Score One For The Man

Me: Well I started my diet today
KU: Why?
Me: Because I am too fat
KU: I think you are perfect just the way you are right now.
Me: (thinking to self) This kid is either going to be the greatest con man alive or he is going to become a reincarnate of Richard Simmons and all the women will love him.

Seashells By The Seashore

For me it is the end to the perfect day. The wind is blowing softly, the sandpipers are scuttling along the shore while the suns golden glow shimmers as it sinks below the waves. My six year old son skips along the sea, jet black hair flying behind him. He delights in the unfamiliar of the shore songs that greet us and offer up the oceans bounties. Shells of many colors: brown, tan, black, white and an occasional tinge of pink. He runs collecting both big and small. He scoops them up,washes them off, and dumps them in the bag as we make our way down the beach. I help pointing out the errent ones that he has missed along the way. But of course, I leave the chipped, broken and those shells whose imperfections make them less than a desireable collectors item.

"Mom, LOOK at all my shells," his voice booms. "There are hundreds of them."

I peek my head into the bag. Bits and pieces with jagged edges greet me.

"But Kullen, these shells are all broken," I say, trying to be helpful. "Why don't you collect ones like this?" handing him a perfect specimun that has just washed ashore.

"But Mom, they don't have to be whole to be perfect. They are beautiful just the way they are."

And with that, he looks into my eyes and holds my gaze with those deep brown eyes of his and gives me a dirty black shell, the majority of whose pieces are scattered over the bottom of the Atlantic. But when I turn the shell over I see he is right. The center makes a perfect circle which circles back upon itself. The color is uniform and is as dark as ebony. And as I stare at that shell I suddenly see my son within it. They both have a few cracks, even some missing pieces, I suddenly come to the realization that they are indeed both perfect. Sometimes it just takes a six year old boy with autism to remind you.