Children Archives - Page 9 of 10

The Ghost of New Years Past

January 1, 2011 By Kirsten

We rang in the new year without incident last night. Although it must be said, the term “rang in” is a little grand for what we did. It implies activity other than Gerard and I lounging on the couch in our bathrobes, watching TV and drinking wine. We tuned in to CNN about seven seconds before midnight, had a kiss and exchanged Happy New Year greetings, and that was that. We did call my Mom right after midnight. For her it was seven in the morning and she was up and about, so we were able to have a lovely chat.

New Year celebrations when I was a kid were always a family affair. My Mom has two siblings: a brother (now deceased) and a sister, who back then lived with my grandmother, who was still alive at the time. Every year we would rotate the celebrations: one household would host Christmas, a second would host New Year, and the third would have a break for the year. On the evening of December 31st, aunts, uncles, cousins, and Granny would assemble at the designated home, and we would all have dinner (comprised primarily of leftovers from Christmas). Before midnight we would head outside with our bottles of sparkling wine (us kids were allowed a small amount to see in the New Year with).

Bear in mind that this was in South Africa, when New Years Day falls slap bang in the middle of summer. Being outside at midnight at that time of year is actually very pleasant. It’s not something I would voluntarily try in Canada unless I was on my way from one indoor place to another.

We would have the TV on in the living room, not to watch but to listen to. We would form a big circle, everyone would be given their glass of sparkling wine, and we would count down with the TV. At the stroke of midnight, we would drink our toast to the New Year, join hands and sing Auld Lang Syne. There would be hugs and kisses, and then out of respect for tradition, the first person to step into the house would be my cousin Ivan, who was the male with the darkest hair.

I used to love our family New Year celebrations. I had a very close friendship with the two cousins closest to me in age, and we always loved spending the time together (funny that the three of us each live in separate countries now). The sense of family and togetherness was wonderful. There were sometimes episodes of family drama at other times of the year, but somehow, on that day, we would all come together as a harmonious unit.

As we got older and started getting boyfriends and girlfriends and lives of our own, the family New Year celebrations started to fall by the wayside. I think the passing of Granny when I was 14 or 15 had an effect as well. The family celebrations did continue for a couple of years after that, but they were never the same. Add the fact that at that time, the older of the cousins started getting jobs, going to colleges, and moving away from home. The simple progression of life had the effect of fragmenting the family.

Now that I have a husband-to-be and kids of my own, it is time for me to form my own New Years traditions. Maybe our family celebrations will not evolve beyond the four of us hanging out in our PJ’s until midnight, and I’m OK with that. Whatever we do, I would love for my kids to grow up with fond memories of the celebrations, just as I did.

Happy New Year to anyone reading this. May 2011 be the year for you to accomplish all you wish for.

Filed Under: Children, family, New Year Tagged With: celebrations, children, Christmas, cousins, family, grandmother, New Year

Christmas Without Casualties

December 29, 2010 By Kirsten

Christmas is always such a weird time of year in my family. It’s a mixed bag of emotions for me, ranging from the very bad (my Dad’s death three weeks before Christmas six years ago) to the very good (my younger son’s birth on Christmas Day five years ago). Then there’s the fact that almost every year, I find myself inthe midst of some strange family drama that has very little to do with me. I have to deal with someone threatening to boycott Christmas, someone else threatening to decline gift exchange, bizarre arguments, and plans that change multiple times before landing on the original arrangements. Then you add a child with autism, and built-in resistance to changes in routine, and the picture gets very interesting.

This year it wasn’t too bad. As always, I missed my Dad in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but took heart from the fact that Christmas was his favourite time of year and he would be bitterly disappointed to see me having a miserable time on account of his passing. So it was with nostalgia and bittersweet memories that I put up the Christmas decorations this year, just a week before Christmas. Dad would have approved of the Christmas tree laden with ornaments, including James’ plastic Playdough scissors that he insisted be hung on the tree right below the angel. He would have loved the little village I have in George’s room, complete with lights and snow, and he would have nodded approval at the little Christmas tree with lights that I got especially for James’ room.

Here’s the amazing thing that happened this Christmas. There was no family drama. Let’s say that again, shall we? No. Family. Drama. Admittedly, we came close. Gerard and his mother had some words. Said words were taken out of context by both parties, and a big misunderstanding ensued. I have so enjoyed the wonderful feeling of peace and harmony that we have been experiencing with my mother-in-law, and I did not want to let that slip away because of one stupid conversation. I spoke to Gerard. I spoke to my mother-in-law. I smoothed the waters, and explained to each of them what the other meant, and peace reigned again. Mother Theresa would have been proud of me, and for the first time in years, we were able to celebrate the festive season without waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was truly a Christmas miracle.

Things were OK on the George front as well. His resistance to changes in routine has intensified over the last few weeks, and while this did cause some difficulties, there were no crises that we couldn’t handle. They were little things, like the fact that he got extremely anxious whenever the lights on the big Christmas tree were turned on (interestingly enough, he has no problem with the lights on the little tree, or the lights in the village in his room). So, we dealt with it in the simplest way possible. We did without the lights on the tree. When he saw presents, he wanted them opened right away. Seeing a wrapped present that he’s not allowed to open is not a pleasant experience for George. Lots of distraction and tactical planning later, we had all survived, and apart from one casualty, all of the presents were left intact until the proper time.

There was one very difficult moment on Christmas Eve, after my brother-in-law had left with his wife and baby, when we were trying to get the kids settled for bed. Both of the kids, no doubt reacting to the excitement and pure overstimulation, had meltdowns. One autistic, one neurotypical, manifesting their pent-up anxieties in different, but equally loud and stressful, ways. Simultaneously. It was like Meltdown Central at my house, and it took a long time for calm to be restored.

In the end, though, Santa was good to everyone, and we all got through several days of Christmas (and one birthday) as a harmonious, happy family. I can truly say this: Dad would be proud.

Filed Under: Children, Christmas, dad, family Tagged With: angel, autism, birthday, children, Christmas, Christmas tree, Christmas village, family, family drama, father, lights, meltdown, presents

All We Need Is A Reason

November 17, 2010 By Kirsten

This morning I woke up early and went to the gym for a rare run on the treadmill. As a general rule, I am not fond of treadmill running. It makes me feel a bit like a lab rat, or a hamster running in one of those little wheels. You never actually go anywhere. You don’t feel the freedom of the open road. It all seems a little pointless, like tofu or decaffeinated coffee.

On the odd occasion, though, a treadmill workout is better than a road run. This can be true from a circumstantial point of view (you’ve woken up with sore knees and you need to run on a surface with some give; you’re tired and cannot be bothered to map out a route; the weather outside is frightful and you cannot find your balaclava or your will power). A treadmill run can also be beneficial from a training perspective, especially during the winter. It can be kind of difficult to do a tempo run or speed reps outside when it’s snowing and there’s a gusty wind blowing. Far better to head to the gym where you can focus on maintaining 5:30 minutes per kilometre without stressing about snow, wind, ice on the sidewalks, or the fact that it’s dark and you look like a burglar.

So anyway, I went for my treadmill run and worked up a good sweat. I had some anxiety to work out of my system, so I really belted it, clocking 5km in 24 minutes. Feeling a lot better and pleasantly loosened up, I returned home, where everyone was still asleep. Before taking a shower, I checked on my boys. At some point during my absence, George had crawled into bed beside his little brother, and the two of them were sleeping peacefully, James clutching his stuffed giraffe, George with arm over James’ shoulders. It was one of those moments that reminds me of why I love being a mother, and why, in fact, I was running on the treadmill at such an ungodly hour in the first place.

It is so weird to think that two years ago, I could barely run around the block. I had been bitten by the running bug previously, of course, but after seven years of no exercise my lifestyle was decidedly sedentery. I was decidedly unhealthy, and my clothing was decidedly tight. I had tried, over the years, to make comebacks to the world of running, but there was always something that stopped me. Injury, illness, lack of time. When it came down to it, though, all I lacked was the right motivation. When I got that email from the Geneva Centre for Autism back in April 2009, inviting me to join their team for the upcoming marathon/half-marathon/5km Charity Challenge, I knew instantly that I had finally found a reason to get with the program, and to stick with the program.

Initially I considered the 5km event. After all, I hadn’t run in seven years and I was about seventy pounds overweight. And the event was just six months away. But the little voice in my head that never shuts up until it gets its own way piped up and chanted, “Half-marathon! Half-marathon! Half-marathon!” And before I knew it, I had clicked on the link in the email and signed up for the half-marathon. Six months later, I stood at the finish line somewhat stunned by the fact that in just half a year I had shed sixty pounds, gotten myself into some semblance of “shape”, and completed a half-marathon.

A year further down the line, I have run several races and two more half-marathons. Another two are planned for 2011, and my comeback to running is now firmly established. All thanks to those two little boys who were snuggled up together this morning, sleeping beside each other, making me feel like the richest person on the entire planet.

Have you ever done something that you thought would be beyond your limits? What motivated you, and what helped keep you going when things got tough?

(P.S. My first post for World Moms Blog was published today. Check it out:
http://worldmomsblog.com/2010/11/17/little-brother-big-hero/)

Filed Under: autism, Children, family, fundraising, parenting, running, Siblings Tagged With: autism, children, family, fundraising, geneva centre, half-marathon, parenting, race, running, scotiabank toronto waterfront marathon, sibling, sibling relationships, treadmill

From pumpkins to fishermen

November 2, 2010 By Kirsten

When I went running early on Sunday morning, I was startled to see a pumpkin rolling right into my path. I was perhaps more surprised than I should have been: this was, after all, the morning of Halloween. But still, when it’s six thirty in the morning and you’re running at an even pace along an open sidewalk, you don’t expect to see a large pumpkin rolling down some steps and coming to rest at your feet, with its carved face grinning up at you in a manner that can only be described as macabre.

The pumpkin was followed by a large dog, who I think had knocked it off the steps. Still, it was an interesting way to start my Halloween. It threw my run off a bit, because I was now expecting to have to dodge pumpkins every thirty seconds. Fortunately, I made it home in one piece, without further incident, and ahead of the virtual partner on my Garmin training watch.

That evening, after a day of James asking every fifteen seconds whether it was trick-or-treat time yet, we got the kids all dressed up in their glad rags. James had spent the whole of October changing his mind about what he wanted to be. He flip-flopped between Lightning McQueen, Batman, a Transformer and a frog before settling on Ironman. I don’t know who Ironman is or what his special powers are, but James says he’s cool, and really, who am I to argue? It’s not like I’m an authority on the subject.

I wish I was one of those Moms who can conjure up a convincing costume from scraps of material in the house, but I’m not. I’m one of those Moms who could probably be beaten in a sewing contest by a one-year-old, so I went to Toys R Us and managed to get the last Ironman costume they had in stock. Never mind that it was two sizes too big for James. I put him into the costume, tightened the elastic on the mask, and he looked great. Very Ironman-like.

George was a bit more of a challenge. I have never really known what to do for him for Halloween, because he doesn’t wear costumes. He has pretty intense sensory issues where his clothing is concerned, and he is super-picky about everyday clothes, never mind the weird Halloween stuff with masks and capes and stuff. His costumes have to approximate real-life clothing as closely as possible.

Something that worked in our favour this year is George’s obsession with wearing hats. Not baseball caps, but what I used to call “old man hats”. I put a life jacket on him, gave him a fishing rod, and called him a fisherman. Using cardboard, I made a giant colourful fish with a goofy grin, and I attached it to the end of the line.

Both costumes were a hit. For the first time ever, George actively enjoyed the trick-or-treating. He wore a giant grin that showed off the gaps in his teeth to perfection. James was in charge of ringing doorbells. Both kids collected a scary amount of candy that will last from now until Christmas.

Because of George’s challenges, Halloween has always been a day fraught with anxiety, probably more for me than for George. This year was different. Everyone had fun, and we all went to bed exhausted, but relaxed and happy.

Filed Under: Children Tagged With: autism, children, costumes, Halloween, pumpkin, running, trick-or-treat

Lost: the sequel

October 14, 2010 By Kirsten

Two days ago, my vulnerable seven-year-old son who has autism was taken to the wrong school by the bus driver. Through the miracle of technology, the principal of the wrong school (hereinafter referred to as School A) was able to determine that George was a student of the right school (hereinafter referred to as School B). School A principal drove George to School B, where he was welcomed with open arms by his teacher. School B administrator called Gerard to tell him what had happened. Gerard called me. Together, we spent a sleepless night thinking of how very badly this situation could have ended. we had visions running through our minds of kidnapping, assault, and all other kinds of God-awful things.

The following day, we set out to find answers. Clearly, we needed to know how and why a situation had arisen that could have had potential to severely compromise the safety of our child.

Gerard went to see the principal of School A. He pointed out that since George wears a special seatbelt lock to prevent unsupervised wanderings up and down the aisle, he could not have simply got up and got off the bus. Who had taken George off the bus and why? The principal explained that although his school did have a new student, that student was not expected until later in the afternoon due to a medical appointment. When the bus had shown up, everyone had been surprised. A teacher had gone out to meet the bus, and the bus driver had told the teacher that George was transferring to School A. The driver gestured at George and mentioned him by name. The teacher had no reason to not believe the bus driver – she simply assumed that someone had not passed on some piece of information to someone else. This is, after all, an administration. These things happen.

Gerard’s next stop was the therapy centre. He deliberately timed his arrival to coincide with that of the bus driver, with the intention of getting the bus driver’s side of the story. The bus driver claims that her supervisor had called her late on Friday to tell her that George was being transferred to School A effective from Tuesday (Monday being a stat holiday). The bus driver, who knows George very well, was surprised enough to verbally confirm, in the same conversation, that George was the child being transferred. In accordance with these instructions, the bus driver drove George to School A on Tuesday, and only discovered the next day that this had been a mistake.

The supervisor is now claiming that she never named George as the child being transferred, that she had named some other child with a completely different-sounding name. The supervisor is removing the bus driver from George’s route, and is quite possibly going to attempt to fire her.

It sounds to me as if this is what happened: The supervisor gave the bus driver the wrong name. Instead of saying Peter or Simon or whatever the other kid’s name was, she said George. The bus driver followed through on the instruction she was given, not knowing it was incorrect. Thereby unknowingly placing a child with autism in a very vulnerable situation. Now the supervisor is trying to cover up her mistake by blaming the bus driver, and the bus driver could end up without a job because of the supervisor’s mistake.

Is it just me, or is this story disturbing on many, many levels?

Filed Under: Children, School Tagged With: autism, children, school, school bus, special needs

The adventure that began seven years ago

September 18, 2010 By Kirsten

When I was a little girl, I didn’t play with dolls. Being a bit of a tomboy, I was much happier getting my knees scraped up and playing with potato guns with my brother and his friends (my poor mother would reach into the bag of potatoes while preparing dinner, only to pull out potatoes that we had used in our potato guns and then put back, full of holes, where we had found them). I’m pretty sure my mother worried about me. I had very little interest in typical little girl activities, and by all appearances, I was not dainty and girly, and I had the maternal instincts of a gnat. How would this rough-and-tumble kid grow up to have a functional spousal relationship, not to mention kids?

I didn’t do much to ease the concern of my parents when I was a teenager and later, a young adult. Socially, I was a late bloomer, and when I did finally start dating, I was going out with entirely unsuitable people. I had my first honest-to-goodness, genuine relationship with a decent human being when I was well into my twenties. I was with the man in question for two years before life simply took us in opposite directions. That break-up came about a year after my brother came tumbling out of the closet, so my poor parents despaired of ever having grandchildren at that stage. To be honest, I kind of gave up hope for myself as well. I was thirty and alone, and about to move to a place where I knew no-one.

When I was finally expecting my first son at the ripe old age of 33, I started to worry for entirely different reasons. I was convinced that I was going to be a crap mother. I had no patience at all. I had a quick temper. I’d never really felt comfortable around children, and I wasn’t really sure that I’d know what to do with my own child. I knew a whole lot about being pregnant – what to eat, how to exercise, what all of the little aches and pains meant – but when it came down to it, I knew nothing about actual babies.

Seven years and one day ago, on September 17th 2003, I spent the day cleaning my house to within an inch of its life. I didn’t know what had come over me: I am not exactly a poster child for domesticity. I was even cleaning windows, for the love of God. My nine-month-pregnant self was tottering precariously on a chair making sure there were no cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. That afternoon, I went to the grocery store and stocked up. When I got home, I cleaned out the fridge and rearranged cupboards. I think Gerard, the soon-to-be Dad, was a little frightened by my sudden flurry of activity. I may have been just eleven days away from my due date, but wild horses couldn’t have stopped me. I was a woman possessed.

Six hours later, when I felt as if I was being turned inside out by contractions, I realized that I had spent the day nesting. I had read about this nesting phenomenon, but at the time I hadn’t really put two and two together. It is debatable, of course, whether I was nesting because I was about to go into labour, or whether labour was induced by all of the nesting activity.

A few minutes before 11:00 the following morning, September 18th 2003, the pain was forgotten as a brand-new baby boy was placed gently in my arms. As I looked at my George, into those big eyes that looked so innocent and yet so wise, I was struck by the enormity of this life change. Five minutes previously, I had been just another woman – admittedly one going through an intensely painful experience without any drugs to kill the pain. Now I was a mother. I was responsible for an entire human being. How he turned out, what kind of life he had, would depend to a great extent on my actions. The weirdest sensation I had was that I was actually ready for it. I was not afraid (although, to be honest, some pretty intense anxiety would hit two days later, when I was sent home and expected to actually keep this miniature human alive without the aid of nurses telling me what to do).

George the baby

Seven years on, my miniature human being has been transformed into a long, lanky beanpole of a kid whose pants keep getting too short for him. I still experience anxiety, but of a different kind, and I have just accepted that anxiety and worrying are just normal parts of parenthood. I have faced many challenges, survived another childbirth (also without drugs – do I not learn from these things?). I have discovered that contrary to what I used to think, I actually do have deep reserves of patience. I have learned what true unconditional love means, and that those maternal instincts that many people thought were missing when I was a kid were lurking in there somewhere all along.

I have watched my baby grow into a wonderful little boy. Things are sometimes really difficult for him, there are times when we cannot reach him in his autistic world. But more and more, we are making connections with him. We are seeing the spark of intelligence and the emergence of a wonderful quirky sense of humour. He is quick to smile and when he’s with the people he loves, he is generous with his hugs.

On September 18th, 2003, my life changed forever. Not only did I become a mother. I became George’s mother, and that is something truly special.

Happy seventh birthday to my beautiful boy who has touched the world with his own special brand of magic.

George the boy

Filed Under: Children, parenting Tagged With: birthday, children, parenting

The wheels on the bus go round and round – or do they?

September 15, 2010 By Kirsten

My younger son James, who is all of four years old, walks to school because he does not qualify for bussing. I drop him off at the daycare on my way to work, and one of the daycare staff walks him and a few other kids to the school where they attend Kindergarten, just a couple of blocks away. When they are done with school, they are picked up and walked back to the daycare. It is an arrangement that works very well.

The fact that James walks to school is a godsend. It means that I only have to deal with the annual frustration of getting the bussing right for one child instead of two.

Ever since George entered the school system three years ago (cripes, has it really been that long?) there has been one issue or another with the bus arrangements. Don’t get me wrong, I know what a scheduling nightmare it can be. I am the first to appreciate the chaos that must reign in the bus companies in September of every year. I can imagine how tough it is for the drivers to deal with last-minute route changes and impossibly tight schedules.

But how far is my tolerance supposed to go? Where does one cross the line from being patient and understanding to wanting heads to roll because your child is being shuffled around by the system?

Our bus requirements are a little bit different to those of most families by virtue of the fact that George is picked up from one place before school and dropped off at a different place after school. Gerard takes him to the therapy centre in the mornings. A school bus picks him up at lunchtime to take him to school. Another school bus picks him up from school at the end of the day to bring him home. The issue is not with the pick-up and drop-off locations, it is a simple matter of timing.

Months ago, before we’d started making bussing arrangements for the new school year, the therapy centre made it clear to us that George’s pick-up time from there had to be no later than 11:45. When the morning kids are dismissed from the therapy centre each day, the afternoon kids come in. The therapy centre does not have the staff to be dealing with both the incoming afternoon kids and the morning kids whose busses haven’t shown up. Like many special ed programs, the therapy centre has a problem with staffing. They don’t have teachers and therapists wandering the halls with nothing to do.

When I filled in the bus request form, I wrote the requirements on it as clear as day. In big bold letters, emphasized with yellow highlighter, I wrote that pickup was to be no later than 11:45. I gave the form the George’s teacher, everyone went away for their summer vacations, and that was the end of it.

Until George’s new bus driver called to tell us he would be picked up each day at 12:05. Initially we weren’t too bothered by this, and neither was the therapy centre. September, we thought. New schedules, the need to transport kids to and from all kinds of places at all kinds of times, logistical nightmare. We notified the bus company that the pick-up time was a problem. The bus company said it would be fixed within a week.

In the interim, Gerard would have to close down his shop each day to drive to the therapy centre, drop George off at school, and return to work. Taking an hour out of his day that he really cannot afford right now. After a few days of this, Gerard called up the bus company to ask them how things were moving along, and he was astonished by the stone wall of resistance that he met.

Not only had the problem not been sorted out, no-one was even trying. No-one wanted to try. The general message Gerard got, in talking to one person after another, ad nauseum, was that the schedule was what it was and that nothing short of an act of God would change it. Meanwhile, our son, who has autism and therefore a built-in resistance to changes in routine, is expected to sit idle for anywhere from twenty minutes to half an hour, not knowing what he is expected to do next or who’s coming to get him.

Gerard is nothing is not persistent, so he started phoning his way up the chain within both the bus company and the school board. He has been met with a variety of reactions ranging from indifference to arrogance to downright hostility. At no point has he been anything other than polite and professional, and yet the responses have been baffling.

Through all of Gerard’s discussions and conversations with a number of people (he lost count somewhere after seventeen), a disturbing trend has emerged. The bus scheduling difficulties had, for the most part, been resolved for the general schoolgoing population by the end of the first week of school. By stark contrast, the vast majority of special needs kids still don’t have their transportation sorted out. At the therapy centre that George attends, there are ten children needing transportation between the centre and school. Of these, two children have correct bussing arrangements in place. Which means there are eight autistic kids who are still confused about their schedules and anxious because they don’t know what’s coming next or when. Although I don’t have any statistics, I hear similar stories from other therapy centres.

This whole situation is wrong on so many levels. For a start, there’s the fact that this should not be a big deal. We should not be getting this kind of resistance to a simple request that was made correctly in the first place. But far more importantly, the special needs kids in our society are the ones who experience displacement, anxiety, and confusion. Why are there elements in our society that treat them as an afterthought?

As of this point in time, the problem has still not been resolved. However, the supervisor (Of the bus company? The school board?) has admitted that the situation is unacceptable and that it will be sorted out.

On a side note, I am fascinated by the reactions I’ve received from friends and acquaintances I have spoken about this to. One guy told me that all bussing should be done away with because there’s no real need for it. He started on the age-old story about how, as a kid, he had to walk five miles to school in the snow and five miles back. Yeah, right. I’m going to let my son with autism walk to and from school by himself. Then there was a lady who insisted that this is something I should just “suck up and deal with”, that as a parent it is my responsibility to get George to and from school. This is not strictly true: it is my parental responsibility to ensure that safe transportation arrangements are made for my child. As long as those arrangements are in place, the responsibility falls to whoever the arrangements are made with – in this case, the bus company. It is also my parental responsibility to go to work each day and earn a living so I can feed, clothe, and shelter my children.

Things are not the same now as they were twenty or thirty or fifty years ago. Back then, parents were fine with their kids walking to school. There was less high-speed traffic on the roads, there were fewer pedophiles about, and parents could send their kids out of the front door in the mornings with the reasonable expectation that they would see them again at the end of the day.

In the case of younger or special needs children, if there wasn’t a bus available, Mom would be available to walk her offspring to school. Back then, Moms tended to stay home more and the Dads were the breadwinners. In most modern-day partnerships, both spouses have to work full-time out of economic necessity.

The argument that “what worked when I was a kid will work now” just doesn’t hold water.

Filed Under: Children, School Tagged With: bus, children, school

Mommy is a pineapple

August 25, 2010 By Kirsten

George has been preoccupied with pineapples lately. About two weeks ago, when we were driving home from somewhere, he suddenly announced that he wanted to go to the store. He wouldn’t tell us which store he wanted to visit or what he wanted to buy there, but he did start giving us directions in the form of pointing and saying “this way that way” in his sweet lyrical voice. We were curious to see where this was going to lead, so we followed his directions and ended up parked outside our regular grocery store. As soon as we walked in, George ran to the fresh produce section and picked out a pineapple. Gerard and I looked at each other, shrugged, and paid for the pineapple.

George spent the remainder of that afternoon proudly carrying his pineapple around. He was beaming from ear to ear as if he’d won the lottery. The following day he wanted the pineapple cut up. Thinking he wanted to eat some, I obliged, but all he wanted was the spiky leafy bit at the top. That was his prized possession for the next three days. He kept walking up to family members to see how the pineapple top would look on top of their heads. This gave him endless giggles.

A week passed, the pineapple top eventually got discarded, and all of us thought the moment had passed. But then there were demands for another trip to the grocery store. As before, George acquired a pineapple, but this time he had definite plans for it. As soon as we got home, he put the pineapple down on a table and started rooting around in his box of Mr. Potato Head parts. Five minutes later, the transformation was complete. Plain Old Pineapple had morphed into Mr. Pineapple Head. It had a full complement of facial features, two arms, and a pair of shoes. The hair, obviously, was built-in.

This was so cool! The kid made a plan! He was immensely proud of his creation, and rightfully so.

George and Mr. Pineapple Head

The following day, I was lying on the couch watching some meaningless show on TV. George was sitting beside me admiring Mr. Pineapple Head, who was occupying pride of place on the coffee table. All of a sudden, he turned to me with a glint of mischief in his eyes, and proclaimed, “Mommy is a pineapple!”

The air filled with the sound of his glorious laughter, and I bathed in the feeling that this perfect mother-and-son moment gave me.

Filed Under: Children, Play Tagged With: children, pineapple, play, potato head

The boys and the bees

July 29, 2010 By Kirsten

When I got home from work on Tuesday, my younger son James greeted me at the front door with a blue face. It wasn’t that he had used his face as a Magic Marker canvas. It wasn’t that he’d eaten a cupcake with blue icing, resulting in blue smudges around the mouth. It was that he’d been on a field trip to the park and had his face painted as Blue, of Blues Clues fame. It looked really cute, but it can be disconcerting to get home and find your second-born looking like a goofy psychadelic blue dog.

About half an hour later, James got tired of having a blue face, and he asked me to wipe it clean for him. I checked on George, who was running around in the back yard, and then, armed with a wet cloth and a four-year-old, I sat on the couch. I’d gotten about halfway through the clean-up job – meaning that James now looked even weirder than he had to begin with – when I heard a shrill scream coming from outside.

Seconds later, George came tearing into the house and launched himself onto the couch, still screaming. I was suitably alarmed. My husband flew out into the back yard to make sure there were no psychopaths lurking there, and I started checking my son for blood and broken bones. Initially I didn’t see anything wrong, and the only indication of a problem was George’s ear-splitting screaming and frantic hand-flapping. I tried to ask him what was wrong, but I didn’t really expect an answer out of him. Child with autism, limited verbal skills at the best of times, and in an absolute state – talking was not going to happen.

Suddenly he started scratching his legs frantically, almost manically. He scratched so hard that he actually drew blood. That’s when I saw the bee stings – two of them, one on each leg. His first bee stings – no wonder the poor child was so upset. I’ve tried to teach him basic safety, of course, but I’ve focused on things that posed an immediate threat. Crossing the road without looking. Touching a hot stove. Stranger danger. Internet safety. Somehow, the subject of bee stings has never really been a priority. And so, in his understanding, he was playing outside and suddenly experienced unexplained pain in both legs. Add to that the physical hypersensitivity that is part and parcel of his autism, and we have a picture that is not at all pretty.

I did the same thing I always do when George is freaked out about something. I opened my arms and wrapped George in the biggest hug I could. My heart twists when either of my kids is in pain, and sometimes a hug is the only thing that will help them. In the case of George, the deep pressure of a hug is physically soothing. It makes him feel grounded and secure; it helps the panic abate.

Little by little, the screams got softer and then petered out. The crying was gradually replaced with quietness punctuated by an occasional sniffle. George was still trying to scratch his legs, so I didn’t release my hold on him. A bottle of anti-itch lotion appeared from somewhere. I applied it, which involved a whole new struggle. In the meantime, James, who had initially been a bit put out by the abrupt shift in attention, declared that he was the doctor and he would take care of George. He’s very sweet that way, James is. When George is upset, James always wants an active part in caring for his brother.

Later in the evening, when relative calm had returned to the household, I was moving around the kitchen in a bit of a trance, preparing dinner and lunches for the following day. I was startled out of my reverie by a loud clatter-bang-bash-shriek coming from the direction of the stairs. Initially I thought one of the kids had accidentally dropped something down the stairs. It wouldn’t be the first time: on many occasions, we have discovered that Lego or Thomas the Train characters make a very loud noise when dropped down a set of hardwood stairs. This time, however, the howls of outrage were my first clue that something was wrong.

It was James. He had tried to bring down the stairs, in one go, Lightning McQueen, Doc Hudson, Mack, Sally, Mater, the Sheriff, Fillmore, and the Dinoco helicopter (anyone with a son under the age of ten will know who these are and what James’ current obsession is). Because he was carrying so much stuff, he was not able to hold the handrail, and because he was wearing socks, he slipped on the hardwood.

At the end of the day, both of my boys were fine. George wasn’t allergic to bees and James didn’t have any broken bones. The only real casualties – apart from the bees that died while stinging George – were my nerves and my blood pressure.

Filed Under: Accident, Children, parenting, Siblings Tagged With: autism, bee stings, brother, injury

Why so quiet?

July 16, 2010 By Kirsten

Some time back, my son James, who is all of four years old, announced that he had a pet monster named Billy. Billy, apparently, is a yellow monster with tall hair. He is friendly, and judging from James’ descriptions, he is the laziest being on the planet. From time to time he will sit beside James while he is playing or eating, but for the most part, he just sleeps. Sometimes, rather bafflingly, Billy will perch on my head as I go about my day. Occasionally, James will yell at me because I inadvertently walk through or stand on Billy. An apology is always called for: I have to stand there apologizing to an imaginary monster, feeling – and no doubt looking – like a complete idiot.

The existence of Billy is a testament to James’ active imagination, and also to his veryu sound verbal skills. This kid is so good at putting his mental pictures into words that I can almost picture Billy perched on the couch next to James watching him eat his spaghetti. James can talk. James does talk. Once James gets going you cannot get him to stop. His thoughts and stories just run out his mouth – very coherently, but sometimes to the point of exhausting his audience, who has to keep track of increasingly complicated storylines.

James and his dad are in a dead heat for the title of “Talker of the family”. I tend to be somewhat quieter, and George doesn’t really talk at all unless he has to. This is not unusual for a child with autism, but it is something that we are on a permanent quest to change. In today’s world, people need the ability to talk – or at least, to communicate. George has become remarkably self-sufficient in many ways: he will go to all kinds of lengths to do something himself in order to avoid asking for it.

It is easy to attribute this speech aversion to autism, but that does not really answer the question of why. Sure, George doesn’t talk because of his autism, but why is it that auties have this challenge? In the beginning the answer seemed simple: lack of vocabulary. By the age of three, George only had about thirty words – ten or so of which he was using in their correct contexts, and never more than one word at a time. Almost four years later, the vocabulary has been increasing exponentially. George can label just about everything he sees, and he can correctly identify a number of verbs, adjectives, and emotions. He is able to string together simple sentences now. He uses his alphabetic fridge magnets to construct elaborate, grammatically correct sentences that we have yet to hear spoken. So the vocabulary, grammar, and sentence structure are there. The comprehension is there too, since George will respond appropriately to most things that are said to him.

Another possibility that was presented to us is that auties frequently have a problem with motor planning. What this means is that a kid might have the physical strength and ability to, say, throw a ball, but if he has never thrown a ball before, he will have trouble figuring out what steps he needs to follow in order for the ball to become airborne. There are a lot of fine motor activities involved in speech, and the theory is that auties just cannot figure out how to translate the thoughts into vocalized sound. George, however, can read. He reads out loud from all kinds of materials. He produces the words and they sound correct. Motor planning is clearly not the issue here.

All we’re left with, then, is the simple fact that George does not see the point of talking. Speech serves a purely functional purpose for him. He uses it to express a want or a need. He will say that he would like milk, that he wants to go and play in the back yard, or that he would like a hug. He will answer questions. But apart from one or two rare occasions, he will not use speech to initiate a purely social interaction. He will not say things like “I love you” unless it is said to him first.

We are starting to see some promising signs, though. A couple of weeks ago, he asked me, completely off his own bat, if I was OK. When his brother accidentally spilled a cup of milk, George reacted with a genuinely spontaneous “Whooooooops!” While he still uses speech mostly to request things, he is at least starting to request things of a more social nature. He will say, “Let’s run!” to indicate that he wants to play a chasing game, or “Horsey!” to indicate that he wants to jump on my back, ride around on me, and pretty much cripple me for the next four days.

I suspect that George will never be much of a talker. I think he will always be quiet and shy – and that’s OK – he has to be true to who he is and the rest of us have to respect that. But little by little, we are seeing him emerge for brief moments into our world, and he is allowing us little glimpses into his.

Filed Under: autism, Children, Communication, Speech Tagged With: autism, communication, disability, special needs, speech