So it happened again today. I had another one of those bizarre, frustrating and altogether comical interactions with my son.
Let me just play the scene out for you:
Upon going to the bathroom I realize we're out of toilet paper. I announce this to the house.
My husband (do I have to point out to everyone that he was joking?) responds with, "Time to pull out the corncobs!" To which I reply, "I don't think I want to fight the chickens for those!" (Yes, we have chickens, and so should you.)
My Aspy teen looks at me in bewilderment. "Why do you have to fight the chickens for the corncobs? What will you do with the corncobs?"
I take a deep breath, count to five in my head, and then forge into an explanation for him, "Well, honey, in the old days the pioneers didn't have grocery stores, let alone toilet paper, on the frontier. What do you think they used when they had to wipe their butts?"
My son stares at me blankly. Much like a chicken.
"Honey," I say, "they used corncobs."
My son's eyes grow wide. "Really?"
"Yes, dear. Really."
He stares at me for another agonizing second before saying, "I think there are some corncobs on top of the chicken coop."
My husband, working in his office, doesn't hear this whole conversation. The only thing he hears is my adamant response: "GABE, I AM NOT WIPING MY ASS WITH A CORNCOB!!!"
To my husband's amused cackling, my son says, "What?"
And THAT, my friends, is what it's like to live with someone with Asperger's Syndrome.
Let me just play the scene out for you:
Upon going to the bathroom I realize we're out of toilet paper. I announce this to the house.
My husband (do I have to point out to everyone that he was joking?) responds with, "Time to pull out the corncobs!" To which I reply, "I don't think I want to fight the chickens for those!" (Yes, we have chickens, and so should you.)
My Aspy teen looks at me in bewilderment. "Why do you have to fight the chickens for the corncobs? What will you do with the corncobs?"
I take a deep breath, count to five in my head, and then forge into an explanation for him, "Well, honey, in the old days the pioneers didn't have grocery stores, let alone toilet paper, on the frontier. What do you think they used when they had to wipe their butts?"
My son stares at me blankly. Much like a chicken.
"Honey," I say, "they used corncobs."
My son's eyes grow wide. "Really?"
"Yes, dear. Really."
He stares at me for another agonizing second before saying, "I think there are some corncobs on top of the chicken coop."
My husband, working in his office, doesn't hear this whole conversation. The only thing he hears is my adamant response: "GABE, I AM NOT WIPING MY ASS WITH A CORNCOB!!!"
To my husband's amused cackling, my son says, "What?"
And THAT, my friends, is what it's like to live with someone with Asperger's Syndrome.
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| FAIL! |
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