Slippery Slope

It’s a bit of a cliché. The three days in which I had to prepare a talk on the joys of life with Max, were the same three days in which Max decided to follow his genetic predisposition and become the kind of teenager I was – moody, irritable, and at risk of being sold to the nearest band of gypsies. We went to the beach…he lost his iPod. We went to a parade…he lost his wallet. We came home…I tried my best not to “lose it.”

Max was nervous, that’s all. I knew he was struggling with anxiety because I felt it too. In just a few days we would leave for Florida to stay in a hotel for several nights. Max had never done that! And he’d never eaten every meal in a hotel restaurant, or walked into a conference hall the size of a the Astro Dome. And if it didn’t work, there would be no turning back, no way out. But we had a wonderful opportunity in front of us. The Autism Society would be presenting Dancing with Max with an award, and had invited me to speak at their national conference. Imagine, hundreds of people who understand autism under one roof. And it would all happen at a fantastic resort at the epicenter of fun: Orlando. As much as I was nervous to the point of a three-day migraine, how could I leave Max at home?

We arrived at the hotel and Max immediately approved our room based on the Kohler toilet and breathtaking window view of the highway, two essential features of any fine resort. He liked it – we had our first victory. My niece came with us to help, and the three of us found the one restaurant that would allow us all to order from the kid’s menu. The waitress brought us water, and crayons, and told us that we were just in time for the band. My stomach dropped. I turned to my niece and looked at her as if the waitress had just announced that the restaurant would be lit on fire momentarily. But when the band began to play, Max didn’t bolt. Instead, he began to sing.

I let out a deep breath and soaked in the moment. After a week of packing and organizing and stress, we had finally arrived. And it was working. Even though I didn’t feel like I’d had enough time to properly prepare for my talk on faith and joy, the trip was already a success. I could feel my confidence level rising and tapped my niece on the arm. “After this,” I said cryptically. “Lets go to the…” and jabbed my finger toward the pool. Her face lit up.

With our bathing suits on, we took a walk around the grounds of the resort, which were more manicured than my fingernails ever thought of being. There was a golf course, a bocce ball court, even a croquet lawn. We studied our map and set out for the larger of the two pools.

As we approached the fence we could see hints of a tropical island paradise, crystal blue water with exotic tiles around the edges. I grabbed for the gate but hesitated as I read the sign, “Adults Only.” No problem, I thought. Max is 20. My niece is 18. And even though we all ate off the children’s menu, I certainly qualify as an adult. We peered over the gate and studied the pool for a moment. There were just a few heads peeking above the water line, still as statues, floating like coconuts. There wasn’t a ripple in the water. I could almost hear elevator music playing in the minds of the soakers.

“Maybe we should check the other pool,” my niece suggested.

“Right,” I nodded.

The other pool was not for “Adults Only.” The other pool did not have a volume control. The other pool was churning with children like a vat of piranha. Bingo! The three of us plunged into the water and began jumping and splashing.

My niece stopped for a moment and giggled. “Aunt Emily,” she whispered. “You…still have your glasses on.”

“I know,” I said, trying to make an excuse. “I didn’t have time to put in my contacts.” But I could see by subtle the look on her face that I had crossed over a non-negotiable line. My niece, who has recently been accepted into MIT, is qualified to identify a nerd when she sees one. And after all, I thought, I’m speaking here tomorrow. And I’m the only speaker without a long list of letters after my name. I looked around at all the other adults who were sitting in lounge chairs beside the pool. They were sipping cocktails, and dressed in sporty resort wear. Maybe I should think about my image, I realized. Perhaps I should appear a bit more sophisticated.

I slipped out of the pool and bravely set my glasses on my towel. Instantly, the air became soft and moist and colors danced around me in a filmy fog. I turned back toward the large blue area and walked forward to find Max and my niece. Max was easy to pick out, jumping and squealing with joy. I could hear the palm trees rustling around us with the wind.

“Mom,” Max yelled as I got into the pool. “Let’s go down the slide!” Even without my glasses I couldn’t miss the 20 foot-high vivid green octopus stationed along the edge of the pool. I turned to watch a few blurry children shoot out of the slide, become air born for a moment, and then plunge face first into the water. This didn’t exactly fit the sophisticated image I was going for. But I couldn’t resist Max’s enthusiasm. So the three of us climbed the steps of the over-sized sea creature and stood in line. A crowd of curious 8 year olds stared up at us, cutting in front of me as if I weren’t actually in line. My niece went down the slide first so that she could catch Max, and I got ready to follow Max. I sat at the top of that slide for a moment with the wind blowing against my wet skin. I could hear several 8 year-olds vying for their chance to be next in line. “I’m going after the lady,” I heard one child demand in a squeaky voice. And I started to laugh. This is what I came to talk about, I thought. This is the best preparation for my presentation. I gave myself a push, and flew helplessly down the side of that green octopus. There was no stopping mid-way. No changing my mind.

We must have gone down that slide together 30 times before Max realized that it was even funnier to watch me go down it alone, his mother landing in the water with a breath-holding splat. We stayed in the pool right up until dark, when the combination of no glasses and no light became a significant problem. And I was pretty sure I couldn’t depend on those eight year-olds to lead me around. I don’t know if anyone picked me out as a conference presenter, but it’s ok if they did. It’s the reason I came to the conference, and the reason Max and my niece came with me – to tell others about the kind of joy that redefines the journey.

And, if they were watching me, I’ll never know. I didn’t have my glasses on.

---

Comments RSS You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.