For quite some time now Kate has been buckling herself into her car seat. Having expressed the desire to be a big girl and buckle herself in, I allowed her to do so. This skill was a source of pride for her, something she could do without my help. And so the routine of climbing into the car countless times each day and fastening her restraints became, well, routine. Automatic. Never a power struggle. Something she did as naturally as blinking. Until one day.
Kate climbed into the car after school and dutifully arranged herself in her car seat. I proceeded to pull away, assuming she was properly restrained. I glanced in the rear view mirror only to see her sprawled across her seat sideways. Unable to pull over, I demanded that she buckle herself in at once.
"What will happen?" she asked curiously.
Well, honey, if I were to slam into another vehicle, the simple laws of physics dictate that you would continue to move at the rate of speed at which I was traveling, at which point you would be ejected from our vehicle through the glass windshield, causing catastrophic, most likely fatal damage. Basically, you would be killed upon impact.
"You would get very hurt," I answered, without going into any detail.
My answer further piqued her interest. "Will my eyeballs fall out?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes."
Click.
No problems since that conversation.
11.08.2007
11.07.2007
A Memory from Long Ago
"Remember I was 3, and I cry at Miss Marci's?" Kate said to me recently while driving to school.
Do I remember? How could I forget?
The summer before Kate was to start preschool, we enrolled her in a social skills group for children on the spectrum with the hope of combating her habit of screaming and throwing herself on the floor. The group was run by Marci, a licensed psychologist and movement therapist. Every Wednesday evening that summer we would drive 45 minutes for Kate to "participate" in this group. I say "participate" because Kate would spend the entire session rolling around on the floor, alternating between screaming and crying. Eventually, though, Marci was able to woo Kate through music and dance. By the end of that summer, Kate was a willing and happy participant, following Marci's directions and interacting a little bit with the other children.
"Yes, I remember," I replied.
"I cry a lot," she added.
Sensing that Kate was interested in having this conversation, I probed a bit further, hoping she wouldn't shut down, which often happens when she feels pressured. "You did cry a lot. Why did you cry at Miss Marci's?"
"I wanted you, Mom."
Those words made me want to turn the clock back two years, pick up that screaming toddler, and hold her close to my heart. Those screams weren't about non-compliance or defiance. Those screams were simply a little girl telling everyone she just wanted her mommy.
Do I remember? How could I forget?
The summer before Kate was to start preschool, we enrolled her in a social skills group for children on the spectrum with the hope of combating her habit of screaming and throwing herself on the floor. The group was run by Marci, a licensed psychologist and movement therapist. Every Wednesday evening that summer we would drive 45 minutes for Kate to "participate" in this group. I say "participate" because Kate would spend the entire session rolling around on the floor, alternating between screaming and crying. Eventually, though, Marci was able to woo Kate through music and dance. By the end of that summer, Kate was a willing and happy participant, following Marci's directions and interacting a little bit with the other children.
"Yes, I remember," I replied.
"I cry a lot," she added.
Sensing that Kate was interested in having this conversation, I probed a bit further, hoping she wouldn't shut down, which often happens when she feels pressured. "You did cry a lot. Why did you cry at Miss Marci's?"
"I wanted you, Mom."
Those words made me want to turn the clock back two years, pick up that screaming toddler, and hold her close to my heart. Those screams weren't about non-compliance or defiance. Those screams were simply a little girl telling everyone she just wanted her mommy.
11.05.2007
The Joys of Traveling
Traveling with a child on the autism spectrum can be a challenge. Traveling with a child on the autism spectrum who has a dreadful fear of the toilet can be a nightmare.
To prepare Kate for a weekend getaway in the mountains, we essentially outlined the entire trip for her. School first, then lunch, then long car ride, then check-in at front desk at mountain hotel, then go to mountain hotel room, then unpack, then go swimming... and so on. You get the idea. We showed Kate pictures of the resort we were staying at and talked about the activities we would be doing. We brought some of her favorite toys from home, and of course, her potty seat.
It should be noted that Kate is quite particular when it comes to toilets. To date she has used only five different toilets. Our powder room toilet, the toilet in Grandma's powder room, the toilet in Grandmom's powder room, the toilet in Jane's powder room, and the toilet in the right-hand stall at school. She has never used a toilet in a public restroom, which presents obvious problems when leaving the 2-mile radius around our house. In Kate's world, toilets must meet certain standards- they must have lids, they must have "big water" (meaning a full bowl of water), the water must stay up, and the flush must not be loud. If those criteria are not met, anxiety abounds, and a full-blown tantrum and wet pants result.
It should also be noted that Kate has yet to have a bowel movement in the toilet. Even the mere suggestion of using the toilet for that function instead of a diaper further ratchets up the anxiety level, causing her to withhold her bowel movements for up to a week at a time. That, however, is a story in and of itself and worthy of its own special post.
Fortunately, the toilet in our mountain hotel room met all of the necessary criteria. However, Kate had a great deal of anxiety using it the first time. For over a half hour Kate danced and twirled and flapped around the bathroom, repeatedly asking if the toilet had a lid, if it had "big water", if the water would stay up, if the flush would be loud. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Finally, the desire to go swimming beat out the toilet anxiety, and we had success. Kate's peeing repertoire has now been expanded to six toilets.
It was hit or miss the rest of the weekend. By Sunday afternoon, our hotel bathroom was littered with eight pairs of wet and/or soiled princess panties, two pairs of pants, one pair of tights, one pair of pajamas, one pair of socks, and one pair of shoes. Needless to say, I am glad to be home. Home is where Kate's favorite toilet is. And that means a happy, dry little girl.
To prepare Kate for a weekend getaway in the mountains, we essentially outlined the entire trip for her. School first, then lunch, then long car ride, then check-in at front desk at mountain hotel, then go to mountain hotel room, then unpack, then go swimming... and so on. You get the idea. We showed Kate pictures of the resort we were staying at and talked about the activities we would be doing. We brought some of her favorite toys from home, and of course, her potty seat.
It should be noted that Kate is quite particular when it comes to toilets. To date she has used only five different toilets. Our powder room toilet, the toilet in Grandma's powder room, the toilet in Grandmom's powder room, the toilet in Jane's powder room, and the toilet in the right-hand stall at school. She has never used a toilet in a public restroom, which presents obvious problems when leaving the 2-mile radius around our house. In Kate's world, toilets must meet certain standards- they must have lids, they must have "big water" (meaning a full bowl of water), the water must stay up, and the flush must not be loud. If those criteria are not met, anxiety abounds, and a full-blown tantrum and wet pants result.
It should also be noted that Kate has yet to have a bowel movement in the toilet. Even the mere suggestion of using the toilet for that function instead of a diaper further ratchets up the anxiety level, causing her to withhold her bowel movements for up to a week at a time. That, however, is a story in and of itself and worthy of its own special post.
Fortunately, the toilet in our mountain hotel room met all of the necessary criteria. However, Kate had a great deal of anxiety using it the first time. For over a half hour Kate danced and twirled and flapped around the bathroom, repeatedly asking if the toilet had a lid, if it had "big water", if the water would stay up, if the flush would be loud. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Finally, the desire to go swimming beat out the toilet anxiety, and we had success. Kate's peeing repertoire has now been expanded to six toilets.
It was hit or miss the rest of the weekend. By Sunday afternoon, our hotel bathroom was littered with eight pairs of wet and/or soiled princess panties, two pairs of pants, one pair of tights, one pair of pajamas, one pair of socks, and one pair of shoes. Needless to say, I am glad to be home. Home is where Kate's favorite toilet is. And that means a happy, dry little girl.
10.26.2007
Surrounded by Affluence
My scratched minivan waits in line every morning in front of Kate's school amid the Lexuses, BMWs, and Hummers, an outcast. I do not mind. It is reliable and accepts the fifty-plus miles I put on it each day without complaint. We are an average, middle-class family. We live in a nice neighborhood, in a nice house that feels a little cramped at times. We do not mind. Luxury vehicles, second homes, exotic vacations, and black tie cocktail parties are foreign to me. I do not mind. We are happy and healthy. That is all we ask for.
One day a letter came home from Kate's school. It explained a wonderful program for preschoolers who are at risk for academic failure due to low income. The program is funded through the state, and children whose families meet the requirements are eligible to attend preschool for free. I read the letter, then tossed it, as it did not pertain to us.
The next day when I pulled up to Kate's school, the office manager flagged me down. "Did you get the letter I sent home yesterday?" she asked cheerfully. "Yes, I did," I answered somewhat quizzically, not fully understanding why she was asking me. "You can send Annie here. For free!" Free? Why would I be able to send her here for free? And then it dawns on me. She thinks we are a low-income family. She thinks we cannot afford to send Annie to preschool. She thinks that my child is destined for failure because we are poor.
Flustered, I stumbled over my answer, "Oh, no, we don't qualify for that program." I failed to mention that Annie is enrolled in a different preschool, one that is around the corner from our house. That we send her there because it's close to home, so she will make friends in the neighborhood. So we can carpool. Because the twenty minute drive each way to Kate's school really sucks, and I won't be able to do it next year once Kate starts kindergarten. That I wanted Annie to attend the same school for two years instead of having to move her next year. That if Kate didn't have an IEP she would have gone to the school close to home. That this is really none of her business. "Oh? You were one of the families we were thinking of. You know, that could use a little help." This time my answer was more firm, "No, we don't meet the criteria. We are doing just fine, but thank you for thinking of us." I drove away, leaving her red-faced and speechless.
I hope she learned a lesson that morning, that it is wrong to make assumptions about people. That driving a minivan does not mean that someone requires financial assisstance. That being surrounded by people who have too much, does not make a person poor. That there are families out there who need help, but we are not one of them.
One day a letter came home from Kate's school. It explained a wonderful program for preschoolers who are at risk for academic failure due to low income. The program is funded through the state, and children whose families meet the requirements are eligible to attend preschool for free. I read the letter, then tossed it, as it did not pertain to us.
The next day when I pulled up to Kate's school, the office manager flagged me down. "Did you get the letter I sent home yesterday?" she asked cheerfully. "Yes, I did," I answered somewhat quizzically, not fully understanding why she was asking me. "You can send Annie here. For free!" Free? Why would I be able to send her here for free? And then it dawns on me. She thinks we are a low-income family. She thinks we cannot afford to send Annie to preschool. She thinks that my child is destined for failure because we are poor.
Flustered, I stumbled over my answer, "Oh, no, we don't qualify for that program." I failed to mention that Annie is enrolled in a different preschool, one that is around the corner from our house. That we send her there because it's close to home, so she will make friends in the neighborhood. So we can carpool. Because the twenty minute drive each way to Kate's school really sucks, and I won't be able to do it next year once Kate starts kindergarten. That I wanted Annie to attend the same school for two years instead of having to move her next year. That if Kate didn't have an IEP she would have gone to the school close to home. That this is really none of her business. "Oh? You were one of the families we were thinking of. You know, that could use a little help." This time my answer was more firm, "No, we don't meet the criteria. We are doing just fine, but thank you for thinking of us." I drove away, leaving her red-faced and speechless.
I hope she learned a lesson that morning, that it is wrong to make assumptions about people. That driving a minivan does not mean that someone requires financial assisstance. That being surrounded by people who have too much, does not make a person poor. That there are families out there who need help, but we are not one of them.
10.16.2007
Friendship
"Kate, are you my friend?" asked a little girl in Kate's prekindergarten class.
"Yes," Kate responded promptly.
"Kate, are you my friend?" the little girl persisted.
"Yes," Kate repeated.
"Kate, are you my friend and nobody else's friend? My best friend?" the little girl asked.
Kate gave her a puzzled look, not understanding the exclusion that goes along with being a best friend. "I friends with everybody. All everybody are friends," Kate answered.
Satisfied with her answer, the little girl took Kate's hand and the two of them bounced toward the playground. Friends.
"Yes," Kate responded promptly.
"Kate, are you my friend?" the little girl persisted.
"Yes," Kate repeated.
"Kate, are you my friend and nobody else's friend? My best friend?" the little girl asked.
Kate gave her a puzzled look, not understanding the exclusion that goes along with being a best friend. "I friends with everybody. All everybody are friends," Kate answered.
Satisfied with her answer, the little girl took Kate's hand and the two of them bounced toward the playground. Friends.
10.09.2007
Dancing Queen
Each day she asks if it is Tuesday. Tuesday is Dance Class Day. Dance Class Day is a special day. A holiday. Every Tuesday she dresses herself in pink from head to toe. Clutching her pink bag, she bounces into the dance studio, pony tail bobbing.
I watch from afar. She does not speak to the other girls as she takes her place at the very end of the row. She stands a little too close to the girl on her right. The music starts. She bumps into the girl. The girl does not seem to mind. Her eyes burn with intensity as she watches the teacher. Shuffle-hop-step. It takes her a moment to process the move and execute it, but she does it. The rest of the class has already moved on to the next foot, then on to the next step.
I watch from afar, and I fret. Her processing and motor planning issues are evident. It is difficult for her to coordinate her arms and legs. She is always behind.
Then I see it. That smile. Stretched from ear to ear. And I relax. Keep dancing, sweet girl.
I watch from afar. She does not speak to the other girls as she takes her place at the very end of the row. She stands a little too close to the girl on her right. The music starts. She bumps into the girl. The girl does not seem to mind. Her eyes burn with intensity as she watches the teacher. Shuffle-hop-step. It takes her a moment to process the move and execute it, but she does it. The rest of the class has already moved on to the next foot, then on to the next step.
I watch from afar, and I fret. Her processing and motor planning issues are evident. It is difficult for her to coordinate her arms and legs. She is always behind.
Then I see it. That smile. Stretched from ear to ear. And I relax. Keep dancing, sweet girl.
10.02.2007
A Walk in My Shoes
Last night I came home to two orange girls. Orange ink from a stamp pad covered their hands, feet, and faces. Handprints covered the kitchen table and chairs. Footprints danced around the kitchen floor. A sheepish looking husband was found on the couch, not moving a muscle for fear of waking a slumbering Little Fella on his chest. "Sorry," he managed apologetically. I shot him a dirty look, let out a loud sigh, and quickly busied myself in the clean-up process before the girls inflicted any more damage. "I don't know how you do it," he said.
With those words, my irritation vanished. During the hour or so I was out of the house, he got a glimpse of what my life is like on a daily basis. And now he understands.
So, dear husband, now you understand the mountain of laundry, the unmade bed, the empty refrigerator, the stack of unopened mail, messy rooms, my short fuse, uncooked dinners, why I fall asleep on the couch at 8:30, why sometimes I just need to sit next to you without saying a word and just enjoy the quiet. Thank you for taking this walk in my shoes. And thank you for understanding.
With those words, my irritation vanished. During the hour or so I was out of the house, he got a glimpse of what my life is like on a daily basis. And now he understands.
So, dear husband, now you understand the mountain of laundry, the unmade bed, the empty refrigerator, the stack of unopened mail, messy rooms, my short fuse, uncooked dinners, why I fall asleep on the couch at 8:30, why sometimes I just need to sit next to you without saying a word and just enjoy the quiet. Thank you for taking this walk in my shoes. And thank you for understanding.
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