Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 95

Mother's Day

Today was sweet and unassuming--

I know that for many people, Mother's Day is not the favorite. There's a million reasons to experience pain when the whole world is out having a greeting card frenzy-- and I get that.

My day was not epic. There were no angels singing, and I didn't wake up with a perfectly cleaned house and gallons of my favorite perfume delivered with a bow.

Hell, I didn't even get flowers--but I DID get homemade cards, and Mate went and got my coffee this morning while I slept in. We went to ZB's soccer game (loss--heinous loss) and then went out to lunch at the place of my choosing.

And then saw Civil War, which I will wax lyrical about on another date, because Captain America is... *nungh*  SUCH an amazing character. I've said before--they could have made him such an irritating, boy-scout. Such a cipher. But they didn't. He's nuanced and tortured and honest and strong and human and... I'm so totally in love. (But still not buying him with a girl. Nope. Not even a little. Sorry, Cap'n.)  Anyway-- everything I love and believe about heroic archetypes was, once again, in full glory today and I walked out of that theater beating my chest and screaming "I AM CAPTAIN AMERICA!" at least in my head and--

Uhm, I need to keep this short.

Okay.

So, sweet and unassuming.

There were not flowers but the ones Squish drew. I got a card from Mate, and McDonald's iced coffee, french vanilla. I got lunch and good conversation. And a movie.

And at the end, I got a call from my kid in the other part of the state.

heh heh heh... And before everyone dies of sugar shock, I need to add this part.

The call from the kid in the other part of the state? Was abruptly ended when the kid who lives in my house--the twelve year old MALE who lives in my house--lifted his leg and let loose such an epic SBD (silent but deadly) that we had to evacuate the room, and I fully expected the cat on the couch (the one who was close to the gas transmission vehicle) to fall off in a dead faint.

So, it was nice. Not expensive. (Well, five people out to lunch and at the movies--expensive.) Not trendy. (Hallmark only sold us one card this year.) And not perfect. (You would have gagged and died. Anyone who doesn't live with this kid would have slugged him just on general principle.)

But it was life with my family, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Remember that time we emotionally scarred our offspring for life?

So, Squish got to sing at the RiverCats game tonight--her school's choir/band got to perform the National Anthem.

We arrived around 5:30, and Squish didn't sing until 6:50, because the game started at 7:00.

So ZoomBoy and I were, in a word, unsupervised.

Anyway-- I was listening to the intercom.  "Everybody who is planning to be part of the parade, please line up between the flags at the far end of the field."

Oh. A parade? Voluntary? Well, I didn't want to move, but ZB is 12--he's capable.

I listened some more.

"Everyone who wants to be part of the parade, please follow the concourse to the far end of the field."

Hunh.

"Hey, Zoomboy, you want to be in the parade?"

"How far is it?"

"All the way down there."

"No."

Five minutes pass, and he starts to lose his mind with boredom, and they make the announcement again.  And he goes, "Yeah, sure. Here, let me take off my sweatshirt--that way you can see me better."

He was wearing a neon yellow microfiber T-shirt, that matched the neon yellow strip up the side of his track pants.  It looked a little like a uniform.  And then he kissed my cheek and ran off to follow the crowd (because it was most of the people at the stadium) heading down the concourse towards the entrance.

And then they made the announcement again. But this time, they added a teeny tiny modifier.

"Will all parties intending to take part in the LITTLE LEAGUE parade, please follow the concourse..."

Oh hell. I could see ZoomBoy making his way down the fucking concourse, his elbows flying as he ran.

Mate came down to our seats, explaining that Squish would come out later with her choir, down on the field. "Where's ZoomBoy?"

"Funny you should ask that..."

And then I explained it to him.

"So... he's going to march around the field with the Little League teams."

"Uh, apparently so."

"From what team?"  Mate was laughing at this point.

"Apparently from the Citrus Heights Random Kid Who Wandered On the Field team."

"I guess!"

"Well... he has a uniform."

And then we saw the Little League teams marching along, lining the field, waving.  A lot of the kids were wearing the neon microfiber thing-- just like ZoomBoy.

"Do you see him?" I asked. "There he is!"

And there he was. Dancing, waving, making sure we saw him.  He was more excited than any kid out there on the field.  He stopped and did the wedgie dance on purpose when he saw us, and then continued in the parade.

"Everybody saw him," Mate said, when we were done waving. "Apparently Citrus Heights has a team we never knew about."

Of course, I told ZoomBoy when he got back to the stands.

"Oh! So THAT'S what that one lady was trying to tell me."  He frowned. "I'm a little bit embarrassed now."

I shrugged. "Hey-- nobody will ever know. Except... you know. Everyone on Twitter and FB, because I posted that."

"Okay, so nobody I know. That's fine then."

"Well, I figured if anyone asked you what team you were on, you'd say, 'The Scorpions'. Nobody had to know it was soccer."

He grinned--he's a sneaky little sausage and I think that appealed to him.

And Squish performed, and she was AMAZEBALLS. I mean, I assume she was. It was a choir in the middle of a baseball field on a mostly rainy day. Who knows if she was amazeballs or not--she was there.  In mismatched socks and a zebra bow.

Doing what our family does, apparently-- stand on the field in neon, performing the wedgie dance for no reason at all.

I've Seen Worse...

Sorry about the not blogging last night-- I hit an editing/writing groove, and was so invested in all of that that blogging completely slipped my mind. (Well, I remembered when I was stumbling to bed at 2 a.m., but oh well.)

So, like I said, busy and in brain-pan-land. In fact, so busy in brain-pan-land that after I put on my pajama bottoms, I was sitting at my desk in my hooded sweatshirt and T-shirt, and at around one in the morning, my bra finally started to bother me. You know, like it does. And I didn't want to get up to take it off, because GROOVE, right?  So I wriggled out of it (it's a girl thing-- we all know how to take off our bras without flashing our boobs) and shoved it in my jacket pocket.

This morning, I took the car in to be serviced.

I have one of those keys that doesn't actually need to be USED. It just needs to be IN the car. I generally carry it in my purse or in my pocket--sometimes I actually use the lanyard and carry it around my neck. (This is especially useful when I'm wearing those irritating stretch pants with no pockets.)  You see where this is going, right?

So I was standing by my car this morning, at 7:30 a.m. (yes, if you do the math, I was probably not very chipper at 7:30 a.m.) and the nice auto service guy asked me for my keys.  And I produced them. As well as one brightly colored, ginormous cotton bra.

"Oh my God," I said, staring at it stupidly. It was pink and covered in cherry blossoms. Now you know what my underwear looks like. "My bra. In my pocket. That's embarrassing."

The guy shrugged. "I've seen worse--I've raised three kids."

I think about it. "I've got four myself. Yeah, there was a time when I'd flashed my rack to half-of-Northern California--I guess I've shown worse myself."

The guy laughed, and proceeded with the car servicing business. (The last time I'd brought it in I was checking it out to ride to Vegas. He asked me how long that had taken, and we talked about road trips for a while. Nice guy.)

But now I'm asking myself... what exactly have people pulled out of their pockets that is worse than my ginormous cherry blossom bra?

Grooming!

Well, to make up for yesterday's uncomfortably weird story, today it's going to be all cute all of the time.

Or, well, two pictures worth before I go back to my late manuscript.

Somebody got groomed today. 

I'll let you guess who. 

And I went back to the gym today.

There was no weirdness in the hot tubs--but there WAS  a promise I'd be there Friday.

Seems after three absences in a row, I'll be missed.

I've got to say--it helps when your teachers FB message you to say, "Get your ass to class!"  I can see why calling mom and dad was so effective when I was teaching. After my aqua instructor messaged me, I actually rearranged my car service around getting in the pool and getting out of breath.  

Of course, chatting with Aila after class is motivation too ;-)

And again, at the gym...

So, Monday. At the gym, after class.
I am sitting in the hot tub, warming up, eyes half closed, doing my neck stretches, and two women about my parent's age get in.
One of them thinks she knows me.
"Hey-- are you Cheryl, the chemical engineer?"
"Uh, no. I'm sorry-- I'm Amy, the romance writer."
"Oh, isn't that nice. Did you hear that? She's a writer!"
"Oh. A writer. I'm telling you, you should write a book about my life."
For the record, most writers will tell you that no good ever came of that statement.  No. Good. Ever came of that statement.
If someone has a a life interesting enough to be memorialized in biography, they will simply start talking and you will be enthralled. It's that simple. If someone has to tell you to break out your    recorder and your laptop from the bra of your swimsuit, you are in for a very... time. You are in for a very time. That's all I've got.
Or so I thought.
"Romance?" this woman said, "Let me tell you about romance. You might not know it, but I used to be hot!"  She is, in fact, a very pretty woman--she told me later she was sixty, but damn. 
"I believe you," I told her. 
"I was so cute, Carlos Santana picked me out of a crowd and I took him home. It was funny-- he spent the entire car ride talking about how he couldn't really commit to a relationship, because he had his music, and I was like, 'Hey, I'm sixteen--I don't want to get married!'  Or was I fifteen and a half? Either way, he gave me my first oral sex. He was pretty good at it too, but he had blackheads. Probably because he sweat a lot on stage. But yeah. I was hot."
And at this point, her friend and I were both like this: 0.0  
"Yeah, I hitchhiked back and forth across the united states after that. Like three, was it four times? I got raped a lot."
And again: 0.0
"I'm sorry?" I said weakly. 
"But that's not romance!" her friend protested. 
"No, but it's my life! I got raped three times. No, four. But the fourth time didn't count. The fourth time it was a Hell's Angel. He didn't get me that time. I told him I was going to pretty my self up for him, and my friend and I moved our entire apartment in two hours. We had to. He knew where we lived."
"Well, uh, that's awful. I'm so very sorry that happened to you."  
Remember, we are still in a hot tub. 
"It is what it is. I'm not much about being a victim. I'm sort of over it. But you know. It's my life."
And her friend. "But it's not romantic!"
"Well who needs romance?  My life hasn't been romantic. Why am I worried about romance?"
"Because that's what she writes!"
"Oh. I"m sorry. I got lost in the past. Would we recognize your name?"
"Uh, no," I said, still stunned. Also, I was getting hot--it was time to get out. 
"Okay. Well, nice talking to you. Hope I didn't shock you too much. You know, not romantic, but it's my life."
As I got out, I had to acknowledge I was wrong. This woman DID need someone to write her life in a book. Not mine, maybe, but yes. It should be recorded. 
Not romantic, but that was really fucking real. 

Kermit Flail-- Welcome to May!

Okay, so this month's crop of Kermit Flail looks TREMENDOUS. 
We start with the sumptuous and extraordinary Devon Rhodes and what looks to be a pretty hot threesome, move on to the adorable E.J. Russell and a paranormal story which looks deliciously angsty.  Next, we have Alexa Milne and a *happy sigh* fallen angel story (I'm a fan!) and last (but not least!) a gorgeously covered urban fantasy finale from Lissa Kassey.  Quirky, happy, angsty, and lovely-- I think we have some serious winners here and I'm proud to host them on my blog.
Also, I'd like to pimp DSP's tenth anniversary month!  
I've been a proud DSP author since 2009, with If I Must, and since I was there in their first three years, ALL of my DSP titles are on sale at 40% off at DSP!  That's pretty tremendous-- I've got a great backlist there--and so does Mary Calmes, Andrew Grey, Ariel Tachna, and MANY MANY MANY MANY more!  I'm so proud to work with the people at DSP--I'm so glad it's been my home.
Anyway-- go visit Dreamspinner Press and see who else is on sale-- and DEFINITELY check out some of the authors here. It's looking like a great May!
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!! 





Naughty By Night
by Devon Rhodes


Normally, finding the hot neighbor in bed with your boyfriend would be the end—not the beginning—of a wonderful relationship.

Marty can’t catch a break. Unable to confess to his neighbor Kevin that it’s Kevin he’s interested in, he ends up using advice to make a move on Jason instead. He moves too slowly, though, and Kevin and Jason end up dating each other, leaving Marty out in the cold.

Everything changes the morning Jason wakes up to find Marty in bed with him and Kevin. Jason wonders whether he’s made a big mistake in committing to Kevin. Marty’s mortified—he’s wanted Jason from afar for ages, but never had the courage to act on it. And Kevin is plotting something naughty that will give all three men what they’ve wanted all along.


Link at Pride Publishing

Amazon Pre-order



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Stumptown Spirits

by E.J. Russell
What price would you pay to rescue a friend from hell?

For Logan Conner, the answer is almost anything. Guilt-ridden over trapping his college roommate in a ghost war rooted in Portland’s pioneer past, Logan has spent years searching for a solution. Then his new boyfriend, folklorist Riley Morrel, inadvertently gives him the key. Determined to pay his debt—and keep Riley safe—Logan abandons Riley and returns to Portland, prepared to give up his freedom and his future to make things right.

Crushed by Logan’s betrayal, Riley drops out of school and takes a job on a lackluster paranormal investigation show. When the crew arrives in Portland to film an episode about a local legend of feuding ghosts, he stumbles across Logan working at a local bar, and learns the truth about Logan’s plan.

Their destinies once more intertwined, the two men attempt to reforge their relationship while dodging a narcissistic TV personality, a craven ex-ghost, and a curmudgeonly bar owner with a hidden agenda. But Logan’s date with destiny is looming, and his life might not be the only one at stake.

Buy at Publisher





A Bell Rings
by Alexa Milne

Sometimes you only need to believe.

Raziel Slade and Jack Hastings have been best friends since Raz saved Jack’s life twelve years ago. Only Jack doesn’t remember Raz at all and he certainly doesn’t remember falling in love with him. Now that Jack has moved in with his university housemates, explicit dreams begin of a blue-eyed male stranger. Needing a new flatmate after his best friend moves out, Jack is introduced to Raziel Slade who has extraordinary blue eyes. Jack has no idea how to cope with his attraction to the man.

Raziel Slade has a secret—he used to be an angel. He fell in love with Jack Hastings and happily became human, but the angels aren’t prepared to let him go, so they steal him back. All Raz wants to do is return to his lover any way he can.

When a film brings back Jack’s memories, will he feel the same as he did when he finds out what Raz gave up for him? And are the angels finally ready to let Raziel, the Keeper of Secrets, go?

Publisher's Note: This book is a sequel to Not Every Time.


Buy at Publisher 





Candy Land
by Lissa Kasey

Cameron “Candy” Michelson Jr. doesn’t have time for distractions. He’s too busy restructuring the red-light district into an adult playland for City M and running the Hidden Gem. But when his companion, Avery “Ivy” Laurent, grows closer to Jack, an investigator for the Institute of Scientific Study, Candy can’t hide his jealousy. Nor his own interest in Jack.

Ivy is crazy about Jack, but he’s also in love with Candy. Ideally, Ivy longs for all three of them to be together, but between Jack’s nonexistent libido and Candy’s supercharged needs, Ivy isn’t sure how to make it work.

When Jack gets called in to help the City M police department investigate a series of violently murdered companions, both Candy and Ivy brace for trouble. But nothing prepares them for Candy becoming the prime suspect.


In a future landscape of corrupt government officials, brutal BDSM crimes, and a host of dark creatures, Candy, Ivy, and Jack must work together to find the killer, save themselves—and learn how to trust each other.



Buy at Amazon 





Selfie
by Amy Lane

One year ago, actor Connor Montgomery lost the love of his life to a drunk driver. But what’s worse for Connor is what he still has: a lifetime of secrets born of hiding his relationship from the glare of Hollywood. Unable to let go of the world he and Vinnie shared, Connor films a drunken YouTube confession on the anniversary of Vinnie’s death.

Thankfully, the video was silent—a familiar state for Connor—so his secret is still safe. He needs a fresh start, and a new role on the hit TV show Wolf’s Landing might be just that.

The move to Bluewater Bay may also mean a second chance in the form of his studio-assigned assistant. Noah Dakers sees through Connor’s facades more quickly than Connor could imagine. Noah’s quiet strength and sarcastic companionship offers Connor a chance at love that Hollywood’s closet has never allowed. But to accept it, Connor must let Vinnie go and learn to live again.
Buy at Amazon

Sarcasm Family

Took a trip out to the Millertown house to see my MIL today. It was a lovely day, we brought dogs and sandwiches, and I think she enjoyed herself. Her health hasn't been great--I worry, and so does Mate. His mom is one of those funny, dry people who's heart is so big her tiny body can barely hold it. I want her around for a while more.

Anyway--

My family was in fine form talking to her--the kids have gotten good at telling funny stories.  And today, it occurred to me that, gee. I've managed to raise a sarcastic brood of turkeys, and I love every mutant feather of them--but they're not everybody's favorite fowl.

When Chicken was ten, my aunt was talking about how her boys hadn't yet gotten sarcastic.  I said, "Yeah, Chicken is fluent in sarcasm. I have no idea how that happened."

"I got it from you--thanks a lot, Mom!"

Of course, she didn't just get it from me--and this following exchange between Squish and Dad proves it:

Squish: I don't know why we just can't play  Simon says!

Mate: Fine. We'll play. Get up.

Squish: Okay. *gets up*

Mate: You're out.  Simon didn't say.

So, it's true--the kids are learning from masters.  As our discussion about Mother's Day and a very trendy cooking appliance sort of demonstrates:

Mate: Do you want anything for Mother's Day?

Me: No, I'd like it to pass like any other day, without flowers, chocolates, or promises you don't intend to keep.

Mate: Seriously.

Me: Seriously, yes, I 'd like some acknowledgment for the four kids pushed out of my weehoo. But flowers and lunch would be fine.

Mate: So you don't want a Sous-Vide?  (pronounced "soo-vee"--  I did not know how to spell it until I just looked it up.)

Me: No.

Zoomboy: What's a Sous-Vide?

Mate: It's a pot of water with a timer, so you can set the timer and put in a vacuum packed package of food and the water will heat up the food and keep it that temperature as long as you want!

Me: It's an excuse for grown people to have a science experiment on their stove and to use it to cook steak.

Mate: That's fair. So you don't want a Sous-Vide for $200 to prove our love?

Me: No. I can't plan a regular meal. You expect me to vacuum pack food and then pull it out and put it on the pot to boil? Who did you marry?

Zoomboy: So you don't want a deluxe Sous-Vide for $500 to prove we'd love you more if you could cook?

Me: No.

Squish: Do you want a broken one for $2.00 with a black plate and stuff falling off of it to prove that we couldn't think of anything else and went shopping for you at the last minute?

Me: No. But by all means keep up the sarcasm. That's the best Mother's Day Present in the world!

Zoomboy: Besides the butt-cookies Geoffie brings you, right?

Me: Yeah. Besides those.  Flowers, people. It's a thing.

*  *  *

Of course, I can't guarantee the flowers, but on the visit to Millertown Mate's mom told us that the deer had been crapping in her yard. Geoffie determinedly brought me several excellent examples of this new kind of butt-cookie that she then ate for dessert.

Seriously. Flowers. They're a thing.

Much Needed Break

So, Mate's job has been sort of wonky this week. The company is laying off around ten percent of it's staff, and although Mate is safe (for this round, at least--neither of us ever suffer from overconfidence in our abilities) it has taken a toll on him. Yesterday I went to an impromptu lunch (at a brew pub!) for one of Mate's best friends, who had been escorted from the building by, as Mate described them, "Anna Kendrick clones from Up In The Air." I talked to all his friends--including a new and aspiring writer, whom I advised. (He was so proud--he brought copies of his book to sell to his friends. Self-pubbed crime noir--he's a brave man!) And I had a few words with Mate's boss, who is a lovely woman.
"How you doing, hon?" 
She looked at me shakily. "It's been a crappy week."
That summed up everybody's assessment, and I've been extra special careful of Mate this week. It hurts losing your friends to corporate attrition, and we've made tentative plans for what should happen if he's forced to relocate to the Bay Area, where cost of living is roughly equivalent to your first born sold on the black market for parts, and that's just a deposit.
So tonight, when he took us all to a Sac Republic game, and ran into a bunch of his work and soccer friends completely by accident, it was a good night.
And I actually watched the game.
And our kids got Dippin' Dots--and out of the house. The out of the house was key-- I've had a couple of editing deadlines this week, and Mate has been sort of tuckered as well. Today was a napping day for the both of us, so getting the kids into the out was a moral and parental victory.
The Sacramento Republic lost-- 0-1-- but we enjoyed the game.
And as a whole, it was a much needed break.
(But not conducive to writing a ficlet this weekend, dammit! I'll try tomorrow, or next week or something. Sorry!)
Out!

But yes, I made it to lunch...

So a few months ago, this absolutely wonderful woman named Karen Rose hunted me down on e-mail and said she loved my work. (I'm totally name-drop-bragging now. I realize this.)  I was tickled and awed-- because I had JUST uploaded like, six of Karen's books onto my Kindle. I've said it before-- het suspense is one of my favorite author candies, and Karen's books looked like they were just what I needed.

They were.  They are wonderful examples of the genre, and her characters--warm, awesome, unique, alive, frustrating, endearing, flawed and fanTASTIC.

I'm on book four, and I'm totally going to shotgun everything she's written.

So, Karen was going to be in town visiting another friend (rhymes with Brenda Novak. Okay, it's Brenda Novak. Yes, I know who that is too. *squeal*) and she wanted to meet, and could I meet?

Oh YES I could definitely meet for lunch.

I put it on the calendar. April 28th. Hm... April 28th... is there anything... well, it's my nephew's birthday-- but he's 25-- I don't think he'll care too much if I don't show up after his shift at the warehouse with a cake. Oh wait! His birthday's on the 29th! Still not showing up, and no-- I have nothing doing.

Huzzah! I'm going to lunch to meet a new friend.

And all I had to do this morning was write some e-mails of vital importance, and then a friend called with a must-have chat, and then I'd forgotten to pay a bill and those people called and then--

Oh! Hey-- another friend is knocking on my door. She has the day to putz around, and maybe we could have lunch?

Uh... sorry? No? Come in though and hang out! You know where the cold cuts are and the dogs love you. Now scuse me while I spazz around my computer and finish up what I'm doing and hey-- oh my God!  It's 11:15! I haven't showered--how in the hell did that happen!

So I run in to the bedroom to gather my clothes, and have a no-shit-three-minute panic attack of what do you wear when lunching with a friend in Citrus Heights (not known for fashion here folks!) and while I"m in the middle of that... 

Chicken calls. She hasn't slept in three days and she's non-verbal and she has three miles before she gets home.

The whole world stops as I talk to her about random things and she sees her house and Karen texts me and says she's at our cafe but don't hurry!

You BET I hurried. The minute Chicken got home I took off in a flurry-- three minute shower in cold water, fuck it all I'll wear this, make-up on in the car on the way oh... "Goodbye, Wendy, I'll see you after I pick the kids from school, thanks for stopping by, later, ciaou!"

And into traffic I go.

*whew*

I got there just about when I said I would--and lunch was lovely. And she was even lovelier. I recognized the rhythm of a true storyteller in her speech and just settled down to listen.

I want to have many many more lunches with this woman, because people? She's amazing.

But next time, I'm going to send the ever-loving universe a copy of my schedule with the date blacked out.

The universe knows why.

The Five Senses Blog Tour-- Amy's Day

With a hypersensitivity to smell, an autistic person may find smells intense and overpowering. This can cause toileting problems. It may also mean they dislike people with distinctive perfumes, shampoos, etc.

This is part of R.J. Scott's blog hop, and you can find the other posts HERE--and they're wonderful. 


Hi, all!  

So, I'm part of the Five Senses Blog Tour--and proud to be a part of it.  Although my oldest son was diagnosed with a Communication Handicap, when he was younger (he is college aged now) many of the children in his special education classes were diagnosed with autism. I have volunteered in his classroom, in my younger children's dance classes, in their actual classrooms--I have worked first hand with many children with autism, and I am very much aware:
I never know enough.
 I am not used to touching students or children. As a high school teacher, with nearly grown students, I got lots of hugs, but it was always mutual and there was a question/response pattern. I'd extend my arms, the kids would go in for a hug. Often I would ask, "Want a hug?"  And the kid would go in.  So when I was asked to supervise a group of twenty kids under eight at the last minute, with no toys, no instructions really, and about four hours to kill, I was very ginger about the hand on the shoulder to get attention, or the redirect. But Chance was having difficulties--I didn't blame him, he was bored silly.  Chance doesn't talk much, and although we'd established a "play pen" of sorts using gym mats and my helper had read half the kids a story while the other half colored, these were not Chance's activities, and he was losing his mind. He was also tired and hungry--this was at a dance recital rehearsal, and his mother was one of the teachers. We offered snacks, but they were not his snacks, and on the whole, the entire moment was too loud, too over stimulating and too crowded.
He kept trying to make a break for it by running past me.
I kept stopping him and asking him to go back.
The third time he did it, I was at a funky angle and caught him-- wrapping my arms around his chest.
He went limp. Just limp inside my arms.
I remembered reading once that some autistic children liked that pressure around their torsos--that it grounded them, calmed them down. Chance was in a strange situation that was NOT ideal--and somebody was holding him in his comfort place.
We only had another half an hour--I kept my hold around his chest for most of that time. When the rehearsal was over, his mom came and asked him how things went--and I said pretty good, once I figured out what he needed in the situation.
She smiled and told me he loved that.  
It was sort of funny-- that year, my own son, with his chronic ADHD started in Chance's mother's class. And she was the first ballet teacher he ever had who knew how to redirect him with a hand on his shoulder. Nobody else had tried that--they just yelled at him until he sort of came back from the zoo.
I think being a parent of a child with special needs makes us better people as a whole. Very often we stop looking at the external symptoms of a child's behavior--tantrums, spaciness, short temple, mood swings--and we start looking at the underlying root cause.  It makes us less about yelling and more about adapting. It makes us better communicators.
About two years ago I rounded the corner at RWA and ran smack into a group of mothers with writer ID's, talking about their children. Hey-- my kind of conversation, I jumped right in. These mothers had just met, had rounded the corner just like I had and were waiting for a panel to start and BOOM. Five women in a parent's support group when we'd thought we were at a writer's conference.
All of us had children with some sort of special communication need. Lucky me, I had two.
I started to wonder--what were the odds of that? That all of us possessing skills at communication had been given the task of caring for children who needed--in particular--parents with that skill.  
And then I wondered if the child had been given to the parents with the skill set-- or the skill set hadn't evolved around the child. 
I know my adventures with my children have made me more empathetic than I ever was in my callow youth--and that makes me a better storyteller. So I am grateful for all I've learned from my children.
And I remember Chance's mother, putting a gentle hand on my son's shoulder, and I think that perhaps that's true for all of us. Communicating with a child who has autism or a cognitive disability isn't easy--but I love the person it has turned me into.  
If you're lucky, being a parent makes you a better person--it's one of the best parts of parenthood. I'll stand by that.