8:00 a.m. “We have to be out the
door in 10 minutes. Everyone finish
up and go downstairs!” Two kids
head down the stairs—in bare feet.

I throw socks down after them, then
deal with my seemingly calm autistic
child. I get Joey dressed, and he tells
me he still has not eaten. I sheepishly
heat up some pizza.

8:05 a.m. I’m putting the pizza in a to-go
container, and the kids are talking. No one
has on a jacket yet and only one is wearing
shoes. I hear myself like a broken record:
“Put on your shoes and jackets!” Someone
asks for a snack, and I grab some protein
bars for the car. Then I realize I’m not
dressed. I run up the stairs, and my absence
creates a fight. It’s the daily battle of the
wits between my autistic son and my 2E
son, who currently attends a school for the
gifted. Both have a knowledge of geography
and history well beyond their years—and
neither can EVER be wrong. I need to get
back downstairs. I hurry on some shoes and
manage to brush my teeth. I can brush my
hair later.

8:15 a.m. Crap, coffee. I need to make
some to take with me in the car. I yell out
a one last “get your shoes on” as I head for
the coffee machine. My travel mug is MIA.

Coffee will have to wait. I grab my keys and
get to the door where the boys are arguing
44 Washington FAMILY JULY 2020
Left: Joey and Amelie on a hike
through Great Seneca National
Park. Right: Amelie and Max wading in a
creek near their home.

Bottom: The brothers playing video
games in the basement.

with the song on the radio.

Ah, the true irony of autism:
Everything is too loud for him, yet he
is the loudest person I know.

in each other’s faces and my daughter is
walking around the yard and humming to
herself. I grab the jackets (still on no one’s
body) and head for the minivan.

8:22 a.m. We are on the road to school
No. 1. Max is playing multiple choice:
“The longest river in the world is A: The
Amazon River, B…” I hope my daughter
can guess correctly so that she is not
chastised by the perfectionist.

8:30 a.m. We arrive at the school, and
Max is still talking. I want to scream “just
get out of the car,” but I manage a “have
a great day, I’ll see you after school,”
instead. We are back on the road and Joey
yells at his twin sister for singing along
8:40 a.m. I arrive at school No. 2. There
is a debate as to how far I should walk
them. Do I take them all 500 steps to the
front door of the school, as my daughter
has requested, or stay behind and just
wave to them as they look back, as my son
would like? Eventually, one will run off
and the other will take my hand and walk
me to the front door.

8:55 a.m. I am home. I finally make my
coffee, power on my computer and sigh a
big breath of relief: It’s time to start the
work day. n
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