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“A 200+ page scholarly, footnoted research study from Harvard or Stanford will not have a fraction of the impact that Laura Shumaker’s essay’s have.”

Richard Lavoie, M.A., M.Ed.
“How Difficult Can This Be?”

“It’s So Much Work to Be Your Friend: Helping the Child with Learning Disabilities Find Social Success” (Touchstone/Simon and Schuster). www.jimlavoie.com

Contra Costa Times 6/17/06

“My dad is going to kill me!” my friends used to say when we got caught doing something we shouldn’t, like chewing gum or passing notes during Spanish class. I didn’t like to screw up and disappoint my parents, but let’s face it, no one is perfect, and my dad knew it.

“You never know when you’re going to need an adhesive!” he joked about the gum, then quickly moved on to the story about the time he wet his pants after being caught passing notes himself.

My dad is the nicest guy in the world, and those who don’t know that already figure it out after talking to him for less than a minute He is not just a nice guy, but he is the kind of guy that brings out the best in everyone. He does it with his confident optimism, his smile and his laughing blue eyes that connect with everyone he meets. Even the most severe, humorless or otherwise depressed individual can’t help but smile in return.

“Some people say I’m a cockeyed optimist,” my dad once said, “but it’s worked out fine for me!”

When we were a young family, Dad decided to become a stockbroker after having served in the Navy. A friend of his had told him he would be good at it, and by the time he went for his interview, he was so enthusiastic about the prospect of selling stocks that he told the manager, “I’ll pay you for letting me work here!” My dad brought me to his office frequently to visit and to play with tickertape. I loved to watch him move around his office with his bouncing stride, chest thrust forward, a pleasant look on his face. He juggled phone calls, orders and meetings, then stopped to talk to the characters who wandered off the street to watch the numbers on the big board before whisking me out the door for a sight and smell tour of Chinatown near his office in Oakland. We’d have lunch in one of the many quirky restaurants where everyone knew him, and had heard about me. “So this is that sweet daughter you’ve told us all about!” My heart is still full with the memory of how their words of recognition made me feel. After lunch, we walked back to Dad’s office””he said hello to every one he passed, including the filthy old man sitting in a doorway playing the flute with a mangy old dog and a hat full of coins beside him. When we got back to his office, my mother was waiting in the station wagon to pick me up. My dad gave me a squeeze and my mom a kiss before sending me on my way, tired and happy. I was someone special–I was Phil Bowhay’s daughter.

Growing up, each of Dad’s three kids knew that they were his favorite. Dad took each of us for hikes, one on one, through Redwood Park near our home in Piedmont. When he hiked with me, he would point out Scott Rock and Carrie Creek while in search for Lake Laura. He handed me eucalyptus and bay leaves to sniff, and pointed out the difference between poison oak and blackberry vines. We stood at the base of redwood trees and looked up until we got dizzy and threw rocks down hillsides and listened to them ping, pop and crack until they landed. Magic.

When I was thirteen and sluggish, my dad encouraged me to get up early, early in the morning before the stock market opened and go jogging with him. There were times when I was tempted to tell him I needed to sleep, but by the time he whispered “Ready?” I sprang up in anticipation of our time together, wrapped in the dark and the fog of our town, deserted except by father and daughter in our sneakers deciding which route to take today – uphill, flat or both?

A father like mine turns into a dream grandpa in time-and they don’t get any better than
“Grandpa Bowhay”. Each grandchild feels the love when he shows up on Grandpa’s doorstep in Carmel. Dad’s arms fly open and his eyes tear up as his deep voice laughs out his own personal greeting – “MATTHEW!” or “You must be Andy!” and “That couldn’t be John!” Then they are off for walks on the beach, trips to the wharf, with a stop by the bakery before coming home, damp, salty, sandy-happy.

My dad always made it look so easy to be a parent, but now that I’m the mother of three, I know he worked hard at it. I’m sure there days when he was a little too busy to have his daughter drop into the office, and that there were mornings that he could have passed on the pre-dawn jog.

My thirteen year old doesn’t care for running, but he loves it when I take him to the music store where he can fiddle with the electric guitars and drums. The place always gives me a headache.

But he’ll never know it-until he’s a father himself.

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an excerpt from A Regular Guy

It was the first year I would not be with Matthew on his birthday. He was turning sixteen and completing his first year at Camphill Special School across the country in Pennsylvania.

Birthdays since his autism diagnosis had been difficult, and coincided with Matthew’s Individual Education Plan, a yearly meeting that outlined Matthew’s educational and behavioral goals for the year to come. The meeting reviewed the goals Matthew had met, and those he had fallen short of in the past year. There was always a discussion of his IQ and his actual grade level-both low. These meetings were devastating to me. I worried about them for weeks before, cried during, and went into a decline after.

It was difficult to rally for a birthday party, and I felt heartbroken with regret as Matthew blew out his candles. I couldn’t help but envision what the day would be like if he were not autistic.

While I would be spared the trauma of years past on Matthew’s sixteenth birthday, I was despondent that I would not be with him on this landmark birthday. Other friends with sixteen year olds were giddily planning sweet sixteen parties and trips to the DMV, and I told myself that thank God Matthew wasn’t here, aware of being excluded from the parties and the driving. But I wanted to do something special for him.

I decided to treat Matthew and his housemates to dinner at his favorite restaurant, and to have sixteen balloons delivered to him. Matthew loved balloons. They were given to him as a reward for good behavior, and he liked to attach signs to the balloons and let them go, watching them till they disappeared into the horizon. As he watched them, he hopped and flapped his hands, smiling and laughing as the balloons floated upward past trees and rooftops. He imagined who else saw the balloons and where they landed. It was quite an event and, admittedly, a great way to kill time on days that seemed to go on forever.

I called David, who was in charge of the house where Matthew lived with eight other teenage students, and explained my plan for Matthew’s birthday, thinking he would be thrilled with my benevolence. He thanked me for the generous dinner offer, but the balloons wouldn’t be necessary. He’s sixteen years old, he said, and too old for balloons.

Good grief, I thought. He’s autistic. Give the kid a break.

“David, come on. He always gets balloons on his birthday.”

David paused before telling me what I needed to hear. “You have got to stop treating him like a child,” he said. “No more toys and jellybeans. The Pokemon cards have got to go. When he comes home for the summer, put the Legos away and give him chores. Make sure he does them. Take down all the childish posters. He is a teenager.”

David was right. He could tell that I was embarrassed for babying Matthew, and sympathized. It is a pattern that parents of disabled teens fall into while trying to cope with this transition, tough even in the best of circumstances. What better way to comfort a kid who lives with daily disappointment and loneliness than buying him a red balloon, an ice cream cone, or renting the latest Winnie the Pooh movie? David said a better way was to let them give of themselves. They have spent their lives being cared for”¦The power of being able to give in return is as rewarding as it is restorative.

“He is going to have a tough time with this,” I warned, feeling guilty about making David’s work even harder than it already was.

“We know, and we are ready to help him,” assured David.

When Peter and I called Matthew on his birthday, he cried, “You said I would get balloons!”

“You’re a big guy now.” Peter choked as Matthew sobbed. “Too old for balloons.” What we both would have given to snap our fingers and be there to give him a hug.

I called David the day after Matthew’s birthday. He reported that Matthew had cried a lot on his birthday, mourning the loss of his departing childhood and fearing what would replace it.

I called Matthew the following evening, prepared for another heart-wrenching conversation.

“Hi, Mom! Today I was very busy,” he said, sounding exhilarated. “I have a very important job now. I work in the vegetable garden with David!”

He went on to tell me of all the equipment he had used, and how important it was to take care of his garden tools. He asked me to hand the phone to his dad, who could tell that the news was good by the tears in my eyes and the smile on my face.

I was on edge.
A court investigator was coming to visit our home. She was coming because Peter and I were in the process of obtaining limited conservatorship for Matthew, as advised by the social worker who had been involved with our family since Matthew’s autism diagnosis years ago.
Limited conservatorship would enable us to continue to care for Matthew as we had since birth, making decisions about where he would live, and about his education. We would continue to be in charge of his financial affairs and medical treatment. We could give or withhold consent should he decide to marry.
We had endured many painful steps since Matthew’s birth – diagnosis, search for treatment, yearly evaluations by the school and the state, to name a few. But this step was particularly difficult. Iit was an admission that after all of our years trying to build skills and autonomy, our adult son would not achieve the independence that we, and he, had dreamt of.
The attorney assigned by the court to represent Matthew had come to call a few days before. Both the court investigator and the attorney were required to make home visits to verify that Matthew was indeed disabled enough to warrant this drastic action, and to advise him of his rights. The attorney, who later would admit that Matthew’s was only her second such case, was a young blonde without a line on her face. With her businesslike, slightly suspicious manner, I felt like a scam artist looking to bilk my son out of money, rights and freedom. We chatted briefly at the dining room table, my desperate attempts to break the ice – “I love your briefcase!” – falling flat. Then she asked if she could meet Matthew alone. I coaxed him from his room, where he was studying a book on poisonous plants, and eavesdropped on their conversation from the kitchen.
“Do you know that I’m an attorney?”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have a drivers license?”
Oooo, sore subject. Wants one. Can’t have one.
“Do you have a girl friend?” Silence.
You’re on a roll. Why don’t you ask him if he has any friends – at all?
“Do you know how much a car costs?”
“A lot of dollars”
“Do you know how much a hamburger at McDonald’s costs?”
“No”
He doesn’t go to McDonald’s.
After asking him a few more questions, she told me with a wink that we clearly had a good case.
She didn’t know that I was on the verge of tears, and that I was desperate for some kind of reassurance that I was doing the right thing.
I knew that the young attorney meant no harm, but she frayed some nerves and uncovered some insecurities. I worried that another grilling might damage Matthew’s ego, and mine. While waiting for the court investigator to arrive, I paced anxiously, wringing my hands. I envisioned a stout jail warden type with frizzy dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, and I worried that she would bark at me and that I would dissolve into tears. So when I opened the door to Claire, the court investigator, I was utterly relieved.
Claire had a shy, sympathetic smile, an open face and brown Labrador retriever eyes. Her brown hair was spiked in a youthful boy’s haircut and she wore a bright orange oxford shirt and khakis. The only thing that distinguished her between an investigator of the court and a younger sister who was really happy to see me was the badge that she wore around her neck.
I showed her to the dining room table where the attorney had needled Matthew a few days ago and she immediately reassured me that her visit was routine and that our case was straightforward. She explained the process and encouraged me to ask questions. Claire treated me like I was a heroic parent who was going to great lengths to secure the uncertain future of my challenged son. At that moment, Matthew emerged from his room with a long piece of toilet paper streaming from his left nostril. Why hadn’t he treated the attorney to such a greeting? He might have been spared the drivers license and girlfriend questions. Claire asked Matthew if she could see his room, and as before, I listened from the kitchen while she explained her visit.
Matthew took it all in somberly, and then told her he could take care of himself.
“I’m good at hard things,” he said proudly.
Hot tears spilled from my eyes when I heard Claire reassure him that being taken care of by your parents is a good thing. She recognized his desire for independence, but understood that he needed his parent’s protection. Then she asked him if he had any questions.

“What states have you been to?” he asked, and Claire patiently recounted all the states she could remember, and listened in amazement to Matthew’s list. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I let the tears flow–the “states” question always meant that Matthew had connected with someone.
I wiped the cleansing tears from my face before giving Claire a hug on her way out. The visit I had dreaded was one I was sorry to see end. Claire’s name is on the top of my Christmas card list. I wonder when her birthday is?

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