Life With Charley: Man who would be President

Life With Charley: Man who would be President: It seems only fitting in this Presidential election year to talk about Charley’s political views.   First, and let’s get this over w...

Man who would be President

It seems only fitting in this Presidential election year to talk about Charley’s political views. 

First, and let’s get this over with right now, when Dad was alive he would call Brad and ask whose turn it was to take Charley into the voting booth.

It doesn’t take a political science genius to figure out that Brad and I cancel out each other’s votes. At least, that’s what I want Brad to believe.  

The truth is, Brad never knows whom I vote for because I don’t tell him. It drives him crazy, but since it’s one of the few things I don’t have to tell, I don’t. Besides, if I tell, it won’t be fun anymore.

Dad's theory was that whoever's turn it was to take Charley into the voting booth got to vote twice. But he would be wrong. Neither one of us tell Charley who to vote for. We may help him if he needs it, but that's it.

Most people would assume Charley knows nothing about politics. After all, he has Down syndrome, right?

Well, let’s see about that.

First, Charley knows exactly who the President is. He always has.  When Clinton was in office, he would point at the TV screen and say, “Pesent.”

I would say, “Peasant?”

Charley was very young at the time.

When Bush was in office, Charley would point to the screen and say, “Pesident Buss!”

When Obama took office he’d point to the screen and say, “Daddy, look! Bama!”

Charley has always liked the President, who ever he is. 

Second, he doesn't care if the President is black, white, yellow, green with pink hair, rich, poor, likes or hates broccoli, stands for gay-pride, or has Howdy Doody ears. The President is the President, and it's Charley's job to cheer him on. 

This is and always will be one of Charley's greatest gifts, and a for me, a source of Momma-pride.

One of his favorite movies is The American President. Although, I think it sometimes confuses him. One minute he’s pointing to Michael Douglas and then there’s a commercial with Obama, and then back to Michael again, and he's looking at us like, what the heck?

He doesn’t stay confused for long. Charley has a small black radio and he listens to Rush Limbaugh on the radio every day.  Rush is always fussing about President Obama. So much so, that he fusses at Brad and I if we talk during Rush’s program.

“Mom, Dad, no talkeen, da Pwesident’s on.”

“That’s not the President, Son, that’s Rush Limbaugh.”

“Uh uh, Bama, dat guy said so.”

“No, Son, he’s fussing about Obama.”

“Uh uh, Dad.”

“Yuh huh, Charley.”

And Rush gets cranked up again, yelling “Obama care” into the microphone, and Charley looks at us and says, “See? Dat Bama, dat guy cares,” like, geeze, you guys just don’t get it.

I suppose there’s no way we can convince Charley it’s not Obama.

But what about the boy at the Special Olympics?

Brad and I both went to the park one afternoon to watch Charley compete.

Charley wasn’t exactly happy about this. We weren’t sure why, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably because he was afraid we were there to take him home.

But there was an athlete who was thrilled.

No one else had on a suit and tie, but since Brad had a lunch meeting he was dressed in business attire. He stood at the top of the stairs watching as Charley was on the podium, being presented with his medal. As he started to clap, a wide-eyed athlete climbed the stairs and came face to face with Brad.

“Are you the President?” he asked Brad and stuck out his hand with a big grin. Brad tried to hide it, but I saw the ego boost on his face.

Brad shook his hand and said, “No, sorry, I’m not the President.”

By then Charley was standing beside them. “No silly,” he said to the boy. “Dat my Dad.” 

At least he didn't ask Brad if he was Obama.

Will the WEAL Mail Twuck Please Drive Up?

Josie and the Pussycats, anyone? Just what Charley had been waiting for. I ordered the music CD on Amazon. It’s Charley’s job to get the mail every day. He knows what the mail truck looks like. It’s small, white, square.

So why was he running after the UPS truck?  I thought I heard a commotion outside the window and sure enough, there was Charley, jumping up and down, flagging down the UPS truck. I watched for a moment as the truck stopped and the two men inside leaned towards the door, then I went outside.

Charley was trying to explain it to them. “I waiteen here,” he said.

One man said, “Are you waiting for a package?”

I started to walk down the driveway. “Mommy, go back aside.” He waved me away. But I hung around just in case he needed help. Okay, I take that back. In case they needed help.

The man said, “We don’t have a delivery for this address.”

Charley said, “Josie, pussycat.”

The man next to the door said, “Sorry, Buddy, maybe tomorrow,” and they drove off. Charley chased the truck to the corner and gave up. I walked halfway down the street to meet him. 

“Honey, that’s the wrong truck,” I said.

He hung his head and came back inside.

About a half hour later here came the Fed Ex truck.

Ditto the scene with the UPS truck.

“Maybe tomorrow,” the man said, and drove off.

More running after the truck, to the corner, and then slumping his way back home.

“Wrong truck,” I said.

About fifteen minutes later, here came the real mail truck.

This time, Charley walked to the end of the driveway and put his hands on his hips.

“You got my Josie Pussycats?”

The woman who drives our mail truck is used to Charley, and she’s always sweet.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I promise to keep an eye out for it.” Off she went.

Charley pointed as she left. “Dat da weal twuck?” He’s no dummy. He’s seen this truck before.

“Yes, son, that’s the real truck.”

“Where my CD?”

Again, I promised him it would be here soon.

The next day we went through the same routine with one exception. This time the UPS truck and the FED EX truck didn’t stop for a chat. They just sort of slowed down but kept on going, while Charley chased the trucks to the corner. The mail truck stopped, of course, and the mail carrier handed him some envelopes.  She waved at me. “It must be pretty important,” she said.

“It is,” I replied, and waved goodbye.

“I mad,” Charley said. “Dat twuck no bwing Josie Pussycat.”

Another promise that it would be here soon. And then, I lied.

“It’s coming from California,” I said. “That’s a loooooong way from here.”

I got out the iPad and showed him where California is and said, “Sometimes it takes several days. Anything to buy some time.

Wednesday rolled around. Still no Josie and the Pussycats CD.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday. No CD.

Sunday. Charley assumed the position beside the mailbox.

“We don’t get mail on Sundays,” I said.

“Yes I are.” He said, and stood firm until he heard a clap of thunder and abandoned his post.

Finally, Monday came. I watched as the UPS truck didn’t even slow down, but sped up as they passed our house. Ditto that for the FED EX truck.

This time he refused to come in the house. “Enough!” he said, squatting down next to the mailbox and waited for the mail truck.

I yelled from the doorway. “What are you doing, son?”

“I waiteen da weal meal twuck.”

I shut the door.

And then, the sound I’d been hoping for. It was the sound of running feet, and they were heading toward the house, not away from it.

Josie had decided to show up, and had brought her pussycats with her.

“Which truck brought the CD?” I asked.

“Da weal twuck!” he said.

And just like that, that was the end of that.

Or not.

The next day, he stood beside the computer. “You order my CD?”

“You got your CD,” I reminded him.

“Wong one.”

???

“Which one do you want this time?”

“Bootie Beast.”

“Beauty and the Beast?”

“Yeah.”

“Take out the trash and help Dad with the chores and I’ll order it for you.”

Monday rolled around. More truck chasing.

I got out the map. This time I showed him South Africa. “That’s a long way from here. You may have to wait a while.”

“Yeah,” he said, and went out side to wait for the weal mail truck.

The weal truck pulled up. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said.

Or, Maybe not. I forgot to order it.

I Pledge Allegiance

5:30 a.m. Bet you were asleep. I would have been too, but that’s when things start to percolate around my house.

Charley is a lot of things. He’s funny. He’s playful. He’s a great big brother to our two cats, Gizmo and Gravy Train. He’s also patriotic.

This morning while most of the United States was in dream land (it was, after all, 5:30 on a Sunday morning), I was awakened to the Pledge of Allegiance. Probably the TV, I thought. Or, Charley’s radio. Or, my imagination.

I listened closer. It couldn’t be the TV; we have ground rules in our house. No slamming the front door, no stubbing your toe and yelling, no fussing at the cats, and no TV blaring until everyone is up.

I tiptoed to the living room, and there, standing at attention with their hands over their hearts were Brad and Charley, holding up a flag and reciting the Pledge.

Charley’s voice was ernest: “Pedz legenz to flag, states Mewaca. To public stanz, nation, God, justice, all.”

I tiptoed back to bed, crawled in, and I have to admit I giggled under the covers.

And why not? I half expected him to be cutting up and laughing, but he was dead serious.

The pledge at 5:30? Then it hit me. During the opening ceremonies of the Olympics he kept watching the TV, asking, over and over, “Where’s me?”

I thought he was joking, until it occurred to me that he expected to see himself in the processional. He kept watching, then bouncing up and down on the couch when he thought the next face he would see would be his.

He looked at me with this perplexed expression like; I do fit into that category, don’t I?

“You are here, Charley, cheering for the Olympians. Just like when you are at the Special Olympics, other people cheer for you. Sometimes we are meant to watch from the sidelines.”

He cheered when Gabby Douglas won the gold in gymnastics, and when Michael Phelps swam his way into history.  He watched as the National Anthem was played and the flag was raised. He consoled Phelp’s mother when she lowered her head and cried. “T’s okay,” he said, “No sad. No cwy.” (You can't explain tears of joy to Charley)

I couldn’t help but think of how Dad would have loved that. Dad was a true American - one of what Tom Brokaw calls, “The Greatest Generation.”

Charley won’t ever go to war. He won’t leave his family for months at a time. But that doesn’t mean he’s not proud to be an American. He’s been watching the Olympics all week, and his support of the Olympics has been pretty great, even if it has been from the couch.

This morning, at 5:30, hearing him recite the pledge with his Daddy reminded me of just how great it is to be an American. And, to have an Olympian in the house. 


Even if it is a Special Olympian.

Gizmo
reluctantly poses on the podium after being presented with one of Charley's gold medals

The Great Pretender

Here’s a picture of Charley waiting in the car. He’s wearing my sunglasses. They look better on him than they do on me. 

Today he’s in a hurry.  He was lollygagging this morning, doing his best to convince me to wait until Superman was over before we ventured to the church, and he’s not one bit happy because I said no.

That’s why he’s in the car with my sunglasses on. It’s his way of acting like he’s been waiting for hours, and would I please hurry up? 

He doesn’t have all day, and I’ve already broken the Mom rules.  First, I made him take a shower. Second, I made him wash his hair. Third, I said, “No way” to his sleeveless muscle man shirt. Not at church, thank you very much.

He’s in some kind of mood this morning. Dressed in his suit coat over his Kentucky Derby T-shirt, and saying, “I hot, Mom.”

“Well take off your suit coat. That’ll cool you off.” But he refuses.

So he takes out his cell phone (it’s the kind that flips open), and says, “Oh, hi. Mom a new car. Yeah, hot, I burneen cwispy.” He’s letting me know that if the air conditioning hadn’t died in my car, then he’d be able to ride to church without roasting. That makes two of us.

“You’re not a chicken, you know.”

“Yes I are.”

“No you are not.”

He shuts the phone, then flips it open again.

The phone doesn’t work – it’s a phone my cousin Joanie sent him in the mail and he likes to pretend like he’s talking on it. He likes it, and why wouldn’t he? Everyone else has a phone.  No reason he has to look like Charley Palmer, not when he can look like Joe Cool, and that includes a cell phone.

Charley is the cell phone fog horn. No matter what room he’s in, if someone sends me a text, he yells, “Testing (texting) on you cell phone. Or, “You phone beep you.” Then Mr. Nosey wants to know who it was, what they said, and was it a message from a girl?”

And when he thinks I just don’t get it? Whatever “it” is? He uses it to report Brad and me to one another. To call me and tell on his Dad, when Brad forgets to buy batteries for his CD player.  Or, to call his Dad and tell on me when I’ve made him turn his radio down because it’s waking the dead. 

And, lastly, to call his girlfriend even though she has another boyfriend. Technically, he knows there’s no one on the other end, but that doesn’t mean he can’t pretend.

That’s what’s so much fun about Charley.  He’s always up for a little pretending.

When he thinks we won’t do what ever it is that he wants, he takes out his trusty cell phone and tells his plan to who-ever-it-is on the other end.

Like this morning.

First, he made a call to inform who-ever-it-was that he was stopping at Wiegel’s on the way to church to get some gas and a coke for Alex and Hanna (two girls he likes a lot). Alex and Hanna have brought him Dr. Pepper to church in the past, and today Charley has decided to pay it forward.

“No worry, I get dere wite away,” he says, and flips the phone shut.

“Who ya talking to, son?”

“No business,” he says.

“Geeze, that was rude.”

“Warry, Mom. I pwetend. No wude.”

We approach the corner and I know what he’s thinking. Mom’s mad; there goes the trip to Wiegel’s.

Out comes the phone. “Mom, you phone winging.”

I pull out my Blackberry. “Hello, who is it?” I say.

“I Shawley Pama,” Charley says.

“Mom, no talk-a-phone. You dwiveen.”

Now here’s the tricky part. I make it a policy not to talk on the phone while I’m driving. Uh huh, tell that to the police officer who pulls up beside the car. Since he has his window down, I roll mine down too, and give him a shout-out. “I’m pretending,” I say, as if he would automatically get the picture, that I'm not really on the phone, but playing with my kid when I'm  supposed to be driving.

He gives me a look that can only mean – holster that phone. And I slide the phone into the jacket and he drives off.

“See?” Charley says, like, I told you so, and then he pulls out his flip phone again, and says, “I on da way. Helpin’ Mom faster way.” This is code for; I will pump your gas (faster way means he likes to watch the numbers go round and round).

It’s also code for; then I’ll just scoot into the store and grab the drinks I want and set them on the counter and the checker will ring them up before you even have your wallet out. You better hope you have enough to pay for all this.

Flip.  The phone goes back in his pocket. He grins at me. “I pwetend, Mom.”

Sure he is.

No use arguing. We can’t get anywhere without gas, so I pull into Weigel's. Fifteen dollars worth of gas later, two chocolate milks (for him), the cokes for Alex and Hanna, and of course nothing for me, and we’re rolling down the highway.

Flip.  The cell phone is out of his pocket. “Winger, winger, winger,” he says.

“DaddyBrad, Mom slow poke.”  The cell phone goes back in his pocket.

I get the message. Keep going the 40-mile an hour speed limit, and someone’s going to be late for choir practice.

“Go Mom, I hungwy here.”

“We’re not going out to eat until after church, not before.”

“Gweat. Dust gweat.”

Ten minutes later we’re pulling into the parking lot at church. I usually park up on the hill next to the entranceway to the sanctuary. But not today. Today I’m parked around back.

Charley hops out of the car and starts running.

“Bye Mom,” yells and his backside disappears through the door.

I open the door just in time to see him running up and down the stairs. Exasperated, he makes it to the sanctuary, then back down the stairs again, and out comes the cell phone. “Alex n' Hanna no here.”

I get it. The kid is on a mission, and it doesn’t matter whether Alex and Hanna arrive or not, there are cokes here, and they will be delivered, although it sure would help if he had someone to deliver them to.

He sits in the row across from where Alex and Hanna always sit. The choir enters the loft and he puts his hands up in the air, like, “Where are they?” and then slumps down in his seat.

Then just as soon as church starts, here they come, and there he goes, climbing over the poor people in his way to get to the end of the row so he can hand the bag with the colas to Hanna.

Hanna takes one of the cokes and passes it down the row to Alex, and then Charley delivers a note I’ve written. Perhaps it might be a good idea if they open the colas outside. They’ve been shaken up, and if they aren’t careful it could give a whole new meaning to the words, Let us spray.

Mission accomplished. He goes back to his seat, gives me the two thumbs up and takes out his phone to report to who-ever-it-is that operation cola is complete.

Church is coming to a close and he points to his stomach, indicating that he’s put had just about as much church as he can tolerate on an empty stomach.

I pat my stomach. He knows this sign language, because when it comes to lunch he does one of two things. He points to his stomach and says, “My belly’s growlin’” or, he pats his stomach and says, “I fullt.”

Finally. The closing hymn. And not a moment too soon. He’s rolling his eyes, leaning on the pew in front of him, and puts one hand on his hip. I half expect him to pull out his flip phone like he’s calling to let who-ever-will-listen know it’s almost time for lunch. Instead, he stretches his arm out in front of him and turns his wrist, like he’s checking the time.

Would it surprise you to know he doesn’t even wear a watch? 

Girls

Okay, so Charley and I are hanging out together this morning, and we start talking about school starting back up in about a month, and girls. Here's what C had to say:

Ladies Man

Here’s the heartbreaking thing. For us parents of adults with Down syndrome, our kids grow up. But they don’t grow out. Well, some don’t. I suppose there are some who don’t need the assistance of a caregiver to create their socialization.


What do I mean by growing out? I’m talking about growing out of themselves. Not spending every hour or every day alone, insulated. Being able to have a real social life, doing guy things, going out with girls, which is exactly what they want. But young men like my Charley can’t just get in the car and go hang out with his friends.


First, he attends a special needs class, and his friends can’t take off and hang out with each other either. Not without the adults in their lives creating “play dates.” That’s what they are called when they are little. But for the young adults who live the reality of DS every day, it's called inappropriate flirting. Just let him get in the vicinity of an attractive server at a restaurant, and he’s likely to blurt out something like, “Oh, He-llo!” or, “You purrty!” And then the rest of the evening is spent with him yelling, "I like you!" And, of course, there's the final word - "Call me!" 


People like Charley want to phone their peers and go on dates. But when they meet someone they like they have a built-in way of not getting the phone number. It's called forgetting to ask for it. Or when they do have a phone number and call the girl, they aren't able to verbalize what they are thinking. They just hold the phone and say, "What doin'" or, "Hi," and that's about the extent of the conversation. I've seen this happen before. 


And dating? Who picks up a date without a driver’s license? There’s nothing Charley would like more than to get himself a smooch but how’s he going to do that with his Mom (or Dad) driving the car? 


I’ve been trying to fix him up with girls who have Down syndrome for years.  I figure it will put him on a level playing field. But he won’t have any part of it. And why? Because he’s in denial about his Down syndrome.


One afternoon he heard me talking about him on the phone. I said the words “Down syndome.”


He stopped what he was doing and looked up.


“Huh? You say dat word?”


“All I said, was “Down syndrome.”


“Not me,” he said.


“You have Down syndrome, Charley.”


“FWEAK!” he said, and then crossed his arms, offended.


“Charley, there’s nothing wrong with having Down syndrome.”


“I NO have it,” he said.


“Don’t deny who you are, son. You are quite wonderful,” I said.


He grinned, and said, “Oh, kank-u.”


Brad took him swimming with the Down syndrome group later that evening. When he got home he said he’d met a girl.


“What’s her name?”


“Dat girl.”


“Did you get her phone number?”


“No.”


“How are you going to ask her out if you don’t have her number?”


“Mom, no date, dus fwents.”


I hate to say it, but he’s pining after another girl but she’s already got a boyfriend. Who among us didn’t go through the same thing when we were young? Broken hearts. The kid is in love. It sucks.


As I’m sitting here writing this, Charley is sitting on the couch listening to Trace Adkins, blasting us out of the living room.

Honky Tonk Badonkadonk…

Now Honey, you can't blame her

For what her mama gave her

It ain't right to hate her

For workin' that money-maker

Band shuts down at two

But we're hangin' out till three

We hate to see her go

But love to watch her leave

With that honky tonk badonkadonk

Keepin' perfect rhythm

Make ya wanna swing along

Got it goin' on

Like Donkey Kong

And whoo-wee

Shut my mouth, slap your grandma

There outta be a law

Get the Sheriff on the phone

Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on

With that honky tonk badonkadonk

(Ooh, that's what I'm talkin' bout right there, honey)

“I a ladies man!” he says.

“Watch it, son,” I say.

“I like it.” He says.

It’s one of his favorites. He’ll play it until he knows every word too. Over, and over, and over. And over again.

And to put it in Charleyverbiage, “I might squeam.”

http://www.cowboylyrics.com/lyrics/adkins-trace/honky-tonk-badonkadonk-15326.html#.UABLY47euB8

Charley's Interview

Happy Birthday, Martoofer

Yesterday on our way to church, I had this conversation with Charley…


“Uh, member, Mom, Martoofer King birfday amowow.”


“You mean Martin Luther King?”


“Yeah.”


“Do you know who Martin Luther King was?”


“Yeah.”


“Well, who was he?”


“Martoofer.”


“Do you know why we celebrate his birthday?”


“Yeah.”


I waited, thinking he’d offer the reason, but he was busy playing with the buttons on the car heater. Turning them up, turning them down. Burning us up, freezing us out.


“Well, why is his birthday so important?”


“No schoolt!”


“So that’s it? School’s out? Is that all?”


“Yeah.”


He then started playing with the radio station buttons. Country. “I Love You this Big.” Pop. “Baby, Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me.” Oldies. “Come On People Now, Smile on your Brother, Everybody Get Together, Try and Love one Another Right Now.”


“Hey, Charley, that’s the first song I ever learned to play on my guitar!” I said, “It’s a great song for Martin Luther King Day.”


“Oh, coolt.”


More button pushing.


“Hurry into Kohl’s for the Martin Luther King sale. Everything is 50% off,” the announcer said.


“See?” Charley said, "Martoofer birthday."


“Okay son, we need to talk. First of all, they are having a sale to celebrate Martin Luther King’s birthday. That’s not what his birthday is all about.”


"Huh?"


"So you got it? His birthday is why you've got the day off school. It's part of the celebration."


More radio station surfing.


“Mom, I boat.”


“You what?”


"I BOAT. Geeze, Mom." He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand like he does when he's close to calling me an idiot.


"Say it again, son."


“I boat. You boat. In da boof."


"You mean vote?"


"Yeah."


“You get to vote for President?”


“Yeah, Pwesidence day.”


“That's right. We vote for President, but not for Martin Luther King. Voting comes later during the election.”


“Oh.”


“Martin Luther King wasn’t President; he was a civil rights leader.”


“Oh.”


“Do you know what civil rights means?”


“Stop it, Mom.”


“It means he fought for the rights of people like Chris (an African American young man in Charley’s class), and for people like you, Charley.”


“Me?”


“Yes, you. And me, and Daddy.”


“Why?”


We didn't talk for a moment. Just listened to the next commercial, about some other MLK sale, and how we needed to hurry before everything was gone, because it only happens once a year.


I was the one who broke the silence.


“Charley, do you know what Down Syndrome is?”


“Yes.”


“Do you know that you have Down Syndrome?”


“No I are not.”


“Yes you do.”


“Not me.”


“Charley, Down Syndrome is not a bad thing. It just means you are special.”


“Me?”


“Yes. It means God loved you enough to give you an extra chromosome. That means you have something most of us don’t have. It means that some people think of you as different.”


“Not me,” he said.


“It’s okay to be different, Son.”


“Yes I are.”


“Martin Luther King, Jr. wanted everyone to be treated the same.”


“Coolt!”


One of the things I like most about Charley is that it's never occurred to him not to be comfortable in his own skin.


“Schoolt out amowwow?”


“Yes, school’s out tomorrow.”


“Yay! I like dat King guy.”


“He would have like you too, son.”

Sermon Mom

Today was my turn to deliver the children’s sermon at church. I don’t do this very often because kids intimidate me – first, they are much smarter than I ever was at their age - okay, I admit it, they are so much smarter than I am at my current age. Second, they usually look at me like I’m weird because - I am. And third, the last time I was in charge of Sunday school some of the kids escaped and went running around the church in search of Kool-Aid, and as I recall, a couple of those kids had ditched their diapers. And fourth, when faced with kids staring at me in front of the church I have this tendency to do the Lucille Ball freeze. I simply cannot remember what I was going to say, which means I talk until I think of something to say, which means it may or may not have a point.

But that was 25 years ago, so when Brad told me I was to give the children’s sermon I reminded him that I’m not a good children’s sermon person. “You can do it,” he said, “I’ll help you.” So, in a weak moment I said yes, and found myself mid-way through church – sitting with the kids up in front, with a microphone in my hand trying not to melt down.

Today the sermon was about paying attention to the things God wants us to do, and listening to Him. I gave Brad instructions to call me on my cell phone a couple of times during the message so I could make a point about “tuning in” to God, and not being too busy to pay attention to what God is trying to tell us.

Well. I started talking to the kids. The phone rang. “I have to take t his call,” I said, and chatted a moment and then hung up. The kids looked at me like, “Are you for real? A cell phone in church?”

So I turned back to the kids, and Brad called my phone again. This time it was a text message, so I said "excuse me" to the kids and then texted back.

And so it went. I thought I was actually doing well with getting my point across when the cell phone rang for the last time. Now I couldn’t have scripted this any better myself, but my son decided he'd better set me straight - so - he got up from his seat, walked to the front of the church, and leaned into my face.

“Mom, you off cell phone, NOW!”

Oh. My. Lord. He actually thought I was talking on the phone during church, and offended? Yes indeed, he’d had just about enough of that.

Later on our way home in the car I said, “Honey, I wasn’t really talking on the phone during church.”

“Yes eee are,” he said, indicating that this was exactly what I was doing.

“Well, yes, I was, but it wasn’t real.”

He put his hands on his hips, like, are you even kidding me? Just what are you trying to pull here?

“I was just pretending.”

“Come on, Sherry,” he said. The kid had a point – I was on the phone. It’s just that sometimes Charley’s Down Syndrome prevents him from understanding the abstract.

“Honey, I was giving the children’s sermon,” I said.

“Stop it mom, you no Daddy. You no Sermon Man.” (That’s what he calls Brad.)

“No, I’m not the Sermon Man, I said, I’m the sermon Mom.”

Well he thinks this is hilarious and laughs out loud. “You funny homan,” he said. (woman)

“What, you think I can’t give a sermon?”

“No not.”

“Trust me, Moms can give sermons.” (At church it’s the sermon according to Brad – but at home? It’s the gospel according to me – especially when someone has forgotten to clean his room, pick up the coke cans off the floor, or other unmentionable, disgusting habits).

"Remember the sermon on the mount?"

"Mount?" he said with this bewildered look on his face.

"Yes, mount - the sermon you got when I couldn't see over that MOUNTain of clothes you had in the middle of your floor."

"Ha!"

“Tell you what, next time YOU can give the children’s sermon,” I said.

“Stop it Mom.”

“Why not? You are so much like your Dad.”

“I like him,” he said, flashing that irresistible grin of his.

“I do too.”

So I kept talking – looking at the road, driving. “You see,” I said, I was trying to tell the kids that when someone is talking we shouldn’t be preoccupied with things like cell-phones and texting. We need to tune in and pay attention. That way we make people feel valued. It’s a way we show people that we appreciate them. You understand son?”

“No response.”

“Charley, are you listening?”

“Silence.”

I look over at him – he’s got his headphones on, listening to the soundtrack GREASE.

So I drive on a few more minutes, contemplating a detour through the Krispy Kreme drive-through window – after all, I believe I can justify that it’s been a two-donut morning - but then I reconsider because I need gas more than I need do-nots and only have so much cash in my pocket, and wait-a-minute – what’s that noise? Or should I say lack of noise?

He’s quiet again. Now. Now is the time to get my point across – go for it Sherry, jump right in there…

“Honey, sometimes we are called to listen. That means we are to stop all the noise – the cell phones, the music, the donuts, the talking.”

No response.

“Charles Benjamin, I’m trying to talk to you.”

Still no response.

“Charley Palmer, are you listening to me?”

I look over at him – he’s asleep.

Can’t say I blame him.