Posts Tagged "adaptation"

Mind Games

Posted by wendy on Jan 29, 2012 | 2 comments

King of the road.

King of the world.

A Christmas Miracle

Posted by wendy on Jan 19, 2012 | 1 comment

Somewhere along the line this year, Jack started disliking Santa.  Oh, he loves the man and the gifts he brings, but as December rolled around, Jack made it clear he wouldn’t be sitting on the Big Man’s lap, and there would be no photo for the mantle this year.

I have to confess, I’m most likely responsible for Jack’s trepidation.

In late September, before we had even begun to talk about Jack’s birthday or Halloween (our favourite October events), it happened.  My boys pulled out their Polar Express DVD and started the countdown to Christmas.  I didn’t discourage them much, as I have a deep and abiding passion for Christmas and all the pageantry it entails.  I did insist on doing all of our traditional October things like picking apples, decorating pumpkins and the like, but it didn’t take long after each activity for their attentions to turn back to Santa.

One night, as we were looking for books to read before bed, I was quite upset to find that one of their favourites had been ripped to shreds.  Actually, its pages had been turned into paper airplanes.  We really love our books in this house, and I was beside myself.  I decided they needed to learn a lesson in consequence.

I told my big boys that in order for Santa to bring them shiny new toys this year, they’d have to apologize.  They needed to write him a letter, in advance of the traditional “I want” missive, explaining that not only had they shredded some books, but that yes, they’d used their special Polar Express train set outside in the mud (it was not, surprisingly, mud-proof), and that they were sorry.  I told them Santa wouldn’t bring them nice new things if he thought they would be treated badly, and an apology was in order.

Lennon didn’t like it, but he understood.  Jack argued points with me (he did not take part in the book destruction, so he felt he only needed to cop to the train wreck), but finally understood if he wanted new loot, he needed to come clean.

I felt good after that discussion, happy that my children might have actually learned responsibility and culpability.  They did, sort of.  What Jack learned, though, was that Santa has a bit of an attitude, and he wanted nothing to do with it.  He started to tell me how he would write his letter, but he wouldn’t go see Santa.  Not even for a second, no way.

I didn’t push him. If I’ve learned anything in the six-plus years of living with Jack, it’s that if he says he doesn’t want to do something, he means it.  We went to Sea World once, after a week of three-year-old Jack telling anyone who’d listen that he did not, in fact, want to go.  He didn’t want to see sharks or dolphins or whales.  He didn’t care about the turtles.  He did not want to go, period.  We assumed that once we got there he’d change his tune, as he adores sea life, but lo and behold, he stuck to his guns.  We did not get to see sharks or dolphins, and he summarily dismissed the huge killer whale swimming right past him.  It was the fastest trip to Sea World in recorded history.

Boring

So when Jack said no to Santa, I figured that was that.  Last year’s trip to see Santa was a debacle, since the whole family had been sick with the flu the entire month leading up to Christmas.  We finally got to see him at the little mall near us one night while we were out, on a whim, looking at decorations.  The boys were in their jammies, and the hurried photo we got reflected the moods of everyone involved (even poor Saint Nick, who was minutes away from quitting time and bombarded by a load of sick kids in pajamas). In search of a better experience this year, we packed everyone up and went into the city to the VanDusen Botanical Garden’s Festival of Lights.

Seeing the light

We enjoyed a spectacle of lights, music, Swedish waffles and fun.  As we neared Santa’s cottage, Jack started his dialogue of how he wouldn’t be participating, lest we had forgotten his endless lecture during the hour-long car ride to get there.  I took the younger kids in, and Jack watched through the windows.  For about ten seconds.  Then he was hooked.

The Santa experience at VanDusen was like nothing we expected.  Santa had his own little cottage (which they called his “living room”), separate from all the hustle and bustle of the botanical gardens. He sat on his big, comfy chair nestled between a fireplace and a beautiful Christmas tree, in front of three rows of benches.  Families sat and waited to chat with him, or just enjoyed the quiet coziness. There was no professional photographer, no cameras at all other than those in the hands of grinning parents and grandparents. Santa took his time with each child, asking them questions about their likes and dislikes, their thoughts on the world, and yes, eventually, what they would like for Christmas.  He invited them onto his lap if they were comfortable, let them sit next to him if they were not.  He smiled, laughed, and exuded absolute joy.

Deep in discussion

It didn’t take long for Jack to assess the situation and change his mind about meeting Santa.  He responded wholly to the calm and quiet, and wanted in.  As we waited our turn, I watched the excitement grow on his face, his love of Santa overcoming the fears he’d built up in his head.

Jack and Santa discussed the fireplace, the lights, and several other things before Jack finally expressed his desire for a book about airplanes.  Jack climbed up next to him and I took the best photos I have ever gotten of Jack and Santa.  In fact, the photos I took of the three boys and Santa are, hands down, our best Santa photos to date.  There is joy on their faces, all four of them.

Team Baskin with Santa. Joy all around.

As we left the little cottage, Jack couldn’t contain himself.  “It was a big mistake telling you I was afraid!”  He was giddy with pride.  Then he was serious. “Santa loves children all the way to the bottom of the world because he lives on the top of the world.”

Yes, Santa loves all of the children.  Even if they tear up books or destroy their Christmas trains in the summer mud.  Santa loves the children who are brave, and those who are not.  Santa loves the children who can tell him what they want, and those who cannot. Santa loves equally, always.

I will never forget this visit with Santa, and we will go see him in his little living room next year. And the year after that.  I hope he knows how much he is appreciated, by the parents as much as the children.

"Dear Santa, Thanks for making my stuff. From, Jack"

The Horror

Posted by wendy on Jan 5, 2012 | 3 comments

Right before Halloween, or maybe in preparation for it, Jack picked up a new habit.  He started walking around whispering quietly, rapidly, nonstop.  If you talk to him he’ll look you straight in the eye, but the muttered whispers don’t stop.  They continue until you make a concerted effort to get his attention, and start right up again when he’s done with you.

It’s disquieting, to say the least.

Jack is a quirky kid, and it’s not just the autism causing it.  Ok, a lot of it is the autism, but Jack is a pretty spunky dude anyway.  He’s had a laundry list of ticks that have come and gone.  He’s picked at the skin between his nose and lips until it bled.  He’s picked at his lips until they’ve bled.  He’s pulled his eyelashes and poked himself in the eyeball.  Each one has stopped in its own time with not too much intervention.  Except the eye thing, which I put a stop to by telling him if he didn’t quit I’d take him to the eye doctor, who would blow air directly into his eyes.

(It’s not a lie, although the doctor most likely wouldn’t perform a glaucoma test on a six-year-old for touching his own eye. I’m not proud.)

He stopped pretty quickly, although now that I actually have to take him in to have his eyes checked, I may wish he hadn’t listened so closely.

My point is, I’m sure someday the muttering will stop.  In the meantime, I’m having flashbacks to every horror movie I’ve ever seen featuring possessed children each time I try to have a conversation with Jack.  He’ll be doing his thing, playing with something or running endless laps of the living room, and I’ll hear it.  Like the persistent static of an old transistor radio in a Stephen King novel, I just know if I listen closely enough, I’ll hear something that will scare me right out of my pajama pants.

This photo creeps me out. But not as much as my possessed kid.

Is he speaking to dead people?  Planning our demise?  Chatting with himself about the weather?  I may never know, but I won’t lie.  I’ll be happy when he moves on to the next thing.  I can only hope it’ll involve more fun quirkiness and less demonic possession.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Close Enough to Care

Posted by wendy on Oct 4, 2011 | 4 comments

They say small children unleash their anxieties and frustrations on those closest to them.  A two-year-old could be a dream child all morning at daycare, then come home and spend the next hour screaming bloody murder at mama.  A four-year-old can play all afternoon in preschool, never losing his smile, then tantrum to shake the walls for daddy on the way home.  An autistic almost-six-year-old can work all day in school, barely taking a break to play (his choice), and tear down the very foundations upon his arrival at three o’clock.

I am used to this.  All of my children have done it, and I remind myself it is because they feel safe and secure with me, enough to put down the “happy kid” facade.  Jack, especially, has it down to a science.  Even as a baby, when we would keep him out until all hours (because he didn’t sleep until three or four am), he would smile and laugh and have a wonderful time wherever we were.  That is, until we crossed the threshold into our home.  The door would close, and Happy Jack disappeared, replaced by Screamy Jack.  Screamy Jack raged for hours, pretty much in symmetric relation to how long we’d been out.  If we went on vacation, he hung around for a week after we returned.

Screamy Jack only likes to be around immediate family, though.  Screamy Jack needs the love and support and freedom to vent his frustrations, and only Mama or Daddy will do for that.  Actually, it’s usually only Mama who gets the pleasure of his company.  Jack has never “acted out” with anyone but myself, my husband, or one of his therapists/aides. Until today.

We have never had “family friends” who lived nearby.  My husband and I have friends, some of them have children, and none of them have ever been within walking distance, mainly because we previously lived in a very non-kid-friendly area of a not-too-kid-friendly city.  We now live in a neighborhood and region teeming with children, and we were bound to meet some of them, and their parents, eventually.   We met Team Hartman (we’re Team Baskin) at the playground near our house.  They have three boys very close in age to ours, and we clicked with the mama and daddy.  A family match made in heaven.

We have had playdates with Team Hartman, birthday parties, BBQ’s, and all of the things you’d expect from neighbors who are also friends. Our kids are even in school together now that Jack has officially transferred.  I know it’s what folks do every day, everywhere, but it’s new to us, and we’re enjoying it.

My husband has a new job with daytime hours, so Mama Hartman has, on occasion, brought Jack home from school with her son.  For some reason Jack calls her his “daycare lady,” even though her care really only entails meeting him outside of class, a few minutes of playtime at the school playground, spirited conversation between Jack and her seven-year-old on the way home, and depositing him on our doorstep.

Today, Mama Hartman decided to stop off at our neighborhood playground for a bit on the way home.  Jack is always exhausted after school and I rarely take him to play in the afternoons because of that, but I figured since he was already out and about it couldn’t hurt.  A lot of lessons were learned today.

Jack loves Mama H, and I know the feeling is mutual.  That is the only explanation I have for why, after some good playtime, Jack lost it.  He fell apart.  He crumbled completely and laid himself bare.  She was at the playground by herself with her own three children, the youngest, at two, has his own evil alter ego shown mainly to her.  And she had Jack, or should I say, Screamy Jack.  He did not want to leave the playground.  He did not want to stop throwing things.  He did not want her to take an alternate route home (the park is 3 blocks from us).  He threatened, he bargained, he screamed, he raged, he cried.

He trusted her enough to let himself go.

Several things went through my mind when she showed up on my doorstep with him, frazzled a bit but still smiling.  First, it dawned on me that there have been only a handful of occasions in Jack’s six years that we have let him out of our sight with someone other than a teacher or therapist.  Secondly, I wondered if this woman, who I consider a friend, would ever dare take him anywhere but straight home ever again.  And third, I realized that there must be a pretty strong level of trust and love there for him to let his guard down and be vulnerable like that with her.

Mama H has spent enough time around Jack to know when he’s in distress, even if she’s not had to deal with it directly.  Thankfully, they were close enough to home that I could have come for him if necessary.  I didn’t need to. She got him into the car, endured his abuse on the way home, and delivered him safely.  I know our friendship may have been tested this afternoon, but I also know I now trust her more than ever.

Once home, Jack apologized for his behaviour and gave her a hug.  When pressed as to why he melted down, he said he was “afraid there would be trouble, but there wasn’t.”  For some reason he felt fear – maybe he thought she’d tell me he’d acted out and he would be in trouble, maybe he didn’t recognize our neighborhood from a different street and thought he’d be lost.  Whatever it was vanished on our doorstep.

Mama H has expressed an interest in learning about autism, and I’m guessing she got a crash course today.   I know that as Jack gets older more people will come into his life, and more people will gain his trust.  I can only hope they all treat him with the same respect and love.

If

Posted by wendy on Aug 23, 2011 | 7 comments

If my child didn’t have autism, my world would be different.

My children would have furniture in their bedroom and decorations on their walls instead of mattresses on the floor.

My son would nap when  he’s tired instead of pacing and jumping and screaming and encouraging his brother to join in.

We could go out and enjoy the world in the evening instead of having to wrangle exhausted children into bed early.

Mealtimes would be spent enjoying each others company instead of constantly reminding my son to sit in his chair and not lay across it or pace around the kitchen.

We could stay with family when we travel instead of always having to stay in a hotel.  And I wouldn’t be quite so afraid to fly with my children.

We could have a lazy day at home without worrying if the children have had enough physical activity to make it through the day without a breakdown.

We could go to the movies or a show or a concert or a parade without worrying about the sound and light levels.

We could get a babysitter without worrying about his/her welfare.

We wouldn’t have to explain why we can’t always have friends over or why we can’t always make playdates or why we can’t be super flexible all the time.

We wouldn’t have to always explain how autism affects our entire family, not just my son.

We wouldn’t have to explain that my younger children do not have autism, even though sometimes they act just like their big brother in stressful or exciting situations.

We wouldn’t have to wonder if our two neurotypical children will eventually learn to model their peers and not their brother’s erratic behaviour.

I wouldn’t feel like I’m a warrior, in constant battle for my child’s life and my own sanity.

If my child didn’t have autism, my world would be different.

I might not have learned to be patient and trust that my child will figure things out.

I might not have appreciated the sheer magic in watching a child acquire language, through any means necessary.

I might not have learned all the valuable tools for learning that I’ve shared with my younger children.

I might not have learned the subtle art of negotiation with a child that allows him to flourish and gain control of his life while still guiding him.

I might have missed the necessity of an afternoon downtime.

I would have never met the community of amazing people it took to lift my child up and put and keep him on his path.

I would never have met the community of amazing people it has taken to lift me up and put and keep me on my path.

I might not have had such a compelling reason to rediscover my joy of writing.

I would never have known about the beauty found in the tiniest details of life around me, as pointed out by my son.

I wouldn’t have the unbelievably amazing child who is my oldest son.  My beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.

My beautiful boy.