
When George’s mom and I first learned that he was on the spectrum, the doctor told us the halls of the University of Chicago and Northwestern were filled with students just like George Shepley. So were Metra’s trains, pharmacies and even the offices of the people combing through our tax returns.
He wasn’t kidding.
Three and a half years ago, George ran away in the middle of the night and moved in with me full-time. Since then, it has been George and me, with occasional visits from his little brother and sister.
The “challenge” people talk about?
It has been much more of a reward.
George sees things I cannot see. He often finishes my sentences or hijacks them.
Hazel came over this weekend partly to take a nap and partly to collect her birthday present, but to have George hack her laptop. He not only reset her password but also installed something that might allow her to break into her grade-school computer system.
That Is my George.
When he was in fifth grade, he hacked into his school’s system and bypassed its security. The school “invited” him to finish the year at a therapeutic school instead.
Gen Xers will remember Weird Science. My son is one of those nerds, but without the hot chick.
My marriage failed, but my ex gave me the greatest gift of the divorce, the opportunity to raise this boy.
He is the best roommate a divorced dad could ask for.
Yesterday afternoon, the rain came, and the other parents scrambled to keep their kids from melting down. George got loud and angry, but by the time we returned to our neighborhood, he apologized for his anxiety.
I told him it wasn’t necessary and that I was grateful that he recognized it.
I don’t know what the future holds. I worry about him after I am gone. George doesn’t think much about angel numbers or guardian spirits. When I go to heaven, he will not be looking for my signs.
I just hope he finds a train that carries him calmly along his way when I am gone.
I pray the world continues learning how to make room for minds like George’s. Until then, I will keep enough steam in the engine to pull us forward.
Lear wanted to avoid the thoughts that might lead him toward madness.
Not me.
Parenting an autistic son is not madness. The madness would be ignoring who he is and trying to turn him into something he isn’t.
I will take the tracks as they are… curves, switches and slow signals and just try to keep my hand on the throttle.
I apologize for the lack of a smiling sun today. Our reward might be the smell of August rain.
I will take that everyday
