Go - The Duck Pond

I have always made my children "go." Partially because the Bean loves it and definitely because Sparky needs it; but more so, because my entire life that's what I've done - "go." I'm not a big fan of the lazy day.

It's extremely difficult to find a "go" destination that suits both Sam and Jill. You never ask where they want to go because it will inevitably lead to Jill enthusiastically throwing out an idea and Sam providing an in-depth analysis of why that particular place is a bad idea. "Well, yes, that would be fun but..." - just fill in the blank. Parks are unsanitary. Someone might get abducted at a busy festival. Infectious diseases lurk in the spines of library books. So, instead, I decide where and we "go."

Yesterday, we headed to a duck pond near our home. Although the duck excrement and slime on the water positively disgust Sam, his main focus is fish; and the duck pond has them.

If you've ever spent any time around someone with Asperger's, one of their most endearing traits is to be absolutely fixated on one thing. By fixated, I mean that Sam can tell you ever detail about fish. Big ones. Small ones. Extinct ones. Or in his case, ones other people believe are extinct. (The ocean is a big place. There is a megalodon still lurking out there somewhere!)

He can interject fish into any conversation. Go ahead, try talking about brussel sprouts. There is some fish out there that finds them appetizing or smells like them or has a similar sounding name. No matter how hard you try, the conversation will turn to fish. But I digress.

So, I turned the two of them loose with a bag of stale popcorn. The amazing thing is the way the two of them handle the situation, even this relatively mundane one, so differently.

Jill heads to the creek behind the pond where the misfit ducks spend their time. These are strange combinations of mallard and goose, ducks with one leg or just the shy ducks that don't like to battle it out with the million other ducks that have taken over the main pond. There are a handful of other kids her age hanging about. This creek fascinates kids because the ducks are so unusual and less aggressive. Jill immediately begins to hand out fistfuls of popcorn to everyone so they can all feed the ducks together. By the time we leave, everyone will know her name.

Jill throws the popcorn generously in giant rainbow arcs, singing quietly. When she spies me filming her with the video camera, she starts to do the disco duck and waves the bag of popcorn over her head like a lasso. Everyone smiles at her and starts to clap. She's not embarrassed at all; and before she's finished several other children have broken out in spontaneous dance.

But not Sam. Although his sister has caused a stir at the creek, he is squatting at the lake, intently staring into the slime with one tight fist of popcorn. His toes jut out over the water. This is another of his traits. Without realizing it, he always stands too close to the edge. Unless it's a mountain ledge, I've stopped warning him to step back. It startles him and makes him agitated.

A handful of ducks surround him in a "C," wondering why he doesn't just throw in the popcorn like everyone else. Either he doesn't see them or he's waiting for them to leave, which they do. Then he drops in one piece and watches one small koi rise to the surface and take it. He waits until it disappears; and repeats the process. I imagine he counts in his head or has a natural timer, because the intervals seem exactly the same in length. Jill will go through the rest of the bag of popcorn before he is done with his one handful.

When we leave, Jill and Sam share their experiences with the occassional "oh, and Momma, did you see" mixed in. They both had a wonderful time. Jill talks about her new friends; and tells Sam about the duck with the polka dotted butt. They both giggle. Sam gives Jill a quick lesson in all things koi, where they are from, that koi actually means carp in Japanese and what they prefer to eat.

"Momma, maybe next time we could bring some watermelon or lettuce. Could we Momma?"

Indeed, maybe we will.