I love that when I sent this picture to Mel and Willie they both commented on the sweaters and the bangs and the glasses. 

William Riggle, my first boyfriend in the 8th grade, who I will forever relate to granny panties, vast quantities of Polo cologne and finding out kissing could involve tongue (I was duly horrified). But in my family, he’s remembered a bit differently. He’s William Riggle, Super Hero, whose tale of greatness my mom loves to recount to my children.

“Your Mama’s first boyfriend, William Riggle, saved her life,” she tells them.

Our first date (the one involving the previously mentioned Polo and tongue), a jovial trip to Holiday in the Park at 6 Flags with my best friend, Melanie, and her boyfriend, Tim. Her dad, David, our ride home at the end of the evening. Melanie and Tim squished together in the front passenger seat, Willie and I in the back seat. Traveling on the back roads to Irving to deliver Tim home.

It’s one of those frustrating moments for a writer, for me. A completely unclear vision of events that I’m not sure I remember but have heard so many times, it feels like I do.

A sharp curve

Gravel on the road

The feel of the car sliding

And not catching

William pressing his body over mine right as the car

Tumbled

Over and over again

I remember the radio station changing like some ghostly hand was upon it.

Coming to with his blood, all over me, the seats above our heads.

Scared to call out and get no answer... So unbelievably relieved when everyone did respond.

People calling to us, coming out of the mobile home we had landed in front of. Prying the car door open.

Shaking like I would never stop as I crawled out and stood.

And William, who smiled, despite the fact that you could see his teeth through his closed lips (lips I kissed before and after).

“Your Mama would have gone right through that windshield,” my Mom tells my kiddos, “if not for William.”

Whether I would have or wouldn’t have is something I’m glad not to know. But whatever the case, Willie, if you’re out there, Nicholas says Thanks. :)

All of us about two years later.  The bangs have gotten smaller but we still have those heinous glasses (and they aren't the same ones from 8th grade, they just look identical)

Pretending to be Scarlett O’Hara in 95-degree high humidity heat with four children along, is never a good plan. But good plans are not my strong suit and I’d just finished reading Gone With the Wind. So, the idea of Civil War Reenactments complete with period costuming and real cannon firing, on a REAL LIVE Civil War Battlefield, was too much to resist.

I packed enough lunch to feed the little troops, because surely a picnic would be great fun as well (and yes I had completely lost my mind). Then loaded the very excited (maybe they’ll blow someone’s arm off) “troops” into the car and drove the 45 miles to Vicksburg.

Upon arriving, I had to admit to myself that it was not exactly my vision of Tara, the one including hoop skirts and chivalrous, slightly scandalous gentlemen with the faint sound of cannons firing somewhere way off in the distance. Instead, my armpits were sweating (this activity is only OK if one is on the beach, under a pretty umbrella, drinking strawberry daiquiris). Plus, whatever they were cooking on the “this here is authentic folks” cook stove was giving off enough toxic fumes to make my eyes water. And we were uncomfortably close to the real live cannons, which were set to go off in five minutes and counting.

But it took the re-enactors stuffing en masse big wax plugs in their ears and warning the crowd to place their hands over their own ears, for the reality of the situation to dawn on me.

“Make sure and cover those ears now. We wouldn’t wanna deafen y’all,” one of them yelled with a chuckle.

I didn’t find it funny, nor did Nicholas, who is inclined to lodge complaints about the noise level of the vacuum cleaner.

“Mama, I really don’t like loud noises,” he said.

“It won’t be so loud,” I reassured him while attempting to wrangle the younger two further away from the cannons. God forbid they wind up deaf and I have to confess to people that I fancied myself Scarlett O’Hara and was traipsing around Civil War Reenactments with four children.

“Mama, I really, really hate loud noises,” he said again, poking me several times in the arm to get my attention.

I weighed my options and directed him to the car. “It’s unlocked and I can see it from here. They,” I said, pointing to the two heathens who were just then doing the limbo under the rope some ingenious chap, who obviously never had children, had set up to keep all gawkers safe, “are never going to leave.”

Taking the keys from my hand, he hurried off and I focused on demonstrating proper ear protection techniques to the other children. Soon after, the cannons fired. I had not listened well to my own instructions because I couldn’t hear one thing and had to resort to lip reading (definitely an acquired skill). And decided perhaps this was God’s divine wrath for my fantasizing over mint juleps and oversized verandas.

And where was Nicholas? Nicholas, who was not in, under or around the car. Nicholas, who was not among the deafened and shell-shocked crowd. Nicholas, who was not in the gift shop, or the restroom, or watching the movie they play on the hour and half-hour.

“Nicholas,” I said, quietly at first, looking in the obvious places for a second time, getting what I think was louder as I go.

Until I was in tears and confessing all to the park ranger.

“I read Gone with the Wind and went a wee bit crazy, then read about the cannons and now my child is lost and I’m deaf,” I wailed.

Of course, the moment this spilled from my mouth and the park ranger was looking at me like I’d grown a horn from the center of my forehead, I heard the children screeching happily from the one ear that was now working. I turned to see Nicholas ambling up the walk from the park entrance. He looked like he was whistling.

“Is that him, M’aam?” The ranger asked and I shook my head yes and ran for him.

I wasn’t sure whether to hug him or scold him, so I did both.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” I asked, hugging him so tight he was squirming away.

“I was answering, Mama. I was hollering!”

I felt more than a bit ashamed that I was half-deaf and could not hear my own lost child calling out to me. Not to mention the sideways glances the park ranger (who was decidedly not deaf, and probably trying to determine if I needed to be committed) was giving me. But I pushed them aside in favor of hugging my boy.

“Fiddle dee dee...I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

There was a time when I remember thinking no one would ever understand him enough to see past his idiosyncrasies and love him the way I loved him. And what a relief it was when someone did, an amazing relief.

But, there are still days, brightly colored with guilt days, where I wish for a quick fix or a cure. The days I allow myself to consider for even a moment how harsh and mean and downright evil the world and people can be when you are "normal", must less different. The days I spend too much time trying to teach him how going on and on about his favorite topic (which happens to be in-depth scientific analysis of Saturn’s rings) might bore someone and how it's polite to stop and listen sometimes (although if this an Aspie makes, I could name at least 20 off the top of my head). Until he's confused and I've confused myself and we’re both frustrated.

I get stuck on the cake. Calling every place in town. He rarely asks for anything and I'm determined to make this happen and make it perfect. But all they have are the square ones. They inform me they can draw on a guitar with icing and write Guitar Hero across the top but I want a guitar shaped cake. I know that's what he has in his head too.

So, I search online for some creative baker to copy and head to the store for supplies, vowing to make one myself. And I do and it turns out better than I ever dreamed and I become the best Mama EVER, at least in that moment...five minutes before official party time and no guests yet present.

And then it happens, they start trickling in and the house is full of preteens (every single invitee plus one).

Looking at him from the kitchen, he hasn't changed much. Maybe it's just how things worked out, meeting these kids who just accept him for who he is. The girl who hangs on his every word and laughs at his jokes that I don't get. The one who should be named Ms. Calls Every Two Seconds.  Or the girl on our computer who has been batting her eyelashes at him all afternoon and is trying to change his screensaver to something proclaiming his undying love for her.

I whisper to him later that he has another admirer and he looks at me like I’m the most clueless parent in the world. “You think, Mama?” And I have to laugh at how suave and worldly he seems to consider himself, despite my silly worries.

He’s kind and sweet beyond words and his friends don’t seem to care if he rambles on about the amazing properties of Saturn’s rings for hours on end while they attempt to conquer Through the Fire and Flames on Expert for the 900th time in a row.

He’s managed to find himself a little nook where he fits in just fine. He may never be the coolest, the most athletic but he’s all these other amazing things that I appreciate and love so much more. And he’s happy, that’s all that really matters...isn’t it?

And on a side note, he got the lead role in his school play last week.  :)