When it comes to public knowledge about autism, “routine” is often seen as a sure-fire sign, along with counting and lining things up. Well, my son is non-verbal with autism, and he doesn’t line anything up or really deal in numbers, per se. He also doesn’t care about routine.

Actually, let me correct that. Lucas doesn’t insist on routine. If we deviate from a common driving route or eat dinner at a different time, he doesn’t care. My boy is easy like a Sunday morning. This was my perception of him for the longest time. However, I spotted small signs here and there that, while he didn’t need it, he enjoyed routine.

When I would drive him to school, we’d play the same two songs in a row, “Good Morning” by Mandisa and “Mumbles the Monster” by the Wiggles. It was our morning jam. One day, I didn’t play it and, as we pulled up to school, he tapped my arm and sadly gestured towards the radio. It was a tear-jerking Hallmark movie moment, and we sat in the parked car and listened to them both before going in.

That said, he would have accepted it if I didn’t play the song. It just would have been mean on my part. Lucas, especially around that age, saved any meltdowns for food-related issues and the occasional iPad denial.

Bedtime had long been an issue that I seemed to solve by reading the cues. It also has evolved into our most cherished routine. It starts with Lucas up in his room on his iPad. At this point, his day has been roughly 100 hours long, and he’s still screaming with all the gusto he had at 4 o’clock that morning. He rocks back and forth laughing and clapping with each pause and unpause of YouTube Kids.

Hey, Lucas. 5…4…3…2…1…

That countdown is meant to end with him handing over his iPad…which he almost never does, but I’ve come to anticipate that, so even the smallest protest on his part is met with a pat on the shoulder and a calm voice.

OK. Five more minutes. OK? Deal. I will be back but thennnn you give up the iPad. OK. Five minutes.

Full disclosure – I’m fairly sure he doesn’t know what five minutes means. He does, however, know the hand motions and keywords I’m using to explain it. He realizes he gets to swipe for a bit more, and he’s left with a sense of accomplishment.

The best part? When I come back five minutes later, he hands it over with a smile. Every. Single. Time.

At this point, he becomes my demanding supervisor, pulling up his comforter and gesturing towards his television. He finds a lidded cup by his bed, shakes it to see if it has anything in it, and hands it to me if it’s anything less than completely full. I then put on his favorite Raffi concert, refill his water cup, and leave him in his room to fall asleep, like I’m Hecubus the Manservant at his service.

That used to be all it took, but it soon changed. Now, after a few minutes, he starts to get all cracked out on Baby Beluga. This relaxing concert video, which once lulled him to sleep, brings him to a fever pitch. Soon, he’s jumping in place and screaming with happiness. I’m in the den, watching it unfold on his camera.

And that’s when I switch to the app that controls his television and…click. Turn it off.

I remember the first time I did this. Up until then, I’d go into his room and explain that it was bedtime when the television was done. It was a hassle, he was never happy about it, and I felt bad every time. Still, it worked and was how we did it. Turning off the TV with no explanation, though? That was a risky move.

It’s a risky move that paid off. The first time it happened, he stopped short, the yelling and clapping stopped, and he got out of bed. Slowly, he approached the doorway to his room and peered out to see if anyone was there. Then, in a final act of defiance, he flicked on the lights in his room and crawled back into bed. Five minutes later, he was in dreamland.

This entire step-by-step response wasn’t just his reaction to the first time I did this. It has been his reaction every single time since. Seriously. I can narrate it, as it happens.

My boy is a creature of habit, not insistent of it. That’s the difference I needed to see, and, since I have, it has made life easier. While he will go along with most plans and doesn’t need to follow a regimented layout, it makes things much easier.

In the case of tasks he might be opposed to, repetition is what helps us along. Whether it’s cutting his hair in the same bathroom of the house each time (mine) or having a particular place for him to sit when taking on and off his shoes (the ottoman bench by the window), keeping things consistent also keeps them flowing smoother.

I’m always learning about Lucas, and that’s one of the things I appreciate most about him. He might not say a word, but I’ve learned to hear him loud and clear.