Category Archives: Speech

“Why?”

Answering “why” questions is usually quite difficult if not impossible for many autistic children.  Emma is no exception.  Usually a conversation, which starts with “Why?” ends as abruptly as it began.

“Hey Em, why do you want to do that?”  “Why do you want to go there?”  “Why are you screaming?” “Why are you sad?” “Why are you hitting yourself?” etc.

99.9% of the time when asked “why?” Emma will either – walk away, not answer or will answer by repeating the question.

“Why?” Emma will respond in a high-pitched voice edged with anxiety.  “Why you hitting,” or “Why want to?”

Repeating the question does not produce positive results.  Repeating the question in a louder voice also does not make a difference.  After all there is nothing wrong with Emma’s hearing.  She hears the question she just has a difficult time responding.  So it was noteworthy when Emma responded to a “why” question the other day.

Emma wanted to have a pair of scissors so as to cut the gym mat we had tied around a standing beam for Nic to use when practicing his karate punches and kicks.

“Emma why do you want to take it down?” Richard asked.

“Because I want to jump into the swimming pool,” came Emma’s surprising response.

Now many of you reading this may be confused by her words, but to us, who understood she meant she wanted to turn the multi-colored gym mat on it’s other side, which happens to be all blue, and pretend it’s a swimming pool, we were in shock that she answered a “why” question and answered it so beautifully with a clear, concise, complete sentence.

When Richard told me I couldn’t believe it.  “Really?” I said, barely able to contain my excitement.  “Really?  She said because?”

Richard nodded his head.

“But that’s amazing!”

“Yup,” Richard said.

So Richard cut the mat down, told her to put on her swimsuit and let her “dive” into the “swimming pool”.

Ah life at the Zurcher-Long’s… it just never gets boring around here.

“Caesar Stop the Music!”

These are the words Emma sings, to the Rihanna song, Please Don’t Stop the Music, which despite our corrections, she insists on singing her way.

“Emma!  It’s not Caesar, it’s Please don’t stop the music!”  We have said on more than one occasion.

Often she will correct herself, only to return to – “Caesar stop the music”, and then she’ll laugh and continue the song.   “Caesar stop the music, Caesar stop the music, Caesar stop the music, Caesar stop the music!”

What follows is pretty garbled and since I don’t know the words to the song, impossible for me to decode.  But after the garbled words she will usually hum, keeping the tune intact, before singing, “I wanna take you away, let’s escape…” more garbled words and humming, before launching into the grand finale, “Caesar stop the, Caesar stop the, Caesar stop the, Caesar stop the music!”

This is Emma at her silliest and yet most endearing.  I know she knows the lyrics.  We’ve corrected her dozens of times.  I know she can say the correct words as I’ve heard her on rare occasion say them.  But “Caesar stop the music” is the way she prefers to sing the song.

That Emma “plays” with words – although that may be a gross misreading of what is actually going on – is something I’ve always found fascinating.  As a toddler, she would say things none of us could understand, but over time we were able to decipher.  Often they were nonsense words, which in no way resembled the actual word used for the object she was referring to, such as “Cokie” for blanket.  For months we thought she was asking to eat a cookie.  And then there are the words she uses to describe things, a kind of poetic beauty, as when she called rain, “bubbles”.  There is a literalness to that – if you examine the rain as it falls from the sky it does resemble tiny bubbles and when it falls to the ground it will often form a bubble, but it isn’t something I would ever have come up with.

Emma also uses words, both descriptive as well as strangely similar to the actual words as she does with the stars in the night, “sorry bubbles”, “cheese solos” for cheese doodles.  It’s interesting to note, for a child who is so literal she cannot come up with a name for her baby doll, but instead calls her, “baby” or “doll” or “girl” that Emma creates such unusual words to describe other things.  It is, perhaps, this literal application to things which we take for granted or do not even notice that makes her choice of words so interesting.

As always I am left wishing I could be inside her body and mind for an hour to feel, hear, see and experience the world as she does.

Thanksgiving With Emma

Yesterday we hosted Thanksgiving at our place.  It makes it easier for us in many ways to be home, as I love to cook and Emma can race around on her scooter while the rest of us enjoy each other’s company and later sit down to a thanksgiving feast.  Whenever we have a large celebratory gathering at our house, I put out a place setting for Emma, even though we know she won’t sit and eat any of the food I’ve prepared.  As I set the table yesterday afternoon, I allowed myself to imagine for a minute what it would be like to have all of us gathered for a meal, something I looked forward to with almost frenzied excitement as a child.  Not so with Emma.  Unless birthday cake is being served and then only if it’s vanilla cake with vanilla frosting, Emma can be counted on to forgo the meal.  Since she also cannot communicate in any substantial way, there is absolutely no allure for her to sit with us and we’ve given up insisting that she try.

So it was yesterday as our guests began to arrive, Emma in her “pretty dress” which actually was a taffeta skirt with tulle and a black turtleneck.  Emma insisted on yanking the skirt down around her hips so the gap between where the turtleneck ended and the waistband of the skirt began was substantial, giving the whole ensemble a kind of weird, grungy chic.  She shot around the living room on her scooter, while Nic joined us for conversation and hors d’oeuvres.

“Edie bring Toni books?” Emma asked as I was pulling the turkey out of the oven, checking on the nearly burned roasted vegetables and wondering whether I had ruined the meal, while the mashed potatoes warmed in the oven and the brussel sprouts were being sauted on the stove.

“What?” I asked.

“Edie bring Toni books?” Emma repeated.

“Who’s Edie?” one of our guests inquired.

“He delivers UPS packages.”

“Edie come?” Emma asked.

“Yes, Em, let’s order some books tomorrow and Edie can deliver them.  But you have to tell me what books you want,” I said.

“Edie come?  Edie bring Toni books?”

It’s not clear why Emma has equated my sister or someone else with the name Toni, with getting books.  The last book Edie delivered for Emma was a book we couldn’t find at Barnes & Noble, so ordered online a few months ago.   Ever since, but recently with increasing excitement Emma has been requesting that Edie deliver books to her.  We have asked her numerous times to specify what book she is hoping to receive, with little success.

Eventually Emma gave up and contented herself with listening to music on her ipod only reappearing at the end of the meal.  “Dinner is all done,” Emma announced.

We had retired to the living room so no one was offended and thankfully she did not start bringing people their coats.  “Yes, Em.  That’s right.  Dinner is over now,” I said.

“Emma blow out the candles?”  Emma said as she leaned over the dining room table and blew a candle out.

“Yes, Em.  Go ahead.”  After which, Emma could be heard singing loudly to various music videos in her bedroom.

“Wow!  She really has a great sense of rhythm,” one of our guests noted.

This morning I went online with Emma and she chose several books, which I ordered and expect will be delivered in another week or so.  “Edie bring Emma books?”  Emma said when we finished the checkout process.

“Yes!” I said.  ”You should get them in another week.”

“Next week,” Emma said, nodding her head.

“Yes.”

“Go to gymnastics?”  Emma said.

The School Bus

We received a call yesterday from Emma’s school saying the bus driver had yelled at Emma in front of the other children when she was getting off the bus. The driver claimed Emma had spit in her face. Richard and I were incredulous as neither of us have ever seen Emma spit nor did I think Emma was physically capable of projecting a pool of saliva from her mouth at a target, human or otherwise.
When we asked Emma what happened on the bus, she replied, “Emma so sad. You make Emma cry. Emma want to get off the bus.”
“Why did you want to get off the bus, Em?”
“Lady. You have to ask the lady. Lady, can I get off the bus?” Emma said while wrapping a strand of hair around and around her finger.
“What did the lady say?”
“NO! Emma sad.”
“But Em, what happened?”
“Emma go to gymnastics?” She looked at me and nodded her head.
“Yes, Sweetie. You’re going to gymnastics this afternoon,” I said.
By the time the bus arrived, Richard and I were no clearer on the actual events than before. As with many autistic children, their (in)ability to speak is much more than a language delay. The language they have is often garbled, confused and the thinking difficult, if impossible to follow. Emma’s reference to gymnastics in answer to my request for clarification as to the events on the bus suggested she feared she wouldn’t be able to go to gymnastics as a result. She had done something wrong, someone was angry, her beloved gymnastics would be taken away. Even after I reassured her she would be attending gymnastics, she continued to ask several more times.
Last night Emma woke me at 1:47AM screaming, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy come!”
When I went into her room I told her if she continued to scream we would not let her go to gymnastics, something she’s been looking forward to for several days. It does make sense how she might conclude gymnastics was up for grabs, given the upset on the bus.
When the bus arrived we asked what happened.
The driver leaned forward and said, “She spit in my face. I told her that wasn’t okay.”
“She spit in your face?” I repeated.
“Yeah. In my face. She sits there spitting on the floor and then blames another kid, but it’s not him that’s doing it, it’s her. She’s the one who’s spitting,” the driver said.
“It’s hard for us to believe this, as we’ve never seen her spit at anyone,” Richard replied.
“Yeah, well I think she picked it up from the other kid, cause he use to spit, but now she does more than him and blames him.”
“Okay. Then what happened?”
“I told her – it’s not okay. You can’t do that,” the driver said. “She went like this,” the driver took her hand put it to her mouth and flicked out with her fingers. “She spit at me and I told her you can’t do that.”
“Okay, do you mind if I get on the bus to talk to her?” I asked.
The bus driver nodded her head.
“Em, you can’t spit. Do you know what that means?” I asked.
Emma stared at me and said, “You have to ask Mommy.”
“No Em. You just can’t spit. You have to keep your fingers out of your mouth. You have to keep your gum in your mouth. Okay?”
“Okay,” Emma answered.
“She doesn’t listen,” the bus matron said.
“It’s not that she doesn’t listen, it’s that she doesn’t understand what’s being said to her,” I began.
“Yeah, but she doesn’t listen,” the matron said, shaking her head and staring at Emma who was now seated directly behind the driver with her seat belt buckled.
“She doesn’t understand what’s being said to her, it’s different than not listening,” I said.
“No I know. I understand these kid’s situation. I’ve been driving kids like this for a long time,” the driver said. The matron stood by shaking her head. As all of this was going on one of the children kept getting up from her seat and standing in the aisle.
“Logan! Sit back down!” the driver said, loudly.
“Logan! Sit down!” Emma parroted.
“She doesn’t understand why you’re angry with her. She doesn’t understand what it means to spit at someone,” I said. “Yelling at her won’t make her understand any better.”
“Oh no. I don’t yell. I never yelled at her,” the driver said. “I just told her like this,” she then spoke in a kind voice, “You can’t do that, it’s not okay.”
Richard and I looked at one another. “Okay, well please tell us if anything like this happens again.”
“She’ll have a new driver after the holiday,” the driver informed us. “But I know her, she’s a friend of mine, I’ll tell her what’s going on.”
By the time the bus left with Emma inside it, Richard and I stood together and watched it go. I felt a familiar constriction in my chest. How can we know what really happened? Our daughter is incapable of telling us her version of what occurred, the school wasn’t on the bus until after the “incident” happened, though they did witness the driver shouting at Emma. The accounts from the driver and the bus matron, who appear to have little if any knowledge of autism and certainly no training in autism, are all we have.

Milestones and Miracles

As we sat at the dinner table last night celebrating our dear friend Claudie’s birthday, I saw Emma ride up to Nic on her scooter and stand in front of him as he sat on the couch listening to music on his iPod.

“Hey Nic!” she said.

It was very unusual for Emma to go up to Nic and speak to him so directly so I nudged Ariane who was sitting next to me, and pointed in their direction.

“Hey Nic!” Emma repeated. “Will you come to mommy’s room with me and watch Elmo?”

We were absolutely floored. Ecstatic. Choking up with emotion. Not only was this one of the longest and most articulate sentences Emma has ever spoken, it was also directed at Nic, asking him to do something together with her.

For any parent of two normal children, this would be something you take totally for granted — something you would have witnessed twenty million times by the time your children were 10 and 8 years old. For us it was first, a true milestone, as significant as when Nic and Emma took their first steps or spoke their first words. More than that, it was something we had hoped and prayed would happen for such a very long time. Something we feared might never happen.

It was a miracle.

We looked at our guests with our mouths hanging open in shock and wonder, then began hugging and kissing each other in joy and gratitude. It was such a special moment, made even more special by the great good fortune of being able to share that wondrous milestone with such special friends. Claudie said it was the best birthday present she ever had. Elaine knew exactly what we were feeling and how significant it was, having experienced parental challenges so much more arduous and painful than anything we have weathered.

I went with Emma and Nic into our bedroom and helped her put the Elmo DVD on, then spied on them from around the corner, my ears perked up for any more dialog that might be forthcoming. They just sat together silently, watching Elmo, Nic barely able to tolerate it, but being such a great sport, Emma looking so happy in his company.

Eyes were teary as we put the candles on Claudie’s cake, then called for Nic and Emma to join us. Emma came running in like a freight train, since two of her favorite activities in the world are singing Happy Birthday and blowing out candles. True to form, Emma led the chorus, singing as loudly and cheerfully as always. When the song finished, Claudie started to blow out the candles but Emma leaned across the table and blew out most of them first.

“Emma, those are Claudie’s candles,” Ariane admonished, then asked Claudie if she wanted us to re-light them.

“No,” Claudie said, “I already made my wish.”

And we had one of ours granted.

Societal Subtleties

Emmy, I’m leaving.  Have a good day with Joe,” I said, as I was getting ready to go.  I went over to where Emma lay under the duvet in our bed with her earphones on listening to one of her favorite songs, The Beatles – Happy Birthday.  “I love you, Em.” I said as I bent down to kiss her.  She turned her head, as she almost always does, so that I kissed her forehead.

“So much,” Came Emma’s muffled answer.

“I love you so much,” I said, kissing her cheeks.  Emma said nothing in response.  I waited for a few seconds, “Em, you say – I love you Mommy.”

“I love you…” Emma looked at me as I pointed to myself.  “Emma,” she added smiling.

“Not Emma!” I said, kissing her again.  “I love…” I pointed to myself.

“Mommy!”  Emma finished.

“That’s right Em. I say – I love you Emma and you say – I love you Mommy!”

“I love you Mommy!” Emma echoed, before ducking her head down under the covers.

I went out to the living room.  “Bye Nic.  I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom,” Nic said without hesitation.

Just another morning in the Zurcher-Long household, such simple things we so easily take for granted, are stumbling blocks for Emma.  It’s not only pronouns that trip her up.  It’s the simple human niceties we do and say to one another that mystify her too.

After months of prompting, Emma now will say, “I’m fine” in answer to, “How are you?”  She understands the rote answer is what is expected and what will suffice.

“Most people really don’t want to know how you really are,” a friend of mine said to me once.  “They’re just asking because it’s expected and they don’t want to seem rude.  But can you imagine if you answered them honestly.  You know, by saying something like:  Not so well.  I’m struggling with some thorny issues I’d like your advice on.”

I interjected,  “Or – let’s sit down, this may take a few minutes.”

“Exactly, I mean that’s why everyone goes to a shrink,” my friend said matter-of-factly.

A Cry For Help

“Mommy!  I need help!” Emma said last night at 3:30AM.  Her cheeks damp with tears, her face conveyed the discomfort she felt.

“Here Em, try to yawn.  Go like this,” I said opening my mouth wide and moving my lower jaw from side to side.  We’ve been over this, countless times in the past week.  It was the same dialogue, just a different day, different hour of the night.  I became aware of the pressure in my own head, making my ears pop.  The air pressure outside must have changed during the night I thought.

Emma has become hypersensitive to any slight change in air pressure.  She tries to pop her ears by holding her nose and blowing, turning her face red until the pressure is alleviated.  Sometimes her method seems to even work.  One of us taught her to do this on an airplane once, I can no longer remember when or which one of us.  But it served its purpose and now she’s convinced it will help any time she feels any pressure.  The problem is, it also appears to cause the uncomfortable sensation and exacerbates the pressure when we are firmly on land and not flying in an airplane.  Explaining this to Emma has not proven helpful.  She cannot understand the subtleties of the situation.  When in an airplane hold your nose and blow out, when on land try to yawn.

“Mommy!  Mommy!”  Emma cried.  Her eyes searched mine, panic rising.

“I know baby, come here,” I said.  I tried to massage her ears by pulling gently on the lobes.  I pretended to yawn hoping this would produce a yawn from her.  It did not.  Emma does not yawn in response to seeing someone else yawn the way most of us neuro-typicals do.  When I yawn, Emma watches me and continues doing whatever it is she was doing before I yawned.  I found my mind going off on a tangent about what this means, mirror neurons and the like.

“Mommy!  I need help?” Emma said this last as though it were a question.  As though she were asking – Do you need help?  Instead of what she means, a demand for some assistance, a plea to have her mother make the pain go away.  Except I cannot make the pain go away, I can only try to get her to yawn.  I tried again.

“Do this Em,” I pretended to yawn, only this time I actually did yawn.

Emma watched me intently.  She opened her mouth and breathed out.  She could not make the connection.  She wasn’t able to make her ears pop, she was unable to reduce the pressure even if only momentarily.  Emma held her nose and breath, pushing her cheeks out, like a trumpet player.

“There.  That’s better,” she said.  A second later she was at it again, crying and requesting help.

I stroked her head and tried to talk in a soothing tone.  “It’ll be okay, Em,” I said, unsure what else to say or do.

Emma nodded her head.  “You have to yawn,” she said.

“That’s right Em.  Try to yawn,” I agreed.  I waited a few seconds then asked, “Is it better now?”

“Yes.  Better,” she said.  “Time to go to sleep.  It’s okay,” she said, snuggling down under the sheets.

“Yes.  Good idea.  Try to sleep,” I said.

As I write this I am aware of the continued pressure in my head.  I wonder if I have this feeling all the time, but just shut it out.  Now I too am hyper aware of the sensation.  Not painful exactly, but uncomfortable.  I imagine what it would feel like if I didn’t know it was due to the changing weather, the fluctuating air pressure.  I do not panic when I feel it because I know it will go away of its own accord and it’s not intolerable.  But what if I couldn’t understand what it was?  What if I couldn’t understand the explanations given to me?  What if it was just something that happened, seemingly arbitrarily, with no remedy?

Would I panic?  Would I cry out for help?

Yes.  I would.

Jessie & “Dolls”

Autistic children are known for their inability to engage in imaginary play.  A defining moment for my husband, Richard and me was when it was pointed out Emma did not seem interested in any form of pretend play.  Until then I had reasoned:  she was too much of a tomboy, she didn’t like dolls, she was like my sister, it ran in the family.  But the truth was; not only did Emma lack any interest in dolls, she showed no interest in stuffed animals or toys of any kind including horses, a favorite of my sister’s when she was small.

When Emma began playing with her monster, Muzzy, we were elated.  Despite the comments other children, especially little girls who saw Emma, made.  “Mommy, why does she have a monster in her stroller?” One such child asked in puzzled wonder this summer.

“I don’t know honey,” the mother said, looking from me to Emma with a speculative glance as she grabbed her child’s hand and hurried away.

Comments aside, we were ecstatic.  Muzzy was the first toy Emma had shown any sustained interest in.  Granted she played with Muzzy in an odd way – tossing him in the air while laughing, throwing him on the ground so he would, “hurt his head” – it was play however unusual, which suggested tremendous progress.  See Em & Muzzy, Emma’s Pal Muzzy & The Porkmepine and Panama – Day 3.

Last night when Emma disappeared into her bedroom only to emerge moments later carrying not one, but two of her dolls, I was again ecstatic.

“Richard!” I whispered.  “Look!”

Emma sat on the couch holding Jessie who had on a fabulous green coat over her chaps and another doll I’d forgotten we even had.  Granted the doll’s hair looked like a “bad hair day” poster child, but Emma seemed unaware and proceeded to hold each in one hand making them bop up and down.

“It’s Jessie,” Emma said, surveying her red cowboy hat with a discerning eye.

“And what about her?  What’s her name?” I asked gesturing to the other doll.

“Dolls”, Emma said.

“But what’s her name?” I asked again.

“Her name Dolls,” Emma said, turning her back to me.

Emma with Jessie and “Dolls”

Emma did not engage in much language as she played and rebuffed our attempts to “play act”.   But she said hi to Jessie and observed Jessie was hot and needed to take her hat and coat off.  She repeated this with “Dolls”.

Emma Taking Off Jessie’s Hat

At a certain point she looked over at Richard with an impish grin and said, “Dolls fall down?”

“Is the doll falling down?” I said.

“Uh!  Uh!  Uh! Uh!” Emma laughed before flinging the doll to the floor.  Then she pretended to cry and said, “Doll crying, doll hurt.  Doll hurt her head.”

“Oh no!  Did she fall?  Is she alright?”

“Down, down, down!  Help you up, help you up!” Emma said in a sing songy voice.

“Who’s going to help her up, Em?” I asked.

“Help you up,” Emma said again.

“Are you going to help her?” I asked.

“Doll, Doll, come!” Emma said.   Emma leaned down and made the doll pat her head while saying, “Doll hurt her head.”

Emma became stuck in a verbal loop with the above dialogue, repeating it over and over again.

Richard and I suggested she be the one to help Doll up, which she finally did.

“Thank you!” Emma said as she lifted Doll up and gently placed her on the couch.  “Doll crying, Doll see Mommy, Doll hurt her head,” Emma said.

“Oh, no!  Let me see,” I said.

“Hi Mommy, time to go home,” Emma said without giving me Doll.

“Can I hold her, Em?” I asked.

“Time to go home,” Emma repeated, ignoring me.  Then she put Doll’s coat back on and laid her carefully on the ground.  “Good night,” she said, pretending to be the doll.

“Good night Dolls,” Emma said, in response.

Hey it’s play, no matter how bizarre.  It is imaginary play.  Each tiny step of progress, no matter how small, is progress.

“But She Looks So Normal!”

Is what someone said to me the other day when I mentioned the reason Emma wasn’t responding immediately was because she’s autistic.  And when Emma finally did respond, it was with a reply which had no application to the question asked.

If we went on looks alone, we would all be in trouble.  However in Emma’s case it both serves her as well as complicates things.  People look at Emma and assume she’s “normal”.  They see an athletic, cheerful child.  It is difficult for people to believe she cannot communicate as other children her age do.

I have had the experience of being told on more occasions than I can count, “Oh my toddler does that too!”  or “She sounds just like my son!” and then they go on to tell me stories about their impish child’s antics which remind them of Emma.  Except that Emma is not an extremely tall two-year old who is acting out.  She is an autistic eight-year old who’s verbal skills continue to progress at a snail’s pace.  When people comment she is like a two-year old, they are right in some ways, but in most ways it is an incorrect assumption.  Emma is not “delayed”, she’s autistic and there is a vast difference between the two.

Explaining Emma to our son Nic, has forced me to become aware of just how complicated it is to describe her.  To say that she is doing something – biting herself, for example – as a way to get attention, would be incorrect.  Emma is not seeking attention.  I believe she is trying to gain control around a situation, which is uncontrollable.  The pain she causes herself is more tolerable than the pain she feels from a situation she has no power over.

When I look at her brain scans and see the lack of symmetry, the bright colors, which should be dark, like a strange Rorschach test gone wildly awry, I try to detect patterns.  I try to make sense of what I’m seeing, but cannot.

“Emma’s brain is not like ours,” I tell my son and myself in times of upset.  She does not think, feel, see or hear as we do.  She is decidedly “other”.

But how to explain this to the family on the airplane we recently took when asked if they wouldn’t mind sitting across the aisle from their grown children so that we might sit next to Emma?

When they refused, the father added, “I don’t see what the big deal is, you’re sitting near her, just the aisle’s between you.”

How does one then explain how agitated Emma will become?  How can one really make people understand, who have little or no contact with autistic children or if they have, one unlike Emma?  Of course Emma did become agitated and eventually we found two kind souls many rows back who were happy to take our seats so we could sit next to Emma, disaster narrowly averted.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like to parent an autistic child,” a friend of mine said a few weeks ago.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to have two neuro-typical children,” I responded.  Afterwards, I thought about our conversation.  I really cannot imagine.  Emma informs every aspect of our lives.  When Emma says or does something new we record it.   Every milestone, each new word uttered is met with astonished elation.

I remember when Richard and I were planning our wedding.  A friend of Richard’s told us to take a few moments to absorb everything that was happening because it would go by so quickly.  We took his advice and to this day I can remember the beautiful floral wreath arrangements hanging from each lighting fixture, the candles casting their golden shadows across the room, Richard’s handsome face as I walked down the aisle toward him.  I remember because I stopped for a moment and took the time to take it all in.

Emma has provided us with something similar.  Her progress is so slow.  We celebrate each and every tiny step forward.  Of course we are also forced to spend much more time than we’d like, being present for the steps not taken, the fumbles, the excruciating process of growing up in a world where people do not understand, who judge Emma and us, assume she’s a “normal” child who is just being obstinate, difficult or “spoiled”.

The trick is to savor it all, I suppose.  A trick I continue to work on.

A Conundrum

We are often baffled by words Emma says which we do not understand the context or meaning of.  See Emma’s Language and Sunday Morning’s Conversation for more.   A few weeks ago we were dumbfounded by the utterance, “cheese-solos” which Emma requested over and over again.  Prior to that it was something that sounded like, “atta-tah”.  It turned out the first was cheese doodles, evidently given to her as a snack at her school, but since we never bought them, it took a moment of sheer genius on Joe’s part to make the connection.  The latter turned out to be, “go to town” as in “No we’re not going to go to town.”  Except Emma would say, “No, we’re not going atta-tah.”  Even as a baby, Emma’s first words were, “All done!” though it sounded more like “ah-dah”.  As she has grown older the words continue to confound us, but even when they are intelligible they often do not make sense to any of us.  For the past few weeks in answer to the question – what would you like to do today? – Emma has responded with, “Go to downtown Aspen, push the button game?”

One day last week Joe, determined to get to the bottom of this, spent some two hours in town with Emma trying to figure out what she meant.  He came home as perplexed as when he’d left.

So when Emma said to me, “Downtown Aspen?  Push the button game?”

I inwardly groaned as I knew we would be spending a great deal of time wandering around town trying to find a game which I no longer was convinced she even knew what or where it was played.  But Nic was at the skateboard park with my friend Claudia, so I figured I would go wherever Emma pointed me and see where our adventure took us.

“Go this way,” Emma said from the back seat of the car, pointing in the direction leading toward Independence Pass.

“But Em, that will take us out of town,” I said.

Emma nodded her head.  “Go downtown?” she said with the inflection making it sound like she was posing a question.

“If I turn left Em, we will be heading out of town,” I said, hoping this would clarify things.

“Yes,” Emma said.

“Okay,” I said, taking the next left leading us out of town.  “Is this the right way?” I asked after a few minutes.

“Yes?” Emma said.

“Okay, Em.  You want to go out of town.  This is not downtown, this is leaving town,” I said.

“Leave town?” Emma repeated.

“Where should I go now?” I asked as we passed the turn off to the Aspen Club.

“Go this way?” Emma said.

“Which way, Em.  You have to point,” I said looking at her in the rear view mirror.

“Go this way?” Emma said pointing to the turn off for the cemetery where both my grandparents are buried as well as my father and a number of family pets.

“Oh, do you want to go to the cemetery?” I asked.

“Cemetery?” Emma repeated.  “Push the button game?”

“Okay, Em,” I said as we neared the padlocked gates.  I stopped the car.  “Is this where you play push the button game?”

“No!  Downtown Aspen!” Emma cried.

“But Em, I’ve been asking you where you want to go and you told me to come here. I’ve gone exactly where you wanted, I just can’t understand where it is you want to go,” I said, exasperation and exhaustion crept into my voice.

“Go downtown Aspen?”  Emma managed to say in between tears.

“But Em we just were downtown, remember?  We spent at least 45 minutes downtown with Muzzy in the stroller,” I said.

“Go downtown, push the button?”  Emma repeated sobbing.

“Em.  I give up.  I don’t know where you want to go.  Should we go back to Granma’s?”

“Push the button,” Emma, now inconsolable, cried.

As I turned the ignition on, Richard called asking how things were going and where we were.  He agreed to come meet us at the skateboard park and said he’d take Emma.

The entire way back into town, Emma cried in the back seat, “Push the button!”  Then she paused and said, “Shhhh!  You have to be quiet.  Stop screaming.”  Listening to her I could hear the echo of other people in her life, speaking to her.  Not only was she repeating what had been said to her, she was also adopting the tone and inflection of the many people in her life who have cared for her over the years.

Hours later, while Nic, Claudia and I sat outside the fountain in the middle of town, Richard and Emma appeared.

“Hey!  How did it go?” I asked.

“Well, my theory regarding the push the button game was correct,” Richard said triumphant.

“What theory?” I asked.

“I told you the other day,” Richard said.

“You did not!” I said.

“I did.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s a water sculpture and fountain on the other side of the mall.  If you look at it from a certain angle it kind of looks like a hot tub and she pretends to push a button to make the water jets come on.”  Richard looked at us.

“I cannot believe it,” I said, looking at Emma who was happily sitting on the chair across from me.  “You’re a genius,” I said to Richard.

“The only problem with being a genius is no one recognizes it,” Richard said.