post

A Story About Wine

December 7, 2012 By

Dad

Yesterday, December 6th, was the 8th anniversary of my father’s death, and as always on these anniversaries, I had a glass of wine in his honour. Now, me drinking wine in the evening after the kids are in bed is nothing unusual, but when I’m toasting Dad, I go to a bit of extra effort. Instead of opening any old plonk that happens to be handy, I take the time to find a bottle of nice wine, the kind of wine Dad would enjoy.

In life, Dad had a true appreciation for fine wine, and he had an impressive collection. Where I’m the kind of person who will buy a bottle of wine and promptly drink it, Dad actually collected it. Every bottle he got was meticulously marked with the date of acquisition, and if it was a gift, it would also be marked with the occasion and the name of the person who had given it to him. The wine would then be put into one of the wine cabinets and left to age as appropriate.

Dad belonged to the Wine Of The Month club, and the bottles he received from them were treated to the same attention to detail. His last shipment arrived about three weeks before he died, and as sick and fragile as he was, he waved away offers of help and lovingly made his annotations on each bottle.

A love of wine is just one of the things I shared with Dad. We spent many evenings sitting out on his patio, enjoying the last of the day’s warm South African sun, sipping wine as we discussed the other interests we had in common, like running or books. Even after I moved to Canada, we chatted to each other about what wine we were drinking. It always felt as though I was still drinking wine with him, even though he was on the other side of the world.

And so, the first time I opened a bottle of wine after he died, it felt a little odd. It didn’t feel right, somehow. Dad clearly didn’t think it was right either, because judging from how that particular wine-opening went, he was there and he was trying everything in his power to prevent that wine from being opened.

The scene unfolded two days after Dad’s funeral. My mom, my brother and I were having lunch at my aunt Ann’s house, along with some of my cousins. Lunch at Ann’s house was always a feast. She was – may she rest in peace along with Dad – a master in the kitchen. Her fine food had to be accompanied by fine wine.

While the others sat chatting at the dining room table, I was in the kitchen with Ann. She was transferring food into serving dishes, and I was opening the wine. In those days, most bottles of wine had corks. Not that weird composite plastic stuff you get these days, but real, honest-to-God corks.

I did my thing with the corkscrew, and the cork came partway out of the bottle, and then it just stopped. You know how corks sometimes just get stuck, and no amount maneuvering will get them to budge? This was one of those corks. I was not deterred, though. I had several years as a university student behind me – I was capable of getting any wine out of any bottle, no matter what impediments stood in my way.

I extracted the corkscrew from the cork, grabbed a breadknife, and used it to saw off the bit of cork that was sticking out of the top of the bottle.

I could almost hear Dad spinning in his coffin.

I set about using the corkscrew on the remaining piece of cork. I got it firmly in place and then started the process of getting the cork out.

The corkscrew broke.

So to sum up the situation I had the following: a wine bottle with half a cork in it. Said half-cork had half a corkscrew in it. And most importantly, there was wine inside the bottle that was stubbornly remaining inaccessible to us.

By this stage, Ann and I were in absolute stitches of laughter. Ever the graceful hostess, Ann did a skilful job of politely heading off anyone who tried to come into the kitchen wanting to know what was so funny.

Fortunately, Ann was a great believer in contingency planning, so she had a backup corkscrew which she produced with a flourish, like a magician. Through a series of hit-and-miss stabby attempts, we finally got the cork out.

The good news was that we had freed the wine within the bottle. The bad news was that it was riddled with cork.

No problem.

Ann and I strained the wine into a plastic measuring jug, rinsed the bottle to get rid of any stray bits of cork, and then restored the wine to its rightful receptacle. I mean, we had to. There was no way we could show up to the dinner table bearing a plastic jug full of wine.

That hard-earned wine was some of the best I ever tasted, as if the person whose life we were toasting had sprinkled a little bit of magic into it.

 

Filed Under: dad, Death, family, Humour, Wine Tagged With: , , , ,
post

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: , , , , , , , , ,
post

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: , , , , , ,
post

Dear George

August 28, 2012 By

For the last week, I have been participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” challenge. Life got in the way of blogging over the last few days, so I am a day behind.

Yesterday’s prompt: When I was your age… – Write a letter to your child/ren starting off the with the phrase “When I was your age…” share a story of your own with them.

Dearest George,

When I was your age, I was very much like you. I had the same shyness, the same difficulty with speech, the same awkwardness around people I didn’t know. Learning was difficult for me until someone realized that I was smart but couldn’t learn in the same way as other people.

The world was a different place then, when I was an eight-year-old girl. In the late 1970’s, there was no Internet, so my parents couldn’t Google my symptoms. While diagnoses like autism existed, they were not very common, and not easy to come by unless the doctors knew exactly what they were looking for.

Throughout my childhood, I was sent for tests and assessments, but the most my parents were ever told was that I had “learning disabilities”. No-one was really sure what that even meant.

Like you, I loved books. I remember the summer I learned how to read. It was as if a door to a whole new world had opened to me. My newfound love of reading was both a relief and a source of worry to my parents. On the one hand, I could read, and this is something that everyone wants for their children. But on the other hand, the more I delved into the world of books, the more I withdrew from the world I lived in.

In spite of my rough beginnings, I turned out OK. I graduated high school, got myself a university degree and some post-graduate qualifications. I have a reasonable career, and most important of all, I have my family. You, your dad, and your brother.

You see, even though teachers and doctors didn’t really know what to do with kids like me, I was lucky enough to be part of a loving, supportive family.

My dad was always there for me to talk to, anytime I needed. He was my kindred spirit in many ways, sharing my love of reading, and later, my enthusiasm for running. He was like my rock of support, something that would never waver in the harshest of storms.

My brother and I fought like cat and dog, but in the end, we would have moved the earth for each other. God help anyone who hurt my brother’s little sister.

And my mom, your granny – she was a pillar of strength and support for me. She never doubted that I was capable of succeeding in life, and she helped steer me in the right direction. She worked tirelessly with me, making sure I was doing my homework, reading with me, being my advocate at school.

I often had conflicts with all of the members of my family. There were times when I wanted to run far, far away.

But there was never a time when I doubted that my family loved me and were there for me. When things got stormy, I always knew that the storm would pass and everything would be OK.

This is what my hope is for you. Parents and kids argue. Brothers fight. All of that is part of life. But I hope you know that no matter what, you are loved more than you could possibly know.

Please know that we are here for you, and always will be. I hope that can be at least half the mother to you that my mother was to me.

I love you always,

Mommy

(Photo from Kirsten Doyle’s archive of childhood pictures)

 

Filed Under: autism, Childhood, family, Learning Disability, parenting, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
post

Once Upon A Time

August 25, 2012 By

This week I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival, in which I write posts in response to prompts. I am having a lot of fun with this!

Today’s prompt: Once upon a time – It’s storytelling day! Write a story about yourself, your loved one, and others as though you’re a children’s book author. Be sure to include a beginning, middle, and end. Extra points for illustrations!

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who didn’t really like dolls, except for the rag doll her granny made her and the child-size walking doll she once got for Christmas. She didn’t really play with dolls, though. She preferred to play “Cops and Robbers” with her brother and his friends, even though her brother always made her be the bad guy who was shot dead.

The little girl thought her brother was bossy and annoying.

Many people thought the little girl would never be a mommy. She didn’t know how to take care of dolls, and she couldn’t sew or cook. Everyone thought that you had to be able to sew and cook in order to be a mommy. The little girl didn’t really care. She wanted to be an astronaut.

The little girl became a teenager and stopped being little. She still couldn’t sew or cook, and she was painfully shy around people she didn’t know. Apart from a couple of short-lived attempts at relationships, she didn’t have boyfriends. People still didn’t think she would ever become a mother. The girl still didn’t care about that, but she was starting to wonder if she would be alone for her whole life.

When she went away to university, the girl – now a young woman – met a man who flattered her and made her feel special. But then he hurt her and made her feel worthless. Now the young woman didn’t want to be a mother. She didn’t want to be a wife. She wanted to be alone, and for a long time, she was.

The woman grew older and moved to another country. One day, when she was sitting in a park, a man sat down beside her and told her she had beautiful eyes. When she looked at him, she felt as if she was looking at her future.

The man and woman moved into a house together. They had a baby, and two years later, they had another one. The woman had become a mother! She loved her children more than anything, and her children loved her.

The woman no longer thought her brother was bossy and annoying. He walked her down the aisle when she got married.

When a doctor told the woman that her older son had autism, she cried. But after a few years, she knew that even though there would be hard times, her child would be OK, because he had a family who loved him.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: family, life, Marriage, parenting, Siblings, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
post

Challenges of Special Needs Parenting

August 23, 2012 By

This week, I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival. Each day, there is a prompt that I answer in the form of a blog post. Although only George has the autism diagnosis, we also recognize the challenges faced by his little brother. All of my posts here this week are dedicated to him.

Today’s prompt: Challenge accepted! Parenting isn’t all sunshine and ice cream – it’s hard. Write a post that delves into 3 challenges that you face as a parent.

Me and my boys, September 2010

“That must be so hard.”

That is a common response when people find out that my son has autism. And they are right. It is hard, but not necessarily in the ways one might expect. Because as parents, we all do what we have to do. We all want the same things for our children, whether they have special needs or not. We try to keep our children safe, and for me, that sometimes means physically restraining my son to stop him from banging his head on the hardwood floor. We try to make sure they are reaching whatever potential they are capable of, and for our family, that entails intensive behavioural intervention, speech therapy, individual education plans, and navigating the special education system.

These things are challenging, and at times, heartbreaking. But I am so busy just doing what needs to be done that I don’t really give a lot of thought to the hardship factor of it all. At the end of the day, the reward is far greater than the challenge. We get the smiles, the hugs, the occasional leaps of progress that make it all worthwhile.

As full of bravado as I might sound, though, I am only human, and there are things about this whole special needs parenting gig that I wish I could be better at.

Managing the sibling connection

I often worry that James got a rough deal, being the brother of a kid with autism. So many things happen that, if I were in James’ shoes, I would be downright mad about. James, for instance, gets more timeouts than George, not only because he is more aware of what his behaviour should be like, but because George doesn’t really get discipline. I can explain to James until I’m blue in the face that the best way to punish George for bad behaviour is to simply ignore it, but how can a six-year-old be expected to understand that?

Then there are the times when James has to patiently stand by waiting for attention while I am dealing with one of George’s meltdowns. Those meltdowns, which involve George screaming in frustration and trying to bang his head on things, must be so frightening for James to see and hear. And yet this little kid waits patiently for whatever he needs, be it a cup of milk, or the answer to a question, or simply a comforting hug.

I try to make it up to James in other ways. I try to talk to him about George’s autism and what it means. There is no doubt in my mind that James adores his brother, and for the most part he seems to be happy. But I cannot help wondering just how well I am doing this parenting thing. How good a job am I doing of balancing the oft-conflicting needs of my two boys?

Managing the marital connection

When George was first diagnosed with autism just over five years ago, my doctor gave me a startling statistic. About 80% of couples who have children with special needs or chronic illnesses break up. I think that is unspeakably sad. I mean, when someone’s life is turned upside down by the reality of there being something wrong with their child, a strong spousal partnership could bring such comfort and take away that feeling of being all alone. But instead of coming closer together, many couples are ripped apart by their grief.

My husband and I both went through a process of grieving when we first discovered that George had autism. We had put together a beautiful picture of what our family life was going to be like, and in one swoop that picture was destroyed. At the time, we had no way of knowing that we would ultimately build a new picture – one very different to the original, but no less beautiful. All we knew was that we were crushed under the weight of what was going on.

Things got rough for us, but we survived. Together. We have our moments where things aren’t so great, but in the end we are partners, and we are in this together.

It can be so hard, though, to find the time and energy for one another. We are both working so hard to create the best possible lives for our boys, that sometimes we drift a little. At those times, we have to make the effort to drift towards each other.

Managing my own needs

I don’t claim to be anything special. I’m just a regular mom who happens to have a child with autism. I have a full-time job a one-hour commute away from home, I help out with my husband’s business, and I raise my kids. I cook, I clean, and I do laundry. I make sure the bills get paid and I try to get to bed at a reasonable hour each night.

I stay sane by running, and by writing. Occasionally, I even write stuff that makes sense. I love to write because it gives me a voice. I love to run because it provides a physical release from the stress, and because it gives me time to myself, to clear my head.

Here’s the thing, though: I am only one person, and no matter how well I manage my time, there are only 24 hours in one day. And when I start running out of time to do everything that needs to be done, the first thing to go is the stuff that I do for myself. Gaps start to appear in my blog. I submit archive pieces to the ezine I write for. I curtail training runs, or even – Lord forbid – cut them out altogether.

It’s as if my lowest priority in my life is myself. And I wonder if that is OK. Could those bills not be paid tomorrow instead of today? Will the world end if the laundry doesn’t get done right away? Does it matter that, once in a while, I’m grabbing something convenient from the freezer just so I can spend time taking care of myself?

I don’t know the answers. But I do think I do a reasonable job as a parent, and I am having the time of my life seeing my kids grow up.

(Photo credit: Holly Bannerman)

Filed Under: autism, Autism Diagnosis, Brothers, Challenges, family, Marriage, Self-Care, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
post

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: , , , , , , , , ,
post

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

August 18, 2012 By

When I tell people that I have a child with autism, their immediate focus tends to be on what that must be like for me as a parent. Very few people have expressed any kind of compassion for my younger son – the neurotypical sibling. It’s not that people don’t care, they just don’t think about the challenges of the autism sibling until I bring up the subject. The truth is that the siblings can so easily be overlooked when, in a sense, they are special needs children themselves because of the roles they find themselves in.

I am calling this “James Week” on my blog. All of the posts that I publish here for the next seven days are dedicated to James, in honour of how utterly fantastic he is. I am so proud to be his mom.

Yesterday afternoon, George was crying. He was crying because he’d gotten into trouble – actual, real trouble that involved serious consequences. This is a big deal because it happens so rarely. We scold him, of course, and we don’t let him get away with stuff like headbutting his little brother. But thereal trouble – the kind that results in timeouts and the removal of computer privileges – we save for times when he has done something that could seriously compromise his safety or someone else’s.

Like the time he climbed a ladder onto the roof a few weeks ago. Or the time he hit his brother on the head with the business end of a garden hoe.

Yesterday’s transgression happened after we had all been sitting on the front steps of the house, drinking tea and enjoying the lovely weather. James was kicking a soccer ball around on the driveway, and George was tossing plastic ball into the air and then hitting it with a baseball bat, in a surprisingly coordinated way. When it was time to go in and start thinking about dinner, George got upset because he wanted to continue playing. We know that transitions can be rough for him, so we patiently spoke to him and tried to get him to yield the baseball bat.

In the end, he yelled, “FINE!”, threw the baseball bat down on the ground, stormed into the house and slammed the front door. In other words, he acted like a typical almost-nine-year-old bratty kid who wasn’t getting his own way.

Which is great, and normally something that would have me jumping for joy.

The problem was that he flipped the lock on the front door, so none of the rest of us could get in.

Oh dear. My autistic son – my upset autistic son – was unattended in a locked house. That is a frightening prospect: we were more worried about his safety than anything else. We did eventually talk George into unlocking the door, and then, to use common parenting parlance, we read him the riot act. He was given a timeout, which he hates, and then he had to wait for an hour before he was allowed to use his computer.

He cried as if the world was about to end. Tears of absolute desolation flowed from him as he lay on the couch. He looked utterly heartbroken.

Well, this was no good. We had wanted to discipline him, not make him miserable. I lay down on the couch beside him and told him I loved him. I tried to comfort him, but he would not be comforted. I started thinking that this might be one of those times where you just have to let the kid cry it out of his system.  But it turned out that he simply needed something else.

He got off the couch and ran into James’ room, where James was lying quietly on his bed waiting for the storm to pass. George got onto the bed beside James and gently tugged at James’ arm. James responded by looping his arm over George, and the boys lay there hugging each other.

And just like that, George was calm, as if someone had flicked a switch. Which in some way, James clearly had.

I instinctively knew that I needed to back away and let the brothers have some time alone.

As I quietly left the room, I heard James softly say to George, “I would do anything for you, George.”

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, family, parenting Tagged With: , , , , , ,
post

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: , , , ,
post

Making Peace With A Tough Choice

May 29, 2012 By

I am participating in the 2012 Wordcount Blogathon, which means one post every day for the month of May.

When I went for my six-week postpartum checkup after George was born, my OBGYN raised the question of whether my husband and I were going to have more children. We stared at each other in a perplexed kind of way, shrugged our shoulders and said, “I dunno.”

It was a question that we had honestly given no thought to. George had been an extremely welcome surprise, but he had been a surprise nonetheless. Family planning hadn’t exactly been a key feature in our lives.

When we did talk about it – this topic that we had simply never thought to discuss – we discovered that both of us had always envisaged life with three children. This was good. I thought it was a positive sign that I was with a man who wanted the same number of children as me.

When we decided to try for Baby Number Two, I got very serious about it. I downloaded those free online calendars that tell you what the best dates are to – well, you know. I was going to chart my cycles and keep track of my temperature to tell when I was ovulating.

As it happened, I didn’t need any of that stuff. Just six weeks after we decided we were officially trying to conceive, we got a big fat plus sign on the pregnancy test. Several months after that, James came barreling his way into the world like a cannonball.

Two down, one to go.

By the time we were ready to try for Baby Number Three, though, things had gotten complicated. James was almost two, and George, who was four, had been diagnosed with autism. We were recalibrating our lives after discovering that we were special needs parents, and I was still trying to find my way out of the terrible darkness of postpartum depression.

What if our third child had autism? Would it be fair for us, knowing that we weren’t going to be around forever, to leave James with the responsibility of having two siblings with special needs?

We were so conflicted about whether or not to have another child that we went to see a geneticist. The DNA testing did not confirm a genetic link to autism, but it did not rule it out either. The geneticist turned to the very detailed questionnaires that we had completed. Based on my own developmental history, which was almost identical to George’s, it seemed not only possible but likely that I was on the spectrum myself.

The geneticist advised that in spite of the inconclusive DNA test results, there was reason to believe that George’s autism might be genetically based. We were looking at a 12-15% probability that any other child we had would have autism.

This created a problem. My husband and I found ourselves on opposite sides of the fence. He was very concerned about the 15% probability. I, on the other hand, tried to focus on the other percentage: the 85% probability that the child we had would not have autism.

We flip-flopped back and forth for several months, torturing ourselves with possibilities and what-ifs. We were torn between doing what was right for the kids we already had, and doing what both of us had always wanted. We really could have done with a crystal ball at around that time.

In the end, it was more than George’s autism that made the decision for us. I was already at an age where there’s a higher risk of having a baby with Downs Syndrome. I was finally starting to see a pinprick of light at the end of the postpartum depression tunnel. We had just successfully potty-trained James, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to start a new two-year cycle of diapering.

Most importantly, I realized that I didn’t need more children. The two that I had were absolutely perfect. When I came home from work at the end of each day and hugged them, I felt complete. I did not feel that there was piece missing – a piece that would be filled by another child.

When I am sitting on the floor in my living room, with one kid on my lap and the other jumping on my back, I know that we made the right choice. I know that my family is whole.

Have you had to wrestle with the question of whether to have more children? What was the deciding factor for you?

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/joehowell/2282930348/. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: 2012 Wordcount Blogathon, autism, Choices, family, Genetics, parenting, Siblings, Special Needs Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
« Previous Page
Next Page »