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What Autism Parents Have Patched Together, Let No Media Man Put Asunder

July 23, 2012 By

I am angry.

I’m not talking about mild aggravation here. I am scream-in-frustration spit-in-someone’s-eye angry. I would like to take the object of my anger, lock him into a room with me, and give him a stern what-the-bleep-are-you-thinking talking to.

Deep breath… soothing thoughts…

Allow me to explain.

As an autism parent, I spend the better part of my life fighting for stuff. Six years ago, I fought for the assessment that led to George’s diagnosis. Then I fought for services. Every year I fight for funding to pay for respite workers. I fight for educational accommodations and opportunities for my son.

I fight for awareness.

Most of all, because I want my son to have the opportunity to live a happy, healthy, productive life, I fight for acceptance. I try to encourage people to look past the more challenging aspects of autism to see my child for who he is: a beautiful human being, full of love and bursting with potential.

From time to time I see baby steps of progress. Someone might leave a comment on my blog saying that they have a greater understanding because of my writing. Or I might see comprehension dawn in someone’s eyes when I offer an explanation for a grocery store meltdown. Those moments of progress are so gratifying, because they give me hope for my son’s future.

And then, along comes MSNBC host Joe Scarborough, stating that the man responsible for the Colorado movie theatre shooting was “probably on the autism scale.”

Thanks, Joe. Way to promote acceptance for people with autism. Telling the world that a kid with autism could potentially grow up to be a mass murderer really helps our cause.

What astounds me is that Joe Scarborough is the father of a child with Aspergers. Having parented a child on the spectrum, hasn’t he had to have the same fights as other autism parents? Has he not had to beg for funding, or services, or the rewording of a point in an IEP? Has he not dealt with the stares of unsympathetic strangers or the ostracism of his child?

Has he not worried about whether his son will be accepted by the society in which he has to live?

Joe Scarborough’s statement about the Aurora shooter is not based on anything but dangerous speculation. It is my hope that most people will have the sense to dismiss what he said as groundless nonsense. It is my fear that he has planted new seeds of baseless stereotyping that will serve to further isolate the kids we are trying so hard to integrate.

People really need to think before they speak. Especially people with any kind of public voice.

(Photo credit: Fifth World Art. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: Acceptance, autism, Colorado shooter, stereotyping Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Race Report: Durham Quarter Marathon

July 22, 2012 By

Freshly soaked by a fire hose!

The Durham Quarter Marathon is the race that I almost didn’t register for. At 10.549 km, it’s such an odd distance. I’m not sure why this was a deterrent, considering that my favourite race distance is the half-marathon. 21.095 km is not exactly a round number. In the end, I registered for this race because I wanted to run a race in the middle of summer for the sake of hot weather training. I also reasoned that it would be a good benchmark for me, being exactly half the distance of my “A” race, which is coming up in October.

Then there was the cause: The Refuge, which helps homeless youth. Who wouldn’t want to run for such a great cause?

Leading up to the race, I started to feel a cold coming on. This happens to me so often that I have come to the conclusion that it’s all in my mind. It’s part of my mind trying to trick me into believing that my body is not capable.

My mind should know by now that I’m not letting a stupid cold stop me from running a race.  I ramped up the vitamins and fluid intake, and dealt with the guilt of missing a training run so I could rest. When I woke up on the morning of the race, I felt fine.

The race started at Oshawa City Hall, about two minutes’ walk away from free covered parking. I picked up my kit, pinned my bib to my shirt (no small feat considering my – um – curviness up top), and ate my pre-race snack with plenty of time to spare for warmups.

At the start line, I positioned myself about fifty feet behind the 1:05 pace bunny. My goal was based on average pace – I wanted to beat 6:15 minutes per kilometre. I had not worked out what total time that translated into, but I knew that if I stuck close to the 1:05 bunny I would make it.

By race standards, this one was quite small. There was no lack of enthusiasm, though, from the runners, the onlookers, or the race officials and volunteers.

There was a count-down, and then we were off! I didn’t really know what to expect. The race had been advertised as a net downhill course, but all that meant was that the start was at a higher elevation than the finish. It didn’t mean there wouldn’t be hills to climb. I had not seen either a route map or an elevation chart, so I didn’t really know how to pace myself.

So I started fast, staying close to the 1:05 bunny. Although I was still with him when the first kilometre ticked over, I decided to dial it back a little after that. I felt OK, but it was a fairly warm morning and I was well ahead of my goal pace. There was no need to knock myself out. I let the bunny go, figuring that I would probably catch up with him later.

Most of the race was run on park trails. This meant there was nice shade cover for much of the distance, and for the first few kilometres, there did seem to be more downhills than uphills. I had no trouble keeping ahead of my goal pace, and I was having a lot of fun. There weren’t enough runners around me to clog the path, but there were enough to maintain that race vibe that runners love to be a part of.

The aid stations were spaced at just the right intervals, and the course was dotted with signs that said things like, “Run like you just stole something” and “Don’t stop, people are watching”.  There were also some cheering squads along the route, blowing noisemakers and ringing bells. There was one man enthusiastically egging the runners on while holding a sign that said, “Go, random stranger, go!”

In the seventh kilometre, I saw what I now refer to as Monster Hill #1. It rose ahead of me like a personal Everest, and I saw the runners ahead of me slowing to a walk as they were defeated by this monster.

The show-off in me emerged. I was going to run all the way up this hill, as God was my witness. I didn’t care how slow I ran or how much my legs ached, I was not going to walk. I shortened my stride and started to make my way up, passing all of the runners who were walking. Sure, they’d probably all pass me at some point after the hill, but I didn’t care. I had a mission and that’s what I was focused on. All of a sudden, I was at the top and I felt great. I felt as if I had gone up that hill at the speed of mud, but it turned out to be one of my fastest kilometres.

All of that hill training and strength training that my friend and coach Phaedra made me do has clearly been paying off.

That hill took a lot of out me, and the going was rough after that. But with just a couple of kilometres to go, I was almost done.  Sometime during the eighth kilometre, what did I see in front of me? The 1:05 pace bunny! As far as I could tell, he was about thirty seconds ahead of me. If I could put on a burst of speed, I had a chance of catching him.

It was tempting, but I had to be careful. We were going into the ninth kilometre, and I wanted to leave enough for my finishing kick. I decided that catching the bunny would have to wait.

I turned onto a trail along the waterfront, rounded the corner, and saw…

… Monster Hill #2.

Seriously? When race directors map a route with a giant hill in the last couple of kilometres, are they just being sadistic?

I tried, people. I tried to approach Monster Hill #2 as I had approached Monster Hill #1. But I felt as if I had nothing left. I walked halfway up the hill and then ran up the rest of the way, and by time I got to the top, I was well and truly done. Ahead of me, like an oasis in the desert, I saw the final aid station. I walked through the aid station to get my heart rate down a little, and then picked up my pace again.

I had a little more than a kilometre to go. Ten minutes of running at the most. I could do it. I was hurting, but I kind of switched my mind off and just ran. I didn’t think I had anything left for a finish line kick, but at this point, if I made it across at a crawl I would be happy.

But right after the 10K marker, I started to hear finish line noises: cheering, and the sound of a voice through a loudspeaker. I turned a corner, and there ahead of me was the finish line. Without any conscious effort on my part, I felt my legs turning over faster, and I felt my stride lengthening.

I still had the finish line kick! I never managed to catch the pace bunny, but I only crossed the finish line about 30 seconds after him, finishing with a gun time of 1:05:45. My actual time was closer to 1:05:25.

My goal pace had been 6:15 min/km. My actual pace was 6:13 min/km. This race had definitely been a success. If I continue sticking to my training program, my goal of 2:15 for the half-marathon in October is achievable.

Shortly after crossing the finish line, some sexy firefighters doused me with their fire hose, and I sat on the grass eating my post-race banana, in a drenched but contented state, trying not to think of the fact that if it weren’t for Monster Hill #2, I would have caught that bunny.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Durham Quarter Marathon, Monster Hill, Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Accidental F Bombs

July 14, 2012 By

The first time my younger son James, who had just turned four, dropped an F-bomb, he was out with my husband buying me a new laptop to replace the one that had gone kaput. According to eyewitness accounts (i.e. my husband), the conversation went something like this:

James (sitting in the back with my husband driving): Daddy, can I have a donut?
Husband: OK! Look out for a donut shop and tell me if you see one!
James (ten minutes later): Where’s the f*cking donut shop?

My husband tried to be stern about it, but he had a hard time keeping a straight face. It was one of times where you find something funny but you cannot let on that you find it funny.

Two a bit years later, the word has fallen out of favour with James. He doesn’t understand what it means (at least, I hope he doesn’t), but he does know that certain words are “bad words”. When he hears me slip up and utter a curse word, he tells on me, running to his dad and calling out, “Mommy said a bad word!”

A recent slip-up on my part has created F-bomb issues, not with James, but with my older son George.

Some time ago, George started messing around with the timer on the oven. This in itself is understandable for a boy with autism who likes to have everything just so. If you tell him that something will happen twenty minutes from now, he takes it very literally and makes sure he knows just when twenty minutes will be up. So he goes off and sets the timer on the oven.

This is a problem from a safety point of view. Not only does it mean that he is leaning over burners that may or may not be turned on, but the timer is controlled by the same buttons that are used to actually turn the oven on. There have been a couple of instances where George has accidentally set the oven temperature instead of the timer.

It is a fire hazard, and also a great inconvenience if I happen to have something in the oven and the temperature is suddenly not what  it should be.

We have been dealing with the timer-setting habit with as much sternness as you can employ with a kid with autism. Our “punishment” involves leading him to his room, and making him sit on his bed for a few minutes during which we completely ignore him. Negative reinforcement doesn’t really have an impact on him. It just makes him giggle. No reinforcement at all, however, makes him somewhat disconcerted and uncomfortable.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, my husband called out to me, “George set the timer!”

Without thinking, I replied, “Oh, f*ck.”

Yes, the children were within earshot. It was not my finest parenting moment.

We dealt with the situation as we usually do, and life went on.

Until this week, when George had one of his frequent bouts of echolalia.

For the uninitiated, echolalia is when a child with autism repeats something that he or she has heard, without regard for the context. It can be immediate, where the child repeats what has just been said moments ago, or delayed, where the words are repeated hours or days later.

This was a case of very delayed echolalia. About a month after my F-bomb, George suddenly said, “George set the timer! Oh, f*ck!”

And then giggled as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

And then said it again. And again, and again, and again.

As parents, of course, our instinct is to reprimand the child for saying such a word. And with typical kids, that’s fine. But for kids with autism, it’s a little more complicated. You can tell George until the cows come home, and he still won’t be able to distinguish the bad words from the normal words.

Since we make a big deal of any speech George comes up with in order to encourage him, our best defense is to simply ignore him when he says that word. But it’s so hard, and goes against the grain of what we believe to be “good” parenting.

In the meantime, we are getting George his very own timer – one that has proven very effective in the autism community. Hopefully, it will keep him away from the oven. It’s called a Time Timer, and it looks like this:

How do you deal with your kid coming out with swear words? Special needs parents: what are your strategies? I need them!

(Photo credit of “See, hear, speak no evil”: John Snape. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

(Photo credit of Time Timer: Spectrum Nasco)

 

Filed Under: autism, Children, Echolalia, F-Bombs, parenting, Profanity Tagged With: , , , , ,
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Ramblings From The Heart

July 8, 2012 By

It is a lazy Sunday morning and I am trying to keep things low-key. My husband, who almost never drinks alcohol, was out with friends last night, and he has a bit of a hangover that he is sleeping off. My younger son is watching TV and my older son is playing on his computer beside me. I am sipping coffee and seeing if anything interesting has been happening on Facebook while I’ve been sleeping.

It’s pleasantly peaceful. I feel as if all of the pieces of my life are in harmony.

My older son abandons his computer game and comes to stand beside me. He is tall for his age, one of those long lanky kids whose pants never seem to be long enough. I regard this child of mine, this beautiful boy with autism who some higher power has deemed me worthy to parent.

In his sweet, lyrical voice and odd way of speaking, he says, “Go give Mommy a hug.”

I hold out my arms and he clambers into my lap – something that I am going to treasure while he is still just not-too-big to do so. He wraps his arms around my neck, kisses me lightly on my hair, and rests his head on my shoulder. Although neither of us is saying a word, the communication between us is profound and special. Our world of two feels complete.

I am intensely aware of the weight of responsibility. As I hold my child in my arms, I feel as if I am holding his future. Everything I do counts: every word, every gesture, every action. All of the mistakes I make – and in parenting, there are bound to be some – can cause some erosion, some little breakdown somewhere in my child’s character. But all of the things I do right can build him up. I visualize this moment that I am sharing with him right now. I imagine it adding another layer to his confidence and sense of emotional well-being.

Although this beautiful moment will soon be over – already, I am starting to sense my son getting ready to move on to the next part of his day – its effects will last forever.

Sometimes, as I think about the immense role that I have in creating positive, productive and happy lives for my children, a part of me – the part ruled by self-doubt – asks, “Can I really do this? Am I worthy of having such responsibility for two human beings?”

And at moments like this, as my son gets off my lap and goes off in pursuit of some adventure that only he knows about, I can hear the Universe whisper back to me.

“Yes, you can do this. And yes, you are worthy.”

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Childhood, parenting Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Water Play As A Path To Independence

July 7, 2012 By

 

When my son George was a baby, washing his hair was no big deal, simply because there was hardly any hair to wash. In fact, he was born with so little hair that when my best friend asked what colour it was, I had to admit that I didn’t know. There wasn’t enough to be able to tell. Hairwashing was therefore a simple matter. There was none of the “lather, rinse, repeat” business – all I had to do was wipe my baby’s head with a washcloth and we were done.

It all changed overnight when George was about eleven months old. After spending almost all of the first year of his life as bald as a cue ball, he sprouted a full head of hair one night. It was really weird waking up to this almost-toddler who was suddenly blond-haired. It was even weirder having to figure out, after almost a year of parenting, how to properly wash a child’s hair.

George resisted the hair-washing from the start. Whenever I tried to tell people about his protesting, they brushed it off, saying, “Most boys hate having their hair washed.”

That may  have been true, but from my own observations, most boys did not go into a state of all-out panic. No matter how gentle and soothing I was, George went wide-eyed with fear and screamed the roof down.

When we got George’s autism diagnosis, it all made sense. Kids with autism can have some intense sensory issues. Knowing about the autism did not solve the problem – we still had to wash this child’s hair in spite of his aversion to it – but we could at least make accommodations. We looked up social stories and created visual schedules. We established hair-washing routines to enable George to know exactly what was going to happen in what sequence. We used rewards and reinforcements, and we tried to work within the framework of his sensory difficulties.

When George was in his IBI program, his therapy team introduced a hair desensitization program. Every day, he was encouraged to brush his own hair and spray in some leave-in conditioner. It took a while for him to actually do it, but with a bit of time and patience on the part of the therapists, it became a part of his routine. When he left the IBI program, the desensitization continued at school, and now, our respite worker is incorporating it at home during the summer break.

George is still resistant to having his hair washed, but the desensitization is getting him closer to a point of tolerance. The key, we are realizing, is control. He won’t voluntarily allow someone else to put shampoo or any other gunk in his hair, but under the right circumstances, he will do it himself.

This was highlighted to us recently when we took the kids to play in a water play park. George is not actually afraid of water, but he does tend to be hesitant around it when he’s in new surroundings. At the water play park, he spends the first ten minutes or so on the sidelines, watching the sprinklers intently. The sprinklers do different things, and they turn and off at different times. When George knows what the sequence is, he ventures into the play area and allows himself to get wet.

He’s always been very careful to avoid getting water onto his head.

Until now.

About a month ago, we noticed that George was running right through the sprinklers instead of around them. He was running too fast for his hair to get more than a few drops of water on it, but still. It was more than he had ever done.

Imagine our absolute astonishment when, ten minutes later, he walked straight up to a sprinkler and put his head directly into the stream of water, allowing his hair to get soaked.

This is an encouraging development indeed. It brings George one step closer to the independence we are trying, in small increments, to guide him towards. Maybe I will never be able to wash his hair without him protesting. But maybe he is moving closer to a point where he will do it himself. Maybe all he needs is the ability to predict what the water is going to do, and the best way for him to predict it is if he is in control of it.

This idea applies to just about every area of my child’s life. As parents, our instinct is to do everything for our kids because, you know, they’re our kids. This is especially true of our kids with special needs, who are are so much more vulnerable. But we can serve them far better by equipping them with the tools – be it encouragement, knowledge, or actual tools – to do things for themselves.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,
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Dad: My Running Inspiration

July 2, 2012 By

My Father The Hero

When I first started running in the winter of 1996, my dad was my first-ever coach. At that stage of my life, I was quitting smoking and giving up a host of very unhealthy lifestyle habits. My idea of running involved jogging for about thirty seconds and then walking for five minutes while trying to get my breath back. I was that out of shape. When Dad offered to coach me, I initially felt a little awkward. I mean, he was an ex-marathoner of note and he’d be coaching someone who could barely get off the couch. But he insisted that I since I had the spirit of a runner, the rest would follow easily enough.

Over the next few years, Dad gave me a ton of advice that came not from reading books, but from experience. He taught me about hydrating in small frequent sips rather than the occasional big gulp. He took me to the running store not for shoe shopping, but to make sure I knew how to pick out the right socks – something he said many runners fail to see the importance of. He told me that it was important to keep moving after a run instead of just stopping, and he showed me how matching my breathing to my pace would help me not only physically, but mentally as well.

While I was still living in Johannesburg, Dad and I spent many hours sitting on his patio drinking wine and chatting about the South African running scene. He would tell me why this guy was probably going to win the nationals despite being a rookie, and why that guy would crash and burn despite years of experience. He was usually right in his predictions.

Now, seven years after his death, I have realized something that makes me very sad: I did not talk to him enough about his own days as a runner. Today I was looking through a scrapbook I have put together of newspaper clippings, certificates and photographs. I looked at the medals and trophies he won that I got when he died, and I read his training log. And I got a true appreciation for just how great a runner he was.

In his prime, Dad was one of South Africa’s elite marathon runners, featuring in the top ten lists for various distances. As a 22-year-old running his second marathon, he won a place on the podium by crossing the finish line in third place. He ran the now-defunct Peter Korkie ultramarathon – a distance of 37 miles or 59 kilometres – in a time of just over four hours. He ran sub three-hour marathons as a matter of course.

And I wish that I had asked him about those days. How old was he when he started running? What got him into it? What was it like, being a runner in those days?

Apart from a few anecdotes he shared about his days as a runner, and the artifacts that I have now in my possession, I know shamefully little about my dad’s journey as one of South Africa’s true running talents.

It’s not too late to try and find out, though. I have plans to go back to his roots, to the sports club he ran for, to try and find someone who ran with him.

Maybe he will guide me in my quest to find out more, just as I feel him guide me in the races I run today.

(Photo credit: unknown photographer – picture is from my dad’s running archives)

Filed Under: dad, History, running, South Africa Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Band-Aids and Autism: How my Son Saved the Day

July 1, 2012 By

Several nights ago, right after lecturing my younger son James about keeping fingers away from sharp objects, I sliced my thumb open on the lid of a freshly opened can of tuna.

I made a run for the bathroom and held my profusely-bleeding hand over the sink while James trailed in saying, “Mommy, you really should learn to be more careful.”

I really should, indeed. I’m not at all sure how this even happened. What I do know is that the amount of blood was startling. It was a deep cut, right across the soft padded part of my thumb. I wasn’t really sure what to do about it. I had a full box of Band-Aids, but I didn’t think they would do a great job of stemming the flow. I was out of gauze pads, and George had surreptitiously used up all of my surgical tape to stick bits of paper to other bits of paper.

As I stood at the bathroom sink stupidly watching my blood go down the drain, George – eight years old and autistic – came in with the box of Band-Aids, that he had gotten out of the cupboard without anyone asking him to. He started unwrapping Band-Aids and wrapping them around my thumb. They were instantly getting soaked, but George kept at it, adding Band-Aids down the entire length of my thumb. Eventually, my thumb was trussed up in about twenty Band-Aids. It looked absolutely ridiculous, but the bleeding was contained.

George then added an extra-special touch: he took my hand, and lightly kissed my Band-Aided thumb.

It’s hard to say what aspect of this whole incident is most significant.

George, autism and all, responded immediately and appropriately to what he saw as an emergency. This child, who gets totally freaked out at the sight of blood, showed no more than a little bit of mild distress. He managed to stay completely calm as he bandaged me up. He quietly took charge of the situation in a way that astounded me. The kiss demonstrated tenderness and empathy – just the kind of bedside manner that someone with a fresh injury needs.

It makes me think that I should start teaching him First Aid. If this incident is anything to go by, George seems to have that instinct of calmly wanting to help when someone gets hurt. It could serve us well to empower him to help in situations like this, starting on a small scale, of course. I wouldn’t expect my eight-year-old to perform CPR, but if he had the tools to handle minor First Aid emergencies, that could be good not only for his potential patients, but for himself.

Do you think George’s response to this situation might be evidence of some instinct that he naturally has? What opportunities do you think might arise from this?

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/honan/3779689068/)

Filed Under: autism, Emergency, First Aid, Injury Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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The Mathematics Of Brotherhood

June 28, 2012 By

2012-05-13_17.58.13

I am fortunate enough to have two children who travel well, at least by car. We have not yet experimented with air travel, but I have a feeling that once we got past the airport chaos and onto the plane, they would be fine. We are not quite ready for that, so for now we are sticking to the road trips.

Last weekend, we drove to Elkhart, Indiana. It’s a journey of about eight hours, which does not include time spent on the border crossing and any pit stops. We planned as well as we could, given that we only had a day in which to plan. I packed up stuff for an en route picnic, and made sure the boys had their favourite toys in the car with them. I even had my laptop handy in case I had to calm them down by playing DVD’s for them.

The drive down could not have gone better. The guy at the border cheerfully welcomed us into the United States, despite my six-year-old informing him that “Daddy always be’s crazy.” Shortly after crossing the border, we stopped for our picnic. Everyone had fun, and there were no complaints as we piled the kids back into the car for the remainder of the drive.

The drive home was a different story altogether. I wouldn’t say it was disastrous, exactly, but it was a little fraught with stress. It started with lost Lego. I wrote recently about George’s Lego, and how it can never, ever be lost.

Right before leaving the Elkhart city limits, we stopped for a leisurely dinner. We ate our food, paid and left. When we had been driving for about an hour, George suddenly started asking for his Lego. This surprised us, since we had assumed he had it with him. We pulled over and couldn’t find the Lego anywhere in the car. A phonecall to the restaurant confirmed that George had left it on the table.

There was no way we were going to force our child with autism to do without the object that is a big source of comfort to him – I mean, he sleeps with his Lego – so we drove back to Elkhart and got it. Disaster was averted and peace reigned once again.

But only for a little while.

By the time we embarked on our return journey, the kids were tired, cranky and overstimulated from a packed weekend. It is understandable that they didn’t feel like spending eight hours stuck in the car. I didn’t feel like spending eight hours stuck in the car.

With about five hours of the drive left to go, George started saying, “I want to go home. I want to be home in ten minutes.”

Well, in the absence of rocket launchers on the car, that wasn’t going to happen. We tried to talk George through his increasing anxiety. Even James, in his sweet way, was trying to comfort his brother.

“Don’t worry, George. We’ll be home tonight.”

Instead of calming down, George was getting more and more anxious, so we did what we always do when he needs to be distracted: we started throwing out math questions at him.

George loves numbers. He’s been able to count to 100 in a variety of increments since he was three, and he was doing multiplication in his head long before anyone taught it to him at school. When he’s asked a math question, he cannot resist answering it. It’s a marvellous way to reduce his stress.

James started playing along and pretty much took over. He was asking George one math question after another. What’s 8 plus 8? What’s 32 minus 7? What’s 5 times 5?

The math questions eventually morphed into nonsense questions. What’s cow plus water? What’s house plus airplane? What’s paper plus shoes?

Every time James asked one of these questions, he provided an equally nonsense answer. By the time this had been going on for a while, the kids were in fits of giggles. Come to think of it, me and my husband were too. It was hilarious.

Then James asked the following question: What’s James plus George?

We all looked at James, waiting for the answer. When it came, it brought tears to my eyes.

James plus George equals love.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, Elkhart, Indiana, Love, Math, Travel Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Photographic Adventures: Indiana Road Trip

June 25, 2012 By

Last weekend we took a road trip to Elkhart, Indiana, to check out the jazz festival and visit a friend. To say that it was an impromptu trip would be an understatement. Roughly 24 hours after deciding to go, we were on the road. The trip was not without its challenges, but that is another blog post for another day.

Today, I want to share a few pictures that I took during the trip. I don’t claim to be a photographer, but I do enjoy trying to capture those moments during which happy memories are made.

Hitting the road

The driver should be concentrating on driving!

Happy traveler!

Driving along Hwy 401 in Toronto

Driving over the bridge into the United States

Sharing the road with a biker

 

During our picnic, James decided to seek inner peace (his words)

 

While James sought inner peace, George tried to climb a tree

 

Objects in the rear-view mirror can be really, really cool!

 

Elk riding in Elkhart, Indiana

 

Water park wars!

 

Filed Under: family, Photography, Travel Tagged With: , , , ,
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Bedtime Toys: Finding The Lost Lego

June 21, 2012 By

Last night, my son George couldn’t find his Lego. This was a potentially disastrous situation: George has to  have certain things with him when he goes to bed, including a subset of his Mr. Potato Head collection and his stack of pink and yellow Legos. Gathering them up and putting into bed is part of the routine, and if anything goes missing, the entire routine – and subsequently everyone’s sleep – goes to hell in a handbasket.

So when the Lego went missing, the entire family embarked on a thorough, systematic search. Anyone looking at us would have thought we were trying to root out Saddam Hussein. The search included all rooms in the house, the backyard, the car, even the garage.

Eventually James found half of the Lego stack caught behind the treadmill. The other half had somehow ended up in the washing machine with some laundry. The crisis was averted, and before long, George was snuggled up in bed with his Lego and his Mr. Potato Heads.

It seems like a strange choice of sleeping companions. I’d always thought that kids liked teddy bears because they were soft and comfortable to hug, and for a long time, I assumed that George’s total lack of interest in plush toys was somehow related to his autism. Since then, I have realized that not all kids are into teddy bears, and that preference has nothing to do with autism or the lack thereof.

James went through a brief phase of having to sleep with every stuffed toy in the house. I would have to arrange them around him, and to an extent, on top of him, and I would always wonder if the furry friends would take up so much space that there would be no room left for the kid. It was an impractical arrangement because James is a restless sleeper, and one by one, the stuffed animals would be displaced. When I went to wake James up in the morning, his room would look like a plush toy factory had exploded in it.

It was at around this time that George started taking his Mr. Potato Heads to bed. He couldn’t possibly fit his whole collection in there, so he would pick out about ten of them, ensure that they had their arms and legs and other bits and pieces, and he would line them up neatly. There was a whole variety of them – plain old Mr. Potato Heads were mixed in with the likes of Darth Tater and Indiana Jones: Taters of the Lost Ark.

Taters of the Lost Ark was an interesting one: if you pushed down on his hat the Indiana Jones theme song would be played. This would happen when George rolled over onto this particular Potato Head in his sleep.

It’s a little disorienting to wake up at three in the morning to the sounds of the Indiana Jones theme song.

George’s choice of sleeping companions has not changed much since then, but James’ has. The stuffed toys have been relegated to a toy box, and James now sleeps with Finn McMissile (of Disney Cars fame), his Megatron (a member of his ever-expanding Transformers family) and a glow-in-the-dark skeleton.

From time to time, I will check on them after bedtime to find the pair of them in George’s bed with their respective toys. They’re hiding under the comforter with a flashlight on, playing companionably alongside each other. I pretend to reprimand them for not sleeping, and then I slip out of the room and let them play. Because really, who am I to interrupt their moments of brotherly togetherness?

Do your kids sleep with stuffed animals, or do they prefer other toys? How strict are you about separating play time from sleep time?

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scazon/4207552952)

Filed Under: Bedtime, Children, sleep, Toys Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,
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