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A Letter To My Sons

December 14, 2012 By

 

My boys, my heart, my life

To my dearest boys,

I was going to start this letter by telling you about the things that happened today, but it will be easy enough for you to find out if you are so inclined. Just Google today’s date – December 14, 2012 – and “Connecticut”. I am afraid that if I try to describe the events for you here, I will drown under the weight of my own sadness, and I won’t be able to tell you the stuff that you really need to know.

When you were newborn babies, I held you in my arms and promised you that I would give you the best life I possibly could. I would provide for you, support you in whatever you wanted to do and help you reach your full potential, whatever that might be. I would keep you safe and warm, and I would do everything I could to protect you from the uglier side of life.

But sometimes the uglier side of life kind of forces itself on us. People do things that are so unspeakably terrible that the effects penetrate to the deepest parts of our souls. It reminds us that sometimes we cannot protect the ones we love – sometimes we just have to do the best we can and then go on faith.

Today I feel like the luckiest mom in the world. When I got home from work today, you both came running at me, and I wrapped my arms around you and held you as close as I could. You hugged me back, kissed me on my cheek and told me you loved me. Right now, there are some parents who will never feel the warmth of their children’s hugs again.

We all spent some time romping around on my bed, telling jokes and wrestling with each other. I scolded you when you started jumping on the bed, all the while feeling immensely grateful that you are here for me to scold.

We went out to dinner, the four of us. We went to our usual restaurant, sat in our usual booth and ate the food we usually eat. We were all together – an intact, whole family. I thought of the families who have new gaps at their dinner tables and in their hearts.

As I sit here now, I am thinking about how tomorrow, I will finally get around to putting up the Christmas tree. I will be doing it with you boys, but instead of bossing you around about how to decorate the tree like I usually do, I am going to let you do it however you want.

You see, I get to decorate the Christmas tree with you. I will get to give you the Christmas presents I have bought you, unlike some families who have gifts hidden in their closets that will never be opened.

Right now as I write this, you are both in bed. You are supposed to be asleep, but one of you is trying to play with Lego quietly, and the other has a colouring book and crayons under the blankets with a flashlight. In a little while, I will go into each of your rooms and tell you to go to sleep.

While I am there, I will hug you tightly and tell you I love you.

With all my love, with all my heart, with everything I have.

Mommy

Filed Under: Children, Connecticut, Love, Tragedy Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Giving Away My Birthday

November 29, 2012 By

My 40th birthday

During the weeks leading up to my 40th birthday, I had a bit of a freak-out. It was the first year that I was really bothered by the idea of getting older. I has this sense of life having passed me by, and I started to regret wasted time, lost opportunities and mis-spent youth.

As it happened, turning 40 worked out really well for me. A few days after my birthday that year, I officially became a Canadian citizen. Approximately five minutes later, my now-husband got down on one knee and proposed to me, right there in front of the citizenship judge and about 100 fellow new Canadians. I went on to have one of the best years of my life – albeit one fraught with the stress of wedding planning.

With all of that excitement behind me, I am now at an age where my birthdays aren’t really a big deal. All they do, along with the increasing number of grey hairs on my head, is remind me that I’m getting older. So I am quite happy to give my birthday away to someone who can make the most of it.

This Saturday, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.

My younger son James was born on Christmas Day, and in some ways that’s a bit of a rough deal, and we have to work very hard to make sure his birthday gets the recognition it deserves. We have his birthday parties a couple of weeks before Christmas, before everyone is sick to teeth of going to parties. This Saturday happened to be the best day for it this year, and by happy coincidence, that happens to be my birthday.

Someone asked me if I didn’t mind giving up my birthday to host a children’s party. My answer is that although I’m giving away my birthday, I am celebrating it in the best way possible, giving my boy the birthday party he deserves.

I cannot wait. It’s going to be the best birthday ever.

(Photo credit: Gerard Doyle)

 

Filed Under: Birthday, Celebration, Children, National Health Blog Post Month, party Tagged With: , , , , ,
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Autism: The Good, The Bad And The Ugly

November 28, 2012 By

When my firstborn son was first diagnosed with autism five years ago, the force of it all was like a kick in the head. I honestly did not know how I was going to live the rest of my life as an autism parent, especially with the doom-and-gloom picture that was presented to us by the diagnosing doctor.

But life has an uncanny way of continuing, no matter what. We adapt and survive, and sometimes we even manage to see the positives in a situation that is, by most people’s standards, less than ideal.

The Good

* Every moment of accomplishment is a cause for celebration. I have a true appreciation for what most people think are “the little things”.

* My son can problem-solve rings around the rest of us. His thinking is at times very effective while also being wayyyyy out of the box. It offers a whole new perspective on life.

* My two boys have a healthy amount of sibling rivalry going on, but they also have a great deal of love for each other. My younger son’s empathy and kindness toward his brother that has to be seen to be believed. It makes me well up with tears every time.

* Let’s face it, many kids with autism are computer geeks. And it’s very handy having a built-in computer geek.

* I believe that having a child with autism makes me a better and more patient parent.

* Kids with autism can have funny, quirky senses of humour that take you where you least expect to go.

* Hugs from kids with autism can be the absolute best.

The Bad

* When my child is trying with all his might to express something and doesn’t know how to, the look of frustration and desperation in his eyes is heartbreaking.

* Sometimes my younger son tells me that he wishes his brother didn’t have autism. There are no words to describe how that feels.

* Autism is unbelievably, phenomenally exhausting, and that’s just for me. I cannot imagine what it must sometimes be like for my son.

* There is a lot of frustration involved in advocating for my child in the school system. The vast majority of teachers are genuinely good and caring people who mean well, but a lot of them just don’t get it.

* I worry about my son’s future every single day. Will he ever be able to brush his teeth and take a shower independently? Will he ever learn to look both ways before crossing the street? Will he be bullied in high school? Will he be given the same opportunities as other kids? Will he be OK when, someday, I am no longer here?

The Ugly

* There are holes in the drywall from all the headbanging incidents. They are not pretty.

* We are frequently the targets of people who stare and say rude things. They are not pretty either.

* As much as I think that autism has made me a better parent, I am only human, and sometimes I lose it. Big-time. I slam things and scream like a banshee.

* Sometimes, I have to battle my son’s autism and my depression at the same time, and it’s such a battle. I teeter on the edge of these big black pits of despair, and it is absolutely terrifying.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, Children, family, National Health Blog Post Month, parenting, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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My Life Is A Reality Show

November 14, 2012 By

Reality show material?

Today’s prompt in the National Health Blog Post Month invites writers to describe why their lives might resemble a reality show. To be honest, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine my life as a reality show, especially when you consider the kind of stuff they’re putting on TV these days. They have everything from teen pregnancy to Mafia ex-wives to pig hunting to people getting simple trivia questions horribly wrong as they attempt to not have their cars repossessed. Several months ago, there was a show – an entire hour-long time-slot – devoted to a discussion about cricket poo.

I’m not even kidding.

Something tells me that a show about my life would be infinitely more entertaining than a show about cricket poo, and if people were watching that, then my show would be an absolute hit.

Let’s take a look at the cast of characters:

The Autie

Like many kids with autism, George is a complex little fella, seemingly full of contradictions. At nine, he still needs hand-on-hand assistance to brush his teeth, and yet he would probably be able to assemble a computer in three seconds flat, reminiscent of that scene in Forrest Gump where Forrest put a rifle together in record time. George has meltdowns when you least expect it, and at times when you just know there’s going to trouble, he is the picture of serenity. Every good show needs a dose of intrigue, and with George there is plenty of that.

There is also a feel-good element in watching George. Every day the kid comes out with some action or some little phrase that demonstrates the trajectory of his learning. Anyone watching would surely celebrate every little accomplishment.

The Hyperactive Neurotypical Kid

What would a reality show be without a hefty dose of drama? With James, there is plenty of that. So much that we have to be on guard against Shakespearean troupes taking him away to be in theatrical productions. He has strong opinions, and a strong sense of what he perceives to be justice, and he’s not afraid to express that.  When I tell him to put on his pyjamas, he cries bitterly and says I’m ruining his life. He threatens to run away and says he’ll never hug me again.

Five minutes later he always hugs me. Because as much as he is a drama queen, James has a big heart and a generous spirit. Only the most hard-hearted soul would not feel utterly moved at the sight of James comforting his brother.

Besides, the kid has an imagination second to none. His mind takes him to all kinds of places, and sometimes, when he feels like telling a story, he takes the rest of us right along with him.

The Dad

My husband is so weird, he could have a reality TV show all to himself. I mean, he once deliberately got into the shower with all his clothes on. He says things that sound offensive but are actually hilarious. Like the time he said my hair makes me look like Gene Simmons, or the time he said the lunch I had made him looked like gorilla puke. He has a whacky sense of humour that would have the viewers rolling on the floor with laughter.

He would also have the female viewers swooning with his sense of romance. This is a man who approached a complete stranger in a park and told her she had beautiful eyes, who many years later proposed to that same woman in a grand gesture at her citizenship ceremony. When I was in Winnipeg on business years ago, he sent me a singer. A guy with a guitar showed up at my hotel room, and sang me a song while my husband was on the other end of the phone line.

The Mom

If it’s suspense you want, I’m your girl. I’m the one who’s always rushing around in a tearing hurry, trying to complete about 37 tasks all at the same time. I juggle so much at any given time that it’s anyone guess which one I’ll drop and what the consequences will be. Viewers will watch in slight bafflement as I take multitasking to a whole new level, and they will not be able to help sniggering as my exhaustion makes me do stupid things, like put lipstick on my lashes and mascara on my lips.

Here’s the thing, though: I may have a  lot on my plate, like special needs parenting, distance running, a full-time job, commuting, the husband’s business – but I’m happy. Yes, I have my issues with depression and anxiety (which could also have a show all of their own), but I have this weird and wonderful family to keep me going.

The Set

The reality show would be filmed in my own home, and I wouldn’t be obsessively cleaning up and putting things away before the camera crew came. This is supposed to be reality, so it would have to include the ever-growing piles of paper on my desk, and the Lego all over the floor, and the discarded clothes lying around, that I swear reproduce when I’m not looking. Viewers would get a glimpse of my kitchen sink that’s always full of dishes no matter how much cleaning up I do, the holes in the drywall from where George has banged his head during meltdowns, and the unruly pile of shoes and coats by the front door.

So I have a cast and a set, and the plot is built-in to the fabric of our daily lives.

All that’s missing is a title.

Filed Under: autism, Children, family, National Health Blog Post Month, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Time to Jump in Puddles

November 7, 2012 By

From time to time, people who think they could raise my kids better than I do criticise me for not enrolling them in weekend activities, and from time to time, I wonder about that myself. I get this guilty feeling that I’m not exposing my kids to enough opportunities. From a logistical standpoint, it is so difficult, though. Even if you assume that I’m up to my neck in free time during weekends, which I so totally am not, my husband and I only have one car between the two of us. My husband usually goes to work on Saturdays, leaving me at home with the boys and a public transit system that is sporadic over weekends.

The real question is whether this is even an issue. Does it matter that the boys are home with me on Saturdays instead of being whisked off to baseball practice and karate class? It’s not like I get a lot of time with them during the week, and even when I am busy working on invoicing or household admin or laundry, I love having the boys around me. I listen to them play together, which they are doing more and more, and I let them watch movies like Ice Age and Cars 2. I break up their sibling rivalry spats, eat lunch with them, and occasionally bully them into picking up their toys. Sometimes we make “cake in a mug” or s’mores, or play intriguing variations of Scrabble. When I am doing my own thing, the kids will rush up to me at random times just to launch themselves at me and give me a hug.

If they were in weekend activities, none of that would happen. Someday, I know it will all change, and the boys will be off doing their own thing with their friends. But for now, I enjoy having that time with them.

And for the kids, it might not be a bad thing to have a bit of downtime. Their weeks are so busy, with school and homework and time with the respite worker and all the rest of it. I worry that overscheduling them would leave them no time to be kids.

After all, kids should always have the time to run around in the rain and jump in puddles.

Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle

Filed Under: Activities, Children, National Health Blog Post Month, parenting, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , ,
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Race Report: Longboat Toronto Island Run

September 27, 2012 By

They said the weather would be cool. They, of course, being the weather forecasters. They said it would be slightly overcast with mild temperatures and a light breeze. Perfect weather, in other words, for a 10K run around Toronto’s Centre Island.

It certainly felt cool enough during the ferry ride over. When I took off my jacket to give to my six-year-old son James, whose sweater I had forgotten in the car, my arms were goosepimpling in the crisp cold air.

James was beside himself with excitement. He had been looking forward to this day for weeks. It was his first-ever ride on a ferry, and he was about to run his second race. I lined up beside him: he had asked me to run with him, and a 1K kids’ race would double as a handy warm-up for me.  A short distance with a bunch of six-year-olds – how hard could it be?

It turns out, very. Try running with a tribe of children who have just spent time cooped up on a ferry – you’ll see what I mean. They took off like bats out of hell, and I – half-marathoner who has been collecting PB’s like crazy this season – had trouble keeping up with my six-year-old son. The run was not officially timed, and the kids scampered off from the start line before I had time to set my watch, so I don’t know how fast James’ kilometre was. It was quick though – definitely quicker than the seven minutes he clocked up at his last race, which was impressive enough.

Then it was time for the start of my own race. I didn’t really have a time goal in mind – I rarely make PB’s on courses that I am not familiar with – but I wanted to just run and enjoy it. I knew the course would be flat so I figured that I would just let loose when I felt good enough and slow down when I felt tired.

It turned out to be a very hard run. This can be partly attributed to the weather – the cool day predicted by the weatherman turned out to be surprisingly warm, and I started out too fast. I was also recovering from a pulled hamstring, so I was not in the best physical condition.

Oh, and I also broke a basic rule of running: don’t try anything new on race day. I was using a brand new water bottle belt, and that turned out to be a bad idea. By the halfway point, my back was aching from the unaccustomed weight distribution. I was immensely relieved when I crossed the finish line in a time of 1:05:01. Not my best 10K performance, but not my worst either.

The course itself was nice, and I was quite impressed with how the race organizers managed to get a very decent 10K route out of a little island.

I will be back next year to improve on my time. James has said that he wants to do it again as well, and who knows – maybe my older son will even want to take part.

There are few things that beat a day with the family on an island on a sunny day, with a nice run thrown in.

Filed Under: Children, Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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A Portrait of Two Brothers

August 21, 2012 By

For the next week, I will be participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” blog carnival. As I talk about the joys and challenges of raising a child with autism, I also recognize the contributions – of which there are so many – of my younger son James. All of the posts that I publish here this week are dedicated to him.

Today’s prompt: Portrait Post – Write a descriptive portrait of your child/ren. Share qualities that make them, them – and include an image!

They lie curled up together on the bed, their identical-coloured curls tangled together on a single pillow bedecked in a Thomas the Train pillowcase. The larger of the two boys has his arm thrown casually but protectively over his little brother. These boys are both amazing individuals in their own right, but at times like this, it seems that one would not be complete without the other.

Although only one of the children has a diagnosis, I am an advocate for both of them.

On the left is George, almost nine years old. He is tall for his age: one of those long lanky kids who somehow manages to stay skinny despite eating startling quantities of food. He bears a strong physical resemblance to me: our noses are the same shape, our eyes are the same shade of blue, and when we’re tired, both of our left eyes droop ever so slightly in the corner.

George has autism. He has profound delays in speech and social communication, and he gets anxious – almost panicky – when an established routine is deviated from. He has trouble regulating his emotions, and will bang his head in frustration when he is unable to make us understand what it is that’s bothering him. There are times when I look into his eyes and see the depth of his frustration, his sadness, his desperation to communicate in ways that he is not able to. It’s as if he wishes he could emerge from his world, even if just for a moment.

There are times, though, when his world is a wonderful place. He can see patterns where the rest of don’t even know one exists. He sees beauty in numbers: he is comforted by their consistency and their power, and he has always outperformed typical kids of his age in math. If there’s a problem to be solved, he will solve it, albeit by a somewhat unconventional method. He has a quirky sense of humour along with the most infectious laugh you ever heard. When George laughs, the whole world really does laugh with him.

And he has the most beautiful, pure heart that is just bursting with love. I treasure the moments when he says in his sweet lyrical voice, “Go give Mommy a hug”, and then clambers onto my lap, drapes his gangly arms around my neck and buries his face in my hair.

On the right of the bed is James, who is six going on twenty-seven. He came flying into the world like a cannonball one cold Christmas afternoon, and he hasn’t stopped since. He is a bundle of dynamite who zings his way around life with a seemingly endless supply of energy. His face is bright and vibrant, brought to life by shiny blue eyes that view the world with wonder and curiosity.

It is hard for him, being the sibling of a child with autism. Things happen that he perceives to be unfair, but in spite of this, his love for his brother does not waver. He tells me that he loves George more than he loves me – and I am completely fine with that. When George is having a meltdown, James treats him with concern and compassion. Many times, he will be the first one to know what George is trying to say and what he needs. We sometimes see George seeking out the comfort of his brother – comfort that James is always ready to give.

James shows wisdom and empathy beyond his years. But when he wakes in the morning and sleepily climbs into my lap, his little body melts against mine and I am reminded that he is just a baby. He may be a little brother with a big brother’s role, but he needs to be nurtured, cared for, protected. We need to be make sure that as he grows up, his role as George’s brother is balanced by his identity as James, as an individual with his own hopes and dreams.

I worry about the future for both of my boys. They will each have their challenges to deal with, and their battles to fight.

But now, as they lie sleeping, they don’t have a care in the world. And that’s just the way it should be.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Advocating for Another, autism, Brothers, Children, family, life, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Lego On The Roof

July 29, 2012 By

As a person who (a) suffers from social anxiety disorders and (b) is a bit of technogeek, I have very few friends who I have actually met in person, and quite a lot who I have communicated with only through the magic of the Internet. It is always a bit of a thrill when I can actually meet – face to face – one of my online friends.

Yesterday I got that opportunity, when a friend who lives a couple of hours away came to visit with her husband and little boy. We all had a wonderful time. My friend is even more fun in person than she is online, and we already have plans in the works to meet up again.

When this absolutely delightful family left, my husband went off to his factory to admire his latest handiwork, and I settled down in the living room to watch Olympic swimming and weave words into pictures.

The kids wandered onto the deck to play, and I was easily able to keep track of them from where I was sitting. All I had to do was turn my head from time to time to make sure I could still see them, and as long as I heard the thump-thump noise of their feet hitting the wooden deck as they ran around, I knew the status quo was being comfortably maintained.

At one point when I looked around, James seemed to be somewhat taller than usual. Also, he was holding a long stick. I was so comfortable in my seat, though, and since no-one was screaming I decided that it would not be necessary to actually get out of my seat. A verbal reprimand issued at reasonable volume should suffice.

“James, put the stick down!” I called.

“But then George will try to get the Lego off the roof,” he called back.

What???

I went out to the deck, and there was James standing on the table, poking at the roof with the stick. I stepped back a few paces and almost tied my neck in a knot in my efforts to bend it far enough, and sure enough, I just managed to make out the unmistakable bright yellow glint of Lego.

“How did it get there?” I asked, perplexed.

“I threw it there,” said James in a matter-of-fact tone, as if this kind of thing happened every day.

There are times when parenting should operate on a need-to-know basis, and I decided that this was something that I did not need to know. I went into the back yard and lugged the ladder onto the deck. I set it up, and stood there looking at it with growing anxiety.

Here’s the thing. I am absolutely petrified of ladders. I always imagine that something terrible will happen while I’m up on one. The thing will collapse beneath me and I will crack open my skull and break seventeen bones. Or it will fall over and I will be trapped on the roof forever, subsisting on bugs and droplets of water from the rain gutter.

If I didn’t get the Lego, however, George would have a meltdown of epic proportions. The fact that I got up on that ladder and made my shaky way to the top is proof that I love my children more than life itself and would do absolutely anything for them.

At the top of the ladder, I had a bit of a problem. Because of where I had positioned it, I couldn’t see where the Lego was. I had only one shot at this, though. Once I got down from the ladder, there was no way in hell I was getting back up again. So I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and ran my hand along the bit of roof that was within my reach.

My hand made contact with something hard. Hoping to God that it was the Lego, I grabbed it and tossed it down onto the deck. I then made my nervous way down the ladder, only allowing myself to breathe once my feet hit terra firma.

The thing that I had thrown down from the roof was indeed the offending Lego. I breathed a sigh of relief, half-heartedly reprimanded the culprit (James) and in a rare break from the norm, allowed myself a glass of wine before dinner.

My poor shattered nerves deserved it.

 (Photo credit: aloshbennett. This picture  has a creative commons attribution license.)
Filed Under: Children, Fear, Friendship, Ladder, Lego 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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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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