Love That Boy

by Ron Fournier

  READERS LOVE THIS BOOK

  “In this aching, honest, and moving account of coming to terms with his son’s Asperger diagnosis, Ron Fournier speaks to every parent who has struggled with not only accepting but embracing his or her child’s differences. Quite frankly, that is every one of us. To varying degrees we all have two children; the one we hoped for and the one we have. It is the latter that is the blessing. Love That Boy reminds us not to be preoccupied with weaknesses but to look for strengths. Ultimately, Fournier sees clearly, without projection or intruding narcissism, the gift that he has been given in his quirky, whip-smart, and unforgettable son Ty. A brave and beautiful recounting.”

  —MADELINE LEVINE, PH.D., AUTHOR OF THE PRICE OF PRIVILEGE AND TEACH YOUR CHILDREN WELL

  “This illuminating and touching book gives us the great gift of letting us know and appreciate the Asperger’s world of young Tyler Fournier, who steals scenes from presidents while teaching his parents and all of us what is important in life.”

  —DAVID MARANISS, PULITZER PRIZE–WINNING AUTHOR OF ONCE IN A GREAT CITY: A DETROIT STORY

  “Ron Fournier has done a masterful job capturing the troubles and triumphs of parenting. That we—as parents and caring adults—too often superimpose our own needs and aspirations on the children we love is an important theme in this must-read new book. It is a moving tale of fatherhood and of coming to terms with a more enlightened definition of perfect.”

  —STEPHEN GRAY WALLACE, PRESIDENT AND DIRECTOR OF THE CENTER FOR ADOLESCENT RESEARCH AND EDUCATION (CARE)

  “There’s no magic wand that can make the challenges of parenting disappear, but having the courage to talk honestly about them may be the next best thing. This is a candid look at raising an atypical child. Ron Fournier leads by example, digging through expectations and ego to lay bare what it means to love a child unconditionally.”

  —OLIVIA MORGAN, MANAGING EDITOR, THE SHRIVER REPORT; MEMBER OF THE BOARD, NEW ENGLAND CENTER FOR CHILDREN

  “Ron Fournier’s deeply personal account of the frustrations and celebrations that go along with raising a special child is deeply moving. As the proud father of an Asperger’s child, Ron’s heartfelt work inspired me as much as I know it will inspire you.”

  —JOE SCARBOROUGH, NBC NEWS SENIOR POLITICAL ANALYST AND HOST OF MORNING JOE

  “American presidents have the honor of meeting Tyler Fournier in this lovely, intimate, and inspiring book by his father, which has so much to teach all parents, sons, and daughters.”

  —MICHAEL BESCHLOSS

  “Love That Boy captures both the fears and gifts of fatherhood and writes about it with honest, selfless clarity. This book is a joy to read and should be required for all new dads…Really.”

  —JIM GAFFIGAN, COMEDIAN AND AUTHOR OF DAD IS FAT

  “Ron Fournier and his son Tyler are partners on an eye-opening road trip to the crossroads of love and humanity. Along the way, they meet Bill Clinton and George Bush; but the real reward for readers from his being on the road with his dad is that we meet Tyler, a young man with Asperger’s and a heart as big as the country.”

  —MIKE BARNICLE, JOURNALIST AND MSNBC NEWS ANALYST

  Copyright © 2016 by Ron Fournier

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Harmony Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Harmony Books is a registered trademark, and the Circle colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This work is adapted from “First, Family,” as originally published in National Journal magazine, on December 1, 2012.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780804140485

  eBook ISBN 9780804140492

  Cover design: Jessie Sayward Bright

  Cover photograph: Gallery Stock

  v4.1_r1

  ep+a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Part One: What We Want

  Chapter 1: Normal

  Chapter 2: Genius

  Chapter 3: Popular

  Chapter 4: Superstar

  Chapter 5: Successful

  Chapter 6: Happy

  Part Two: What We Need

  Chapter 7: Grit

  Chapter 8: Empathy

  Chapter 9: Acceptance

  History Lessons

  Acknowledgments

  Bibliography

  Reading Group Guide

  To mothers and fathers, and to their children who are greater than any dream, especially:

  Ron and Flo

  Holly, Gabrielle, and Tyler

  Above all, Lori

  INTRODUCTION

  Washington, D.C.—Our noses almost touched the wall. Tall, white, and seamless, it was the only thing standing between us and the president of the United States. “Stay right there,” a White House aide told my wife and three children. “The president will be with you in a minute.” Suddenly the wall opened; it was a hidden door to the Oval Office. “Come on in, Fournier!” shouted George W. Bush from behind his desk. “Who ya dragging in?”

  It was my last day covering the White House for the Associated Press, and this April 2003 visit was a courtesy that presidents traditionally afford departing correspondents. I introduced my wife, Lori, and two daughters, Holly and Gabrielle, before turning to their younger brother, 5-year-old Tyler.

  “Where’s Barney?” my son shouted.

  The five of us stood in front of Bush’s desk, which, like everything else about the Oval Office, had a history. One of the most famous pictures of the Kennedy era, taken a few weeks before the president’s assassination, captured John F. Kennedy Jr. playing at his father’s feet beneath the same desk, which the younger JFK considered to be his secret clubhouse.

  Behind Bush, outside broad southern windows, sat a tiny black dog—its back to the Oval Office and its eyes fixed on the street beyond the White House fence.

  Getting up to shake hands, the president blocked Tyler’s view of the windows. “Where’s Barney?” Tyler shouted again, in a voice so inappropriately loud and demanding that I jumped slightly.

  Bush smiled and nodded—first to an aide and then to the lawn. “He’s coming. He’s right there. He likes to sit out there.”

  Tyler launched into a one-sided conversation, firing off one choppy phrase after another with machine-gun delivery. “Scottish terriers are called scotties, they originated from Scotland, they can be traced back to a single female named Splinter II, President Roosevelt had one, he called it Fala. Dad says he kept him in the office down there when he was swimming, there’s one in Monopoly, my favorite is the car…”

  Tyler stopped when the Scottish terrier scampered into the room and started sniffing the guests. “Watch out!” Bush laughed. “He’s a guard dog.”

  “Barney!” Tyler yelled. “Barney!”

  I cringed. Tyler was a loving, charming, and brilliant boy—he had a photographic memory—but he was somehow different. His voice was jarringly deep and loud for a kid his age. He fixated on topics, like presidential history and animals. He was, in a word, quirky. But the president was enchanted. He laughed, listened, and asked Tyler several questions about dogs before gathering us together for photos.

  “Look at your shoes,” Bush told Tyler while putting a hand on my boy’s shoulder and steering him toward the photographer. “They’re ugly. Just like your dad’s.” Tyler’s head rocked back in laughter, and his right foot kicked out; his whole body shook.

  A few minutes later we were walking out of the Oval Office when Bush grabbed me by
the elbow. “Love that boy,” he said, holding my eyes. I thought I understood what he meant.

  I didn’t.

  It took me years to understand.

  A parent’s love is unconditional. A parent’s satisfaction comes with caveats. This is an important distinction: You love your kids no matter what, but you expect them to be something—smart or popular or successful, maybe a scholarship athlete who marries well and runs the family business.

  These expectations often are older than the kids they define. I know a couple in Maryland who decorated their unborn daughter’s pink room with stencils and statues of ballerinas. A Pennsylvania homemaker tied a string to a bride-and-groom cake topper and hung the faux happy couple from the mobile in her girl’s nursery. Big dreams, early pressure—like the Virginia firefighter who put a red light and ladder on his son’s crib. “He may not be born yet,” the fireman told me, “but I know he’s going into his daddy’s line of work.”

  When a woman is pregnant, we say she is expecting. Expecting a baby and filling with expectations. Log on to any mommy website and witness the longing. “At this point, I don’t have any concrete expectations on him,” a soon-to-be Midwest mother told me at WhatToExpect.com, before contradicting herself in the next keystrokes: “We expect him to be involved with music one way or another since both of us were, and his dad still performs with the local symphonies.” Parenthood is a paradox. “We all want the same thing from our kids,” the Virginia fireman said, “that perfect boy or girl.”

  Parenthood is the last chance to be the person we hoped to be. We want to get it right. We want it to be perfect, and that’s the problem. It’s a hard slog between aspiration and realization. Most of us lurch between the dark and the light, between seething with injustice that Junior and Jane didn’t follow the “right” path (ours) or get what they deserve, and chastising ourselves for the demands we make.

  On one hand, we know our kids can’t be perfect. But we don’t accept it. The definition just might apply: “Having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be.” From their first breath—if not sooner—our dreams for our children are at least in the ballpark of perfect, because great grades, championship trophies, lots of friends, and professional success lead to happiness, right?

  Actually, no. When a parent’s expectations come from the wrong place and are pressed into service of the wrong goals, kids get hurt. I discovered this late in my job as a father.

  —

  I am a journalist who has covered or overseen coverage of the White House and national politics since 1993, an ego-inflating career that I often put ahead of my wife and kids. Lori and I met at the University of Detroit, married a year after graduation, and quickly started our family. Holly was born in 1988, followed by Gabrielle almost four years later, and Tyler five years after that. While Tyler was a bright, funny, and loving boy, he was not exactly what I envisioned in a son: He hated sports, which I loved, and he was socially awkward, which made me uncomfortable.

  All good things in my life start with Lori, including the story behind this story. Tyler was 12 years old and I was consumed by the 2010 congressional elections when Lori became hooked on a new NBC drama called Parenthood. It featured a large and loving extended family of Bravermans, including a boy named Max who had Asperger’s syndrome, a mild form of autism. Max frequently lost his temper, rarely made friends, and fixated on insects. His parents, Adam and Kristina, ricocheted between pride and fear. While they recognized Max was gifted in his own ways—he was brilliant and preternaturally genuine—they couldn’t escape the fact that he was a social misfit.

  From the first episode, Lori recognized Tyler in Max—and cried. While our son’s issues weren’t as severe as Max’s, Lori now realized that Tyler’s social awkwardness was more than a phase. He wasn’t just quirky. His fixations weren’t just cute; they were a clue. His grades had fallen. Classmates teased him. He had no friends except for boys on the block, who didn’t play with Tyler as much as they tolerated him. Lori thought, He’s not going to outgrow it. She watched three more episodes by herself, not wanting to share her fears with me, because I might confirm them. Instead, she kept telling herself, I don’t want him to be autistic.

  Max’s parents hired an Asperger’s specialist, who patiently taught the teenager how to start and maintain conversations, how to feign interest in others’ interests, and why basic hygiene is important. Lori realized Tyler might benefit from a specialist’s help, too. That’s when she told me to watch Parenthood. Sitting alone at my computer until 3:00 a.m., catching up on a half season of episodes, I saw what Lori saw. I wept with fear. Also relief: At least now we knew what we were dealing with.

  The first specialist Lori hired was Dr. Mittie T. Quinn, a psychologist specializing in psychoeducational testing, in McLean, Virginia. “Your boy is fascinating for somebody like me,” she said. Dr. Quinn sat on a high-backed chair across from her office sofa, where Lori and I nervously held hands. An unfinished puzzle sat on the floor next to a worn wooden train with its locomotive missing. “He’s got all kinds of stuff going on. But he’s just a charming, charming kid.”

  I pulled a pen and pad out of my computer bag; 25 years as a reporter in Arkansas and Washington, and I had never been so anxious to record a conversation.

  “Attention: His internal motor revs so much faster than normal….I’d hate to see what he’s like when he’s off the attention-deficit medicine. My heart goes out to him because he’s such a bright kid….This makes him impulsive. He can’t help but blurt things out….Don’t yell at him.” (WE YELL!)

  “Intelligence: Even with impulse and distraction issues, Tyler is unusually bright….He’s a sponge….His IQ measured at 110–120. If we could factor out the attention issues, potentially he’d be far, far above 130.” (CAN WE EVER FACTOR OUT?)

  “Executive functioning: Handwriting bad…Hard time shifting tasks. Timed tasks freak him out….He’s a big-picture guy who can figure out the meaning of things by the context….Clumsy movement…Severe fine-motor issues.” (NO SPORTS?)

  “Social/emotional: Spectrum disorder. Twirls hair, flaps his arms…Tyler feels for the world. He is empathetic. He loves people but can’t easily put himself in people’s shoes….Can’t pick up social clues, facial clues…Can’t step outside himself and see how world hears him…Tyler fits pretty classically the Asperger’s piece.” (???)

  Looking up from my notes, I asked, “What’s Asperger’s?”

  “High-functioning autism,” Dr. Quinn said, “but don’t worry.”

  Don’t worry. You just told me my son is autistic, but don’t worry. You slapped a label on our negligence—all the signs we missed or ignored over the years: clumsy, impulsive, loud, and no social graces—but don’t worry. Don’t yell at him? Yelling is one of my most reliable parenting tools! My mind raced: What’s with the severe motor issues?

  “Does that explain why he’s so bad at sports?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Quinn said, “and it probably explains why he doesn’t like them.”

  Having turned her diagnosis into a scouting report, I now felt the warm flush of guilt rise in my face. I had entered fatherhood assuming the only way I could connect with Tyler—the only way I could be a good dad—was to play sports with him, like my father had with me.

  While I focused on my shattered dreams, Lori asked the right question, “So what do we do?”

  —

  If Tyler is the protagonist of this story, Lori is the hero. It was her idea to send Tyler and me on the road together after his diagnosis. We needed to bond, she said, and Tyler needed real-world experience to learn how to socialize. The trips would augment the training that Tyler would now get in school and through a team of therapists Lori was putting together. She had long since abandoned her career to raise our kids.

  One of Tyler’s obsessions was history, and my job was covering the U.S. presidency. This made Lori’s first decision an easy one. From the mome
nt we walked out of Dr. Quinn’s office, she knew the destinations of our trips: the homes and libraries of past presidents—Washington, Adams, Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Ford, for starters. Lori even urged me to try to arrange visits with Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, and George W. Bush. I thought she was joking: That’ll never happen. But she was dead damn serious, telling me, “You can use a job that took you away from Tyler to help him now.”

  Lori told me to take notes on the trips. She told me to write a magazine article about them, then this book, so that Tyler would forever remember how much we loved him. But first I had to learn to love my boy for who he was, rather than what I wanted him to be.

  The history junkie in me thought I might even learn something about parenting from the founding fathers, most of whom did a lousy job with their children. I admire Tyler’s favorite president, Theodore Roosevelt, for the way he struggled to temper his expectations. Writing weekly to each of his absent children, Teddy bared guilt, angst, and love in a passive-aggressive voice you might find familiar. “I am entirely satisfied with your standing, both in your studies and in athletics,” Roosevelt wrote his eldest son, Ted junior, on May 7, 1901. “I want you to do well in your sports, and I want even more to have you do well with your books; but I do not expect you to stand first in either, if so to stand could cause you to overwork and hurt your health.”

  —

  These dreams we have for our kids come from many places. The first place is found within every parent. Think back to when you started to seriously consider having kids. Why did you want to be a mom or dad? Did you want to love somebody else, or did you want somebody else to love you? Did you want to create a new life, or improve yours? Did you want to contribute to a new generation, or did you want to help shape one? Cynthia Edwards, a developmental psychologist at Meredith College, in Raleigh, North Carolina, calls these the fundamental questions of parenthood. Most mothers and fathers, if they’re being honest with themselves, “discover that they became a parent for a combination of selfless and selfish reasons,” she said. “We’re all, at some level, compensating.”