Do you ever tune out the world around you? This is a skill that helps me get through busy, crowded, stimulating days; one that I often take for granted. When it comes to my son Tim, however, it's a different story...

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It’s been a long time since I’ve taken the train downtown with any regularity, but my job responsibilities changed about two months ago and now I take the train to Chicago twice a week.

Taking the train makes for a different sort of day than I have when I commute by car to the office in the suburbs. For starters, I have to get out of bed nearly an hour earlier to get dressed and organized and make it to the train station. I wear less makeup when I’m up early. I’m not as concerned about the amount of volume in my hair. The dogs don’t even stir as I move through the house.  I’m allowed to slip out to the garage and drive away without the proverbial creature stirring.

Commuting alone by car is really an isolated experience. When we lived in San Diego I used to have co-workers say, “didn’t you see me wave at you on the freeway this morning?” The answer was almost always no. I was alone with either talk radio news and weather or belting out songs in my private karaoke hall. I was blissfully unaware of the souls in the cars around me. I enjoy my alone time morning and afternoon. It is, really, the only time I get to myself. Not so on the train.  Surrounded  by strangers, all in a similar state of semi-consciousness, trying to get where we need to go, we all act as if we are in some sort of protective wrapping that prevents us from interacting with the others from whom we sit no farther than mere inches. Headphones on, book in hand, we create our own cocoon for the hour ride to the station that marks the midpoint of my journey. From there we push out in to the street, marching towards our final destination in semi-orderly rows, lined up by some unseen being hell bent on order.  I have eight city blocks to traverse from the train station to my office, and I spend those eight blocks pulling my wheeled briefcase behind me, iPod earbuds firmly in my ears, eyes attached to the back of the head of the person in front of me. Nary a thought floats through my mind, as I have re-created as best I can the isolation of the commute in my car.

I didn’t realize this was a skill before last weekend, and a skill that has to be learned and cultivated at that. We were attending an annual gathering of my husband Tom’s side of the family. It coincides with an annual celebration in the little town in which his aunt grew up, and we make a point of being there to see all of Tom’s cousins and aunts and uncles, as well as their families. My child, Tim loves to attend – it’s on the beach, there’s always a lot of interesting food, and it ends with a huge bonfire. It also ends with fireworks, which are a particular concern for Tim, as he is sensitive to the noise. This year’s gathering saw a larger crowd than usual, as it was also the 50th anniversary of an aunt & uncle. Generally we shy away from large (meaning, more than 10 or so) crowds because Tim has a hard time processing the noise and motion that goes along with such a big event. But he was insistent on being there, so we took him. And I was amazed. He interacted with others he knew, and introduced himself to those he didn’t. When he was feeling overwhelmed, he stepped away and took time for himself. He let us know he needed earplugs for fireworks, and he took himself away from the crowd but quietly and calmly let us know when he’d had enough and had to leave. He found a way to be alone – to isolate himself – when he needed to do so to collect himself and give his senses a break, even in the midst of fireworks, bonfire, and 40+ friends and family. It’s a long way from the days when he was just two or three, and a big family gathering at Christmas would send him into a tearful, fist-pounding rage. He’s learned the skill, and he showed he’s adept at implementing it. It was both a proud and a calming moment for me. I got the sense that Tim will be able to handle the world, better than I’ve ever thought was possible.