By Anne E. Raustol

My son is not much of a talker. When he crosses the street from his bus, he rarely looks at me. He does not say hello. I want details about his entire day: a little moment that made him sad, or when he felt proud or embarrassed or angry. But nope. Nothing like that.

I can get a reluctant hug, and I can get him to hold my hand. And I have to say, when it comes to hand-holding, he is not reluctant. He seems to dig it. I think it must make him feel like he has a little of me to himself in the midst of two chatty siblings. One talks about intricate 4th grade social occurrences, and the other about rocks, tools and butt-cracks. So maybe it’s not so strange that, even without the little Asperger’s square inch of his brain, my son would find it difficult to chime in.

I think handholding is perfect for him because it’s controlled, minimal bodily contact. And I think I’ve found the equivalent to handholding in the talking realm. The other night at bedtime he and his sister, my oldest, and I were sitting on the floor. Out of nowhere, I thought of a game that I now call the Question Game. The idea is that we all come up with a question, any question, and we all answer it. One contained question. Everyone takes his or her turn. No one can laugh or interrupt.

I went first. What makes you most sad? (I had to go for the big guns. I don’t play.) My daughter said, One of my family members dying. He said, That I have Asperger’s.

Bam. I live for these straight-up moments.

My husband told him about his diagnosis for the first time over a week ago. At the time he seemed sort of relieved, so I didn’t have any idea that he was going around thinking about it. But that night of the Question Game, he actually talked about his feelings in the size of a paragraph. 4-5 sentences. I tried to contain myself and play it cool and not think: You are brilliant. This is the most brilliant game ever. This game is the key to my son’s happiness!!

Actually, I did think those thoughts and then I stopped because thinking that I’m brilliant doesn’t lead to much listening. After he talked, I told him that we all have something. His something just happens to have a name. And that something makes him very special, even though it also causes some difficulty for him. AND FOR ME. (I didn’t say this.)

Of course he asked me what my difficulty was, and I said that one of mine is that I often lie awake at night worrying about everything. Like whether I was mean to the 55ish worker in the grocery store yesterday who told me, when he saw my size 7 diapers, regular pull-ups and night pull-ups, that both his sons were potty trained by the time they were two. I replied, People your age like to say things like that. I think people have funny memories about parenting.

At night, I wonder whether my “spirited” comments to him were a reflection of a newer, better version of me, or if my comments might have put that man over some edge.

I’ve also been known to worry for hours about the exact clothes I should pack for myself and the kids on a trip. I visualize the clothes going into or out of the suitcase, deciding which ones will serve multiple purposes.

I think about how I couldn’t form a coherent sentence at a PTO meeting in the midst of those well-spoken, confident women. They mean business. I want to mean business somewhere in my life.

I don’t say all this to my kids. I say, The good thing about worrying like I do ... I had to fake it a little … is that I also care about how I affect other people, and that’s a good thing. Worrying is another (very useless) way of caring. I told my son that Asperger’s is just one bit of information about him. One of many things. My boy settled down in his bed and seemed sort of peaceful. I hope he really believes that the way his brain works is unique and will one day be more of an asset than something that mostly causes anxiety, anger or sadness. I want to believe it. Some days I have a harder time believing than others that his Asperger’s does not and will not define his life.

A few days later, I had to pick him up from school early because he was sick. I ran into the assistant teacher before I got to him, and she said he always has his coat zipped up and sort of hunkered down, like he’s a little turtle who has lowered his head into his shell. She didn’t make the shell analogy. She just said that he had a lot of knots on his shoulders. He really needs to relax, she said. Why didn’t I think of that?

I reflected on what she was saying about my son: He’s a sad, anxious little boy.I wonder if she imagines that he lives in a sad home? I don’t blame her for judging if she is, because I’ve done it myself. I was especially brilliant at being a parent before I had kids. You see a kid behaving a certain way and you want to be able to make sense of it. To explain it somehow. Believe me, I want to make sense of it. I want to figure out the magic answer.

For now, I have the Question Game. I have my son’s hand. And I have the belief (and most of the time, the feeling too) that God is always holding mine.

So go ahead try the Question Game with your kids or your friends or your spouse or whomever. Could be great. You never know. I’ve always been a sucker for good questions. Turns out my son is, too.