Last week we traveled to California to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with family. As we loaded the car with luggage, snacks, and movies, I instructed all the children to take their backpacks to their rooms and fill them with activities for the road--books, crayons and paper, small toys, etc. We've been on two other road trips recently, so I felt confident that each child would be able to retrieve appropriate items. Soon the children reemerged with bulging backpacks. We tucked everyone into the car, and set off.
Ben (seven years old) immediately extracted his Nintendo DS from his backpack, and between that and the movies playing in the Suburban's tv/dvd machine, he was content for the first three hours of the drive. Then, as the dark of night crept over us, the car's interior was suddenly illuminated with a soft blue-white glow. My husband glanced at the seat behind me where Ben was sitting, chuckled, and whispered, "Oh--he's holding the moon."
From his backpack Ben had withdrawn the glowing moon that normally hangs on his wall. It's about 15-inches in diameter, concave, and filled with LED lights that illuminate intermittently to resemble the lunar phases.
Using the light of the moon, Ben reached into his backpack again and this time, in true Cat-in-the-Hat fashion, withdrew a full-sized dvd player and assorted cabling, and proceeded to connect his device to the car's existing dvd player--directing me as to the proper hookup of the cables into our vehicle's ceiling-mounted system while he handled the cabling in the back of his own machine. "Why?" I asked him? "Oh, in case the room I stay in doesn't have a dvd player," he said. "But why are we hooking this up to our car right now?" I continued. "Um...I just want to," he answered.
Still in a halo of artificial moonlight, Ben next withdrew a six-inch raw speaker woofer which he had recently extricated from an old karaoke machine. He explained that he needed this for the magnetic properties of the back plate. I asked him why, to which he replied, "Um...I don't know. I just do."
My daughter took Ben's backpack to investigate the remainder of its contents. All that remained were a laser-pen and two screwdrivers--a Phillips, and a flat head. "Why did you bring screwdrivers, Ben?" I asked? "Oh...just in case," he replied. A worried curiosity washed over me: Just in case what?
Turns out, those screwdrivers came in handy over the next week as Ben deftly removed all the hat hooks from his cousin's bedroom wall, disassembled a spin-art toy in order to examine the interior spinning mechanisms, and made an internal repair to one of his cousin's light-up vehicles. None of these things were done with permission or supervision, but none surprised us. Ben's favorite Christmas present last year was a carton of used, broken appliances that I picked up from the local thrift store, along with a new bag of tools. And whenever a replacement appliance or toy appears at our home, Ben's first request is that he be given the old one so that he can take it apart and examine the internal mechanisms. His room is littered with little screws, wires, cables, plastic and metal components of varying shapes and sizes...Sometimes I feel like a street performer who gingerly picks her way barefoot over a path of broken glass as I try to get to Ben's bed at night to tuck him in.
As I've reflected on Ben's choice of "good activities" for the trip, it occurs to me that he chose exactly the right things for himself--he brought the tools and supplies that helped him feel like he was in a comfortable, familiar environment. He doesn't love coloring or reading. He loves building and wiring, and figuring out how the world around him works. So he chose to pack things that allowed him to do exactly that.
As for the moon, I'm sure he had practical reasons for bringing it, too. Most likely he was anticipating needing a source of light once night had fallen, but there may have been an element of familiarity tied to it as well.
But I find myself reflecting on his lighting choice a little more philosophically than he might. Sometimes I think that Ben's mind, and his comprehension of things, is as mysterious as the universe itself. And yet, like a galaxy of stars, he brings a unique and gentle light to our lives. In his hands on the night that we drove to California, and in the center of his soul, Ben is holding the moon.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Crying over Spilt Milk
I really blew it tonight.
I thought that some cookies and milk before bed sounded like a nice snack for the kids, so I baked up a batch of chocolate chunk cookies and poured cold milk into paper cups for each of my four children. As I distributed treats to the older kids, Ben retrieved a giant tumbler from the cupboard and poured himself some milk--somewhere around two quarts of it. I knew Ben would not only not drink that much milk, but that he'd most likely spill it. So I took the cup from him, poured the contents back into the milk container, and then handed him a paper cup of milk as I had given to the other children.
And he lost it.
He slammed the cup to the ground, splattering milk all over the newly cleaned floor, cabinets, refrigerator, and range. He fired off a round of the most terrible yet nonsensical language you'd ever hear come from the mouth of a seven year old, and stomped upstairs where he proceeded to kick the walls, punch and abuse the long-ago-destroyed plantation shutters in his window, throw toys and books out of his closet and all over the freshly vacuumed bedroom and hallway floors, and once I finished mopping up the milk, I broke the cardinal rule of parenting an autistic child.
I lost it, too.
I yelled. He yelled back. I took him into a "basket hold" to prevent more damage to his room. He craned his head around and spit into my face. I held him tighter. He squirmed free and landed several punches and kicks on my arms and back. I threatened him with a cold shower. He screamed at the top of his lungs. I mustered all my emotional resources and left him in his room with a warning that if he didn't stop, I'd be back. He resumed his destruction of the walls and windows. I returned. And so it went for nearly 40 minutes.
I couldn't stay in the room with him because he continued to hurt me. I couldn't leave him in the room alone because he was literally destroying it.
All I could do was ask him, over and over, to use words. "Ben! Use words to tell me what you want! Just ask for what you want! PLEASE just tell me what you want--tell me in words!!"
At long last, when I had just begun to think that I really could not survive one more minute, he yelled, "Fine! Mom-will-you-PLEASE-get-me-some-milk?!" So, I did. As quickly and quietly as I could, I retrieved a paper cup of milk and a cookie, and brought them to him in his bed. I watched him in a haze of fatigue, heartache, and relief as he calmly dipped his cookie into his milk and consumed both with the gentle slurping sounds of contented childhood, as if nothing at all had interrupted a serene bedtime ritual. Three minutes later he was buried under his blankets, sound asleep.
For the past few weeks, I've caught myself watching internet video clips, t.v. shows, and movies about autistic children (The Temple Grandin Story is a particularly lovely movie, by the way, if you haven't seen it yet). Secretly, I've been hoping that the children in those clips and shows would not be anything like Ben. I've caught myself hoping that the language, coping skills, and behaviors of those other children would seem totally foreign to me. However, everything I've seen only reinforces to me that Ben is autistic, and my heart hurts.
So tonight I find myself sitting alone at the kitchen table, my arms and back aching from Ben's earlier blows, my hands still stinging from his fingernail scratches, and I can't seem to stop crying. I'm crying because I can't always understand him. I'm crying because I don't know how to "fix" him. I'm crying because I don't know how to reach him.
And tonight, when I trace the uproar of the evening back to its genesis, I'm crying over a paper cup of spilt milk.
I thought that some cookies and milk before bed sounded like a nice snack for the kids, so I baked up a batch of chocolate chunk cookies and poured cold milk into paper cups for each of my four children. As I distributed treats to the older kids, Ben retrieved a giant tumbler from the cupboard and poured himself some milk--somewhere around two quarts of it. I knew Ben would not only not drink that much milk, but that he'd most likely spill it. So I took the cup from him, poured the contents back into the milk container, and then handed him a paper cup of milk as I had given to the other children.
And he lost it.
He slammed the cup to the ground, splattering milk all over the newly cleaned floor, cabinets, refrigerator, and range. He fired off a round of the most terrible yet nonsensical language you'd ever hear come from the mouth of a seven year old, and stomped upstairs where he proceeded to kick the walls, punch and abuse the long-ago-destroyed plantation shutters in his window, throw toys and books out of his closet and all over the freshly vacuumed bedroom and hallway floors, and once I finished mopping up the milk, I broke the cardinal rule of parenting an autistic child.
I lost it, too.
I yelled. He yelled back. I took him into a "basket hold" to prevent more damage to his room. He craned his head around and spit into my face. I held him tighter. He squirmed free and landed several punches and kicks on my arms and back. I threatened him with a cold shower. He screamed at the top of his lungs. I mustered all my emotional resources and left him in his room with a warning that if he didn't stop, I'd be back. He resumed his destruction of the walls and windows. I returned. And so it went for nearly 40 minutes.
I couldn't stay in the room with him because he continued to hurt me. I couldn't leave him in the room alone because he was literally destroying it.
All I could do was ask him, over and over, to use words. "Ben! Use words to tell me what you want! Just ask for what you want! PLEASE just tell me what you want--tell me in words!!"
At long last, when I had just begun to think that I really could not survive one more minute, he yelled, "Fine! Mom-will-you-PLEASE-get-me-some-milk?!" So, I did. As quickly and quietly as I could, I retrieved a paper cup of milk and a cookie, and brought them to him in his bed. I watched him in a haze of fatigue, heartache, and relief as he calmly dipped his cookie into his milk and consumed both with the gentle slurping sounds of contented childhood, as if nothing at all had interrupted a serene bedtime ritual. Three minutes later he was buried under his blankets, sound asleep.
For the past few weeks, I've caught myself watching internet video clips, t.v. shows, and movies about autistic children (The Temple Grandin Story is a particularly lovely movie, by the way, if you haven't seen it yet). Secretly, I've been hoping that the children in those clips and shows would not be anything like Ben. I've caught myself hoping that the language, coping skills, and behaviors of those other children would seem totally foreign to me. However, everything I've seen only reinforces to me that Ben is autistic, and my heart hurts.
So tonight I find myself sitting alone at the kitchen table, my arms and back aching from Ben's earlier blows, my hands still stinging from his fingernail scratches, and I can't seem to stop crying. I'm crying because I can't always understand him. I'm crying because I don't know how to "fix" him. I'm crying because I don't know how to reach him.
And tonight, when I trace the uproar of the evening back to its genesis, I'm crying over a paper cup of spilt milk.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Tilted House
Last week, Ben came into my room and asked, "Mom, did you ever recognize that our house is tilted?" And then, with a flourish of hand motions, and speaking at a pace slightly faster than presto, he began to hypothesize that it's only tilted a little bit, that way (toward the backyard), but it's probably because the house is built on a hill and that's why it's tilted but just a little bit--did I ever recognize that it was tilted?
I had two reactions to Ben's announcement. First, I felt certain that if I were to drop a plumb line and hold up a contractor's level, I'd certainly confirm that the house is, indeed, tilted a little bit toward the backyard. That would explain why the door frames leading out to our back porch are cracked all the way around, and why the doors stick. Ben's mind works mechanically and geometrically--he sees shapes, angles, and connections differently from how most of us see them. If he says the house is tilted, then it most likely is.
My second thought was that the house is tilted, too, in ways that Ben never recognized, either. That is, our house is tilted toward him.
Not too long ago, as we drove home from church, my husband, children, and I chatted casually but loudly about things we had heard and learned during the meetings. Suddenly Ben said, "Mom--Mom! My teacher...." and the car fell into absolute silence while Ben shared his experience. When he finished, and after I issued the standard, "Cool, Ben..." in response to his statement, my daughter said, "Isn't it funny how we all just get quiet when Ben wants to talk, so that he doesn't have to keep starting over and over?" And I realized that she was right.
An old stock broker commercial used the slogan, "When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen." The same slogan could be applied to our house: When Ben talks, people listen. However, unlike the hushed reverence that E.F. Hutton commanded, Ben gets our undivided attention because if he doesn't, the house doesn't just tilt anymore--it begins to crumble. I've written previously about Ben's struggles to complete a thought without starting the sentence over half a dozen times. If he gets interrupted at all while he's trying to speak a sentence, he has to start over, and each time that happens he becomes a little more frustrated until finally he loses track of his thought altogether and descends into a flurry of shouting, spitting, hitting, and throwing objects. By then we've reached a point of no return--and everyone in this house has learned that it's much, much better just to make sure Ben can speak without interference of any kind.
The house tilts again toward Ben whenever he gets upset. Because "upset" for Ben doesn't look anything like "upset" for me, or Chris, or the other kids, or anyone else I know, really. "Upset" for Ben looks like a tornado in the middle of a hurricane during an earthquake. If he forgets what he wanted to say, or if he feels like he has been treated unfairly, or if he can't beat a level on his computer or Nintendo DS game, Ben screams--sometimes obscenities--, punches and kicks people or objects, upends furniture, tears books and papers, and throws anything within reach...and I do mean, anything: dishes, tools, toys, cats, etc.
And what do we do? We take cover, usually. If I can get him into his room, he'll spend several minutes throwing heavy objects at his door, but on the best days he'll eventually climb into his bed, pull the blankets and pillow over his head, and just stay there for up to an hour until he feels back in control of himself. The quieter and darker, the better. I have to resist the urge to go into the room with him to try to talk it out--that never works, and only stirs up more agitation. He just needs quiet.
The other solution when he's raging is to coax him into the shower, where he finds sanctuary in the solitude of the location and comfort in the regular patter-patter-patter of the warm water over his body. He will spend hours in the shower--long after the water has gone cold, actually--creating machines and contraptions out of his collection of shower toys that grows bigger with each new shower. Sometimes we enter our shower to find it six inches deep with buckets, dump trucks, cups, toy cars, plastic tools, balls, bowls, and various other toys and receptacles that Ben has been using as part of his creative--and soothing--process.
A couple times, I've gone in to retrieve him from the shower to find the water cold and Ben's body bluish, and I've said, "Oh, Ben--why didn't you get out? You are so cold!" He just responds, "I'm not cold. I don't feel cold. Do I have to get out?" Fortunately, he rarely resists a warm, fluffy towel in those moments, and most importantly, the rage that propelled him into the shower in the first place has long since passed.
Yes--the house is tilted. Physically, probably. Emotionally, definitely. We tilt toward Ben, when he talks, when he's angry, and when he's doing well, too...just to make sure he stays that way. After all, a tilted house is much better than one that's falling over entirely.
I had two reactions to Ben's announcement. First, I felt certain that if I were to drop a plumb line and hold up a contractor's level, I'd certainly confirm that the house is, indeed, tilted a little bit toward the backyard. That would explain why the door frames leading out to our back porch are cracked all the way around, and why the doors stick. Ben's mind works mechanically and geometrically--he sees shapes, angles, and connections differently from how most of us see them. If he says the house is tilted, then it most likely is.
My second thought was that the house is tilted, too, in ways that Ben never recognized, either. That is, our house is tilted toward him.
Not too long ago, as we drove home from church, my husband, children, and I chatted casually but loudly about things we had heard and learned during the meetings. Suddenly Ben said, "Mom--Mom! My teacher...." and the car fell into absolute silence while Ben shared his experience. When he finished, and after I issued the standard, "Cool, Ben..." in response to his statement, my daughter said, "Isn't it funny how we all just get quiet when Ben wants to talk, so that he doesn't have to keep starting over and over?" And I realized that she was right.
An old stock broker commercial used the slogan, "When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen." The same slogan could be applied to our house: When Ben talks, people listen. However, unlike the hushed reverence that E.F. Hutton commanded, Ben gets our undivided attention because if he doesn't, the house doesn't just tilt anymore--it begins to crumble. I've written previously about Ben's struggles to complete a thought without starting the sentence over half a dozen times. If he gets interrupted at all while he's trying to speak a sentence, he has to start over, and each time that happens he becomes a little more frustrated until finally he loses track of his thought altogether and descends into a flurry of shouting, spitting, hitting, and throwing objects. By then we've reached a point of no return--and everyone in this house has learned that it's much, much better just to make sure Ben can speak without interference of any kind.
The house tilts again toward Ben whenever he gets upset. Because "upset" for Ben doesn't look anything like "upset" for me, or Chris, or the other kids, or anyone else I know, really. "Upset" for Ben looks like a tornado in the middle of a hurricane during an earthquake. If he forgets what he wanted to say, or if he feels like he has been treated unfairly, or if he can't beat a level on his computer or Nintendo DS game, Ben screams--sometimes obscenities--, punches and kicks people or objects, upends furniture, tears books and papers, and throws anything within reach...and I do mean, anything: dishes, tools, toys, cats, etc.
And what do we do? We take cover, usually. If I can get him into his room, he'll spend several minutes throwing heavy objects at his door, but on the best days he'll eventually climb into his bed, pull the blankets and pillow over his head, and just stay there for up to an hour until he feels back in control of himself. The quieter and darker, the better. I have to resist the urge to go into the room with him to try to talk it out--that never works, and only stirs up more agitation. He just needs quiet.
The other solution when he's raging is to coax him into the shower, where he finds sanctuary in the solitude of the location and comfort in the regular patter-patter-patter of the warm water over his body. He will spend hours in the shower--long after the water has gone cold, actually--creating machines and contraptions out of his collection of shower toys that grows bigger with each new shower. Sometimes we enter our shower to find it six inches deep with buckets, dump trucks, cups, toy cars, plastic tools, balls, bowls, and various other toys and receptacles that Ben has been using as part of his creative--and soothing--process.
A couple times, I've gone in to retrieve him from the shower to find the water cold and Ben's body bluish, and I've said, "Oh, Ben--why didn't you get out? You are so cold!" He just responds, "I'm not cold. I don't feel cold. Do I have to get out?" Fortunately, he rarely resists a warm, fluffy towel in those moments, and most importantly, the rage that propelled him into the shower in the first place has long since passed.
Yes--the house is tilted. Physically, probably. Emotionally, definitely. We tilt toward Ben, when he talks, when he's angry, and when he's doing well, too...just to make sure he stays that way. After all, a tilted house is much better than one that's falling over entirely.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Club of Boys Who Are Awesome
Second grade is officially underway, and so far, so good. I'm skeptically optimistic that this might shape up to be a pretty good year for Ben. How's that for motherly thinking?
Before the year began, I sat down with Ben's new teacher and described some of my concerns for the year--things that I thought we'd better get a jump on before Ben's behavior spiraled out of control. I suggested that Ben continue his routine of spending one recess outside, and one recess working puzzles in the office so that he could emotionally "reset" for the afternoon. I warned that Ben might need a special spot on the rug where he would be away from the kids and out of the general noise and touching that goes on in the heart of the rug. I noted that Ben struggles with spelling and would probably need some special accommodations if he was going to succeed in that particular academic discipline.
And I'm wondering if Ben's teacher thinks I'm crazy now, because Ben has been the poster child for well-behaved students this year (at least, that is what I'm seeing on his end-of-week report cards, and that's what he's reporting when I pick him up after school). Here's a typical after-school conversation:
Me: How was school today, Ben?
Ben: Um...good.
Me: Did you have any problems?
Ben: Um...I don't fink I did.
Me: Good! Did you play outside today?
Ben: Um...yes. I did play outside.
Me: Did you play with any kids?
Ben: Well, I fink I did. At one recess I did.
But my favorite conversation of the year continued when I asked him what he did during recess. I expected the same answer I've gotten since Kindergarten ("I don't really remember. I don't know."), but I nearly cried for joy when one day he said, "Um, well, I played soccer."
Now, mothers of normally social children won't think much of this response. Why wouldn't a child play soccer at recess? But Ben has never played a social sport in his life (not willingly, anyway--and I hardly think the things he did on the t-ball field count as "playing a social sport"). He has never had much interest in playing with other kids at any time. So when he announced that he had played soccer "on the field with the big kids" one afternoon, I couldn't have been more surprised if he had announced that he had built a particle accelerator and successfully split an atom. Frankly, the atom-splitting seems more likely.
But it gets better. Because when I pushed him to tell me about playing soccer on the field with the big kids, he announced in his characteristically nonchalant manner, "Oh, we all did. Because I'm in the Club of Boys Who Are Awesome, and Logan is in our club and he wanted to play soccer so we all played soccer." I don't know Logan, but I hope Santa Clause visits him weekly and showers gifts and glory upon him regularly. Because Logan is also in the Club of Boys Who Are Awesome. He may be the only other one in the club, of course--I don't know, because Ben can't say who else is in the club, or how he came to be in the club, or any other of a number of questions I tried to pepper him with upon hearing this unexpected news, but frankly, I don't care. Ben feels like he belongs to a group of children. And this is a miracle of unexpected proportion.
Ben's new interest in some social connections has raised another interesting issue, though, and that is Ben's inability to remain clothed for an entire day. I haven't officially timed him, but I'm pretty sure that it takes him somewhere around 6.7 seconds to come in the door after school, and immediately strip down to his underwear. Growing weary of the "tighty-whitey" look, we recently bought him some boxer briefs that at least marginally create some semblance of decency, but even when he's wearing briefs, Ben can't wait to get out of his clothes. I've asked him why he insists on introducing near-nudism to our home, and he always says something about how his clothes make him hot, or how the tag itches his neck (even though I've removed every single tag from every single shirt), or how the collars of his shirts (even t-shirts) feel uncomfortable touching his neck. The bottom line is that he can't stand the feeling of the fabric against his skin, and he just feels better without any clothes at all.
Some of his anxieties at school are being taken out on his shirts this year (which is infinitely better than taking them out on his peers). Every day, he comes home from school having chewed through the collar of his shirt. His t-shirts are soaking wet from neck to mid-chest; they are twisted and often riddled with holes and rips. On his end-of-week report this week, his teacher noted that she has been working on the chewing with him during school, and sometimes she can get him all the way until about 2:00 before he can't hold off anymore. I've done some research on shirt-chewing, because I know that it's not unique to autistic kids. However, most children apparently outgrow the habit by age 4 or 5, and those who don't often need the help of an occupational therapist to overcome. In autistic kids, chewing is a fairly common way to express anxiety or stress, so it makes sense that Ben is chewing his clothes in the afternoon every day--I suspect that he just reaches a point where he starts to get overloaded, and chewing is one outlet for that. I've read that I can get special necklaces that are made for chewing, but I don't know if Ben would like that or not. If the behavior continues, I'll have to check into them.
I have noticed lately, though, that Ben has begun to understand that certain social situations demand clothing. For example, when he hears that the babysitter is coming over, he occasionally will slip upstairs and reemerge wearing clothes. He did the same thing when he heard that his grandpa was coming over one afternoon. However, as we urged him to get dressed so that we could go over to his aunt's house one day, he demanded, "Why can't I stay in my underwear? Everybody knows that this is how I like to be comfortable!"
And one morning last week, as I was trying to get him dressed before school, he announced that he did not want to wear pants to school. Playing on his new social connections, I asked, "Ben, what would the Club of Boys Who Are Awesome say if you showed up to school wearing no pants?" He thought for only a second before responding, "Oh, they would say, 'You're fired!'" And then he put on pants and went to school.
Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.
Before the year began, I sat down with Ben's new teacher and described some of my concerns for the year--things that I thought we'd better get a jump on before Ben's behavior spiraled out of control. I suggested that Ben continue his routine of spending one recess outside, and one recess working puzzles in the office so that he could emotionally "reset" for the afternoon. I warned that Ben might need a special spot on the rug where he would be away from the kids and out of the general noise and touching that goes on in the heart of the rug. I noted that Ben struggles with spelling and would probably need some special accommodations if he was going to succeed in that particular academic discipline.
And I'm wondering if Ben's teacher thinks I'm crazy now, because Ben has been the poster child for well-behaved students this year (at least, that is what I'm seeing on his end-of-week report cards, and that's what he's reporting when I pick him up after school). Here's a typical after-school conversation:
Me: How was school today, Ben?
Ben: Um...good.
Me: Did you have any problems?
Ben: Um...I don't fink I did.
Me: Good! Did you play outside today?
Ben: Um...yes. I did play outside.
Me: Did you play with any kids?
Ben: Well, I fink I did. At one recess I did.
But my favorite conversation of the year continued when I asked him what he did during recess. I expected the same answer I've gotten since Kindergarten ("I don't really remember. I don't know."), but I nearly cried for joy when one day he said, "Um, well, I played soccer."
Now, mothers of normally social children won't think much of this response. Why wouldn't a child play soccer at recess? But Ben has never played a social sport in his life (not willingly, anyway--and I hardly think the things he did on the t-ball field count as "playing a social sport"). He has never had much interest in playing with other kids at any time. So when he announced that he had played soccer "on the field with the big kids" one afternoon, I couldn't have been more surprised if he had announced that he had built a particle accelerator and successfully split an atom. Frankly, the atom-splitting seems more likely.
But it gets better. Because when I pushed him to tell me about playing soccer on the field with the big kids, he announced in his characteristically nonchalant manner, "Oh, we all did. Because I'm in the Club of Boys Who Are Awesome, and Logan is in our club and he wanted to play soccer so we all played soccer." I don't know Logan, but I hope Santa Clause visits him weekly and showers gifts and glory upon him regularly. Because Logan is also in the Club of Boys Who Are Awesome. He may be the only other one in the club, of course--I don't know, because Ben can't say who else is in the club, or how he came to be in the club, or any other of a number of questions I tried to pepper him with upon hearing this unexpected news, but frankly, I don't care. Ben feels like he belongs to a group of children. And this is a miracle of unexpected proportion.
Ben's new interest in some social connections has raised another interesting issue, though, and that is Ben's inability to remain clothed for an entire day. I haven't officially timed him, but I'm pretty sure that it takes him somewhere around 6.7 seconds to come in the door after school, and immediately strip down to his underwear. Growing weary of the "tighty-whitey" look, we recently bought him some boxer briefs that at least marginally create some semblance of decency, but even when he's wearing briefs, Ben can't wait to get out of his clothes. I've asked him why he insists on introducing near-nudism to our home, and he always says something about how his clothes make him hot, or how the tag itches his neck (even though I've removed every single tag from every single shirt), or how the collars of his shirts (even t-shirts) feel uncomfortable touching his neck. The bottom line is that he can't stand the feeling of the fabric against his skin, and he just feels better without any clothes at all.
Some of his anxieties at school are being taken out on his shirts this year (which is infinitely better than taking them out on his peers). Every day, he comes home from school having chewed through the collar of his shirt. His t-shirts are soaking wet from neck to mid-chest; they are twisted and often riddled with holes and rips. On his end-of-week report this week, his teacher noted that she has been working on the chewing with him during school, and sometimes she can get him all the way until about 2:00 before he can't hold off anymore. I've done some research on shirt-chewing, because I know that it's not unique to autistic kids. However, most children apparently outgrow the habit by age 4 or 5, and those who don't often need the help of an occupational therapist to overcome. In autistic kids, chewing is a fairly common way to express anxiety or stress, so it makes sense that Ben is chewing his clothes in the afternoon every day--I suspect that he just reaches a point where he starts to get overloaded, and chewing is one outlet for that. I've read that I can get special necklaces that are made for chewing, but I don't know if Ben would like that or not. If the behavior continues, I'll have to check into them.
I have noticed lately, though, that Ben has begun to understand that certain social situations demand clothing. For example, when he hears that the babysitter is coming over, he occasionally will slip upstairs and reemerge wearing clothes. He did the same thing when he heard that his grandpa was coming over one afternoon. However, as we urged him to get dressed so that we could go over to his aunt's house one day, he demanded, "Why can't I stay in my underwear? Everybody knows that this is how I like to be comfortable!"
And one morning last week, as I was trying to get him dressed before school, he announced that he did not want to wear pants to school. Playing on his new social connections, I asked, "Ben, what would the Club of Boys Who Are Awesome say if you showed up to school wearing no pants?" He thought for only a second before responding, "Oh, they would say, 'You're fired!'" And then he put on pants and went to school.
Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Reading and Rules
Ben's reading skills really blossomed at the end of first grade--he went from one of the lowest reading groups to one of the higher (not highEST, but highER) ones in a matter of weeks. This is typical development for Ben--all progress for him comes as a series of leaps and plateaus. For example, when he learned to walk, he didn't do it progressively, a few steps and then a few more, until finally he stumbled toddler-like across the living room. That's how "normal" kids learn to walk. Ben,though, just waited until long after most kids start walking, and then he got up and ran away without any warning at all. He didn't learn to talk by verbalizing first a few words, and then simple sentences, and finally more complex language. He just waited until we were sure that he would only say "Bah, bah, bah!" for his entire life, and then he spoke in full sentences. Not necessarily comprehensible sentences (hence the speech therapy), but grammatically correct sentences all the same. Just like that. It's been the same for all developmental milestones thus far. So I did not worry when Ben could not read at the beginning of first grade, and I was not worried when he seemed to make no progress throughout the year, because I knew that it was coming. And sure enough, sometime in March or April, he just started to read.
But reading has brought with it some unexpected changes in Ben's personality. Because, now he can read the rules--and rules are a very important part of Ben's life. For example, we went to the public pool a few weeks ago and Ben immediately spotted the "Pool Rules" sign hanging from the locker room wall. He read it from top to bottom, and then he turned to observe the application of the rules around the pool. Not surprisingly, several violations were in progress. Ben became upset quite quickly. He demanded, "Mom, WHY is that kid running? The rules say, 'No running.' But that kid is running. Why is he running?" I tried to explain that not everyone reads and follows the rules, but Ben spent the rest of our time at the pool pointing out running children, until he became sufficiently aggravated that we had to head home. We've returned to the pool a couple times since then, and each time Ben is careful to point out the rule-breakers to me. All of them.
Reading has its perks, though, too. For example, Chris (my dh) created signs for all Ben's dresser drawers, and now Ben is able to put away his laundry in separate drawers instead of shoving all garments into a single drawer. I can create chore lists, and menus, and Ben derives a significant sense of control by knowing the established expectations. But I wonder how this school year, which begins in just two weeks, will be different for Ben now that he can read the rules of his environment. I think it could go one of two ways: either he will feel safe and comfortable, or he will feel continually irritated as those around him violate the sacrosanct class rules. Time will tell.
But reading has brought with it some unexpected changes in Ben's personality. Because, now he can read the rules--and rules are a very important part of Ben's life. For example, we went to the public pool a few weeks ago and Ben immediately spotted the "Pool Rules" sign hanging from the locker room wall. He read it from top to bottom, and then he turned to observe the application of the rules around the pool. Not surprisingly, several violations were in progress. Ben became upset quite quickly. He demanded, "Mom, WHY is that kid running? The rules say, 'No running.' But that kid is running. Why is he running?" I tried to explain that not everyone reads and follows the rules, but Ben spent the rest of our time at the pool pointing out running children, until he became sufficiently aggravated that we had to head home. We've returned to the pool a couple times since then, and each time Ben is careful to point out the rule-breakers to me. All of them.
Reading has its perks, though, too. For example, Chris (my dh) created signs for all Ben's dresser drawers, and now Ben is able to put away his laundry in separate drawers instead of shoving all garments into a single drawer. I can create chore lists, and menus, and Ben derives a significant sense of control by knowing the established expectations. But I wonder how this school year, which begins in just two weeks, will be different for Ben now that he can read the rules of his environment. I think it could go one of two ways: either he will feel safe and comfortable, or he will feel continually irritated as those around him violate the sacrosanct class rules. Time will tell.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Concrete Thinking and a Bit of Golf
Earlier this spring, in anticipation of the impending "I'm bored!!" complaints of summer, I started looking for some activities for the kids. Ben presented a conundrum. After last year's baseball debacle, which consisted largely of twelve post-toddler children moving in a herd toward a lightly swatted baseball while Ben rolled around in the grass behind them, rising only occasionally either to throw handfuls of grass on someone's head or else to make a mad dash toward an adjoining baseball field, I felt like we needed to try something new. Since Ben's oldest brother Zach is a pretty good golfer, and since I was already looking at some golf instruction for Zach, I asked Ben if he would like to try golfing this summer, too. "Sure." Why not. So I signed him up for the "7 and under" class at Fox Hollow golf course.
He's been to two lessons now. The first lesson taught Ben how to set up for his swing--proper stance, grip, etc. I thought he did pretty well, except that large portions of the class were spent asking me and the class instructors why he couldn't use the tees that were scattered and splintered around the driving range, and the more persistent question: "How long or more until this is over?" I really don't know when he decided that the "or more" part belongs in that question, but he always uses that phrase when he wants to know about time: "How long or more until we're there?" "How long or more until I can use the computer?" "How long or more until until my 15 minutes is over?"
At golf class, he wasn't asking about the time because he was bored (I told him he could stop if he didn't want to hit balls anymore and he said he wanted to keep going); he just wanted to keep track of the time. I probably should get him a watch...
Yesterday, he got to use the tees. So he spent about half of his hour-long class hitting balls, and the other half counting the remaining balls in his pile, and assessing the length and quantity of broken and remaining tees that were spread around the grass. And of course the question: "How long or more until this class is done?"
After class, as we walked toward the car, he was particularly quiet. I assumed he was thinking about the class--the sand trap that had caught his attention, the tees, the machine that scoops up balls from the range. Finally he asked the question that was on his mind:
"Mom, why did Heavenly Father choose to make all the people out of meat?"
I really wasn't prepared for that one, but it reminded me of a question he asked a few weeks ago as we sat down to dinner. That night, he had put a piece of chicken into his mouth and then asked, "What kind of animal did they kill for this meat?"
He has asked a lot of questions lately that have demonstrated his very concrete way of perceiving the world around him. For example, Chris (Ben's dad) has sported a beard for the better part of this year, until a month or so ago when he shaved it off. Ben took one look at his newly shaved dad coming down the stairs and said quite matter-of-factly, "It's weird that you don't have a beard and you have a chin. Where is your beard now?"
Not long ago, Ben asked me to make some popcorn for him. I said, "Ben, I'll do it in a second--just wait." He left, and then came back a few minutes later to repeat his request. I still wasn't ready to make popcorn, so then I said, "Just a minute, Ben, and I'll do it." Again Ben walked away, and then, about three minutes later, he came back and repeated his request a third time. As I started to tell him to wait, he stomped his foot and exclaimed, "Mom! It's been WAY past a second AND a minute!" He was right--it literally had. I made popcorn.
And on another night, as I was washing dishes in the kitchen, Ben and his older brother Joey were playing in the family room. Joey said, "Mom--look at this!" I responded, "Joey, I can't see into the living room; I haven't turned on my x-ray vision today!" After a moment of silence, Ben's voice quietly and hopefully called out: "Can you turn your x-ray vision on, then?" And that same evening, as Chris sat at his computer, I said something that made him chuckle. Ben came over to the computer and said, "What are you laughing at?" Chris replied, "Oh, nothing. I'm just laughing at your mom's logic." Ben said, "Well, can I see mom's logic?"
It's hard for Ben to distinguish sarcasm from truth. Often when I tease him he'll ask, "Are you being serious about that?" He needs me to tell him when my words mean exactly what they say, and when they have a veiled meaning. I suppose it's hard for him to be in groups of people when he's always struggling to assess meanings of words and behavior. No wonder he didn't do well in baseball, I suppose--it's not surprising that a more solitary sport would better suit him.
He's only got one golf class left this summer, and I don't know what he'll be doing. But I'm pretty sure I know what question he'll be asking when it's over: "How long or more until I take another golf class?"
He's been to two lessons now. The first lesson taught Ben how to set up for his swing--proper stance, grip, etc. I thought he did pretty well, except that large portions of the class were spent asking me and the class instructors why he couldn't use the tees that were scattered and splintered around the driving range, and the more persistent question: "How long or more until this is over?" I really don't know when he decided that the "or more" part belongs in that question, but he always uses that phrase when he wants to know about time: "How long or more until we're there?" "How long or more until I can use the computer?" "How long or more until until my 15 minutes is over?"
At golf class, he wasn't asking about the time because he was bored (I told him he could stop if he didn't want to hit balls anymore and he said he wanted to keep going); he just wanted to keep track of the time. I probably should get him a watch...
Yesterday, he got to use the tees. So he spent about half of his hour-long class hitting balls, and the other half counting the remaining balls in his pile, and assessing the length and quantity of broken and remaining tees that were spread around the grass. And of course the question: "How long or more until this class is done?"
After class, as we walked toward the car, he was particularly quiet. I assumed he was thinking about the class--the sand trap that had caught his attention, the tees, the machine that scoops up balls from the range. Finally he asked the question that was on his mind:
"Mom, why did Heavenly Father choose to make all the people out of meat?"
I really wasn't prepared for that one, but it reminded me of a question he asked a few weeks ago as we sat down to dinner. That night, he had put a piece of chicken into his mouth and then asked, "What kind of animal did they kill for this meat?"
He has asked a lot of questions lately that have demonstrated his very concrete way of perceiving the world around him. For example, Chris (Ben's dad) has sported a beard for the better part of this year, until a month or so ago when he shaved it off. Ben took one look at his newly shaved dad coming down the stairs and said quite matter-of-factly, "It's weird that you don't have a beard and you have a chin. Where is your beard now?"
Not long ago, Ben asked me to make some popcorn for him. I said, "Ben, I'll do it in a second--just wait." He left, and then came back a few minutes later to repeat his request. I still wasn't ready to make popcorn, so then I said, "Just a minute, Ben, and I'll do it." Again Ben walked away, and then, about three minutes later, he came back and repeated his request a third time. As I started to tell him to wait, he stomped his foot and exclaimed, "Mom! It's been WAY past a second AND a minute!" He was right--it literally had. I made popcorn.
And on another night, as I was washing dishes in the kitchen, Ben and his older brother Joey were playing in the family room. Joey said, "Mom--look at this!" I responded, "Joey, I can't see into the living room; I haven't turned on my x-ray vision today!" After a moment of silence, Ben's voice quietly and hopefully called out: "Can you turn your x-ray vision on, then?" And that same evening, as Chris sat at his computer, I said something that made him chuckle. Ben came over to the computer and said, "What are you laughing at?" Chris replied, "Oh, nothing. I'm just laughing at your mom's logic." Ben said, "Well, can I see mom's logic?"
It's hard for Ben to distinguish sarcasm from truth. Often when I tease him he'll ask, "Are you being serious about that?" He needs me to tell him when my words mean exactly what they say, and when they have a veiled meaning. I suppose it's hard for him to be in groups of people when he's always struggling to assess meanings of words and behavior. No wonder he didn't do well in baseball, I suppose--it's not surprising that a more solitary sport would better suit him.
He's only got one golf class left this summer, and I don't know what he'll be doing. But I'm pretty sure I know what question he'll be asking when it's over: "How long or more until I take another golf class?"
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Finding Balance
Well, it's been a while since I've added updates, mainly because Ben's life has been pretty smooth for the last couple months. We had to adjust his medications a while back, but he seems to be doing well on the new dose. And after he went a bit crazy and attacked a classmate right after school one day, we seem to have him on a balanced recess vs. quiet time schedule that keeps him pretty focused.
Huh? I haven't told that story? Sorry about that...here it is:
A few months ago, I drove to the school and then sat in my car, in line behind somewhere around a zillion other parents, at the top of the circular drive that is supposed to be used for dropping off and picking up kids in front of the elementary school (you'd think all the parents would be clear about this system, but there continue to be some who think it's a "put it in park and have a picnic" lane...but that's for another time and another blog...), waiting for my turn to pull down and gather my offspring. As I sat there, I spotted Ben standing near the kindergarten equipment, pummeling the heck out of another child. And not just any other child, but the one he'd had the most trouble with from the time we started preschool--the one who has a mother who already thinks I'm incompetently raising an antisocial child (as if there might be a way to competently raise an antisocial child...). The one whose mother thinks we have family meetings about the best way to attack an unsuspecting innocent from behind.
Because that's what happened. This child (whom I will refer to as "Billy" in order to preserve his privacy) stood waiting for his mother, and as I helplessly watched from the top of the hill, Ben approached Billy from the rear and laid into him--hitting, scratching, kicking--completely unprovoked. I saw the whole thing. So did Billy's mom, who was also trapped among the pressing auto throng, and she was not happy. Not at all. When we finally reached the children, this mother "invited" me to join her in the Principal's office. I found a parking spot (resisting the incomprehensible custom of parking right there in the circular drive, but again I digress...), took hold of Ben's hand, and for the first time in my life, reported to the Principal for reprimand.
The first thing I discovered was that Ben had already been involved in a problem at recess earlier in the day involving Billy and a couple other boys, too. In that situation, Ben had decided that the other boys were doing something inappropriate, and so he announced that he was going to get a teacher. These boys knocked him down to keep him from reporting their wrongdoings. Billy's role (because he happened to be standing nearby at the time and witnessed the event) was simply to defend Ben when the Principal was trying to sort out the reports. Billy took Ben's side.
In the Principal's office, Ben explained that after school, an older boy had made a loud noise and scared him. The Principal asked him, "Ben, if another boy scared you, then why did you attack Billy?" Ben explained, "I was going to get the other boy, but then I saw Billy, so I attacked him instead."
Oh, gentle readers, I know that right now you are plumbing the depths of your psychological knowledge to make some kind of sense of that response. You are thinking that surely there must be a connection--something to do with Billy's familiarity, or with finding some sense of safety in attacking someone who had just championed Ben's cause an hour earlier. But here's a small insight that I gathered years ago about Ben:
Don't try to make sense of anything. Ben does not live in the same world that we do--he does not process social expectations like you or me, and he does not act in logical, rational ways when he is pushed into a state of alarm or intense emotion. He just reacts, usually violently, and that's all there is to it. But back to the story:
After Billy's mom completed her quite justified torrent of tears and frustration that her son was not being protected adequately from mine, the Principal assured her that we would make some changes, and then he excused her and turned to me. He made some suggestions that I agreed with. First, we decided that Ben should not go outside for recess for a while. Instead, we decided that I would put together a recess bag filled with legos, and playdough, and art supplies, and Ben would spend recess times in the office adjacent to the Principal's office, doing projects on his own. Second, we agreed that from then on, his teacher would walk him to a specific door after school where I would be waiting to meet him, so as to minimize his contact with other children and limit his exposure to the noise and chaos that floods the school grounds after the final bell.
I know--it seems cruel to tell a child that he cannot go outside and play during recess time. But to Ben, this was a slice of heaven. For two weeks, he quite happily reported to the Principal's office during each recess break and played quietly on his own. Not surprisingly, his behavior and performance in class quickly improved--especially in the afternoons when he had previously been having a difficult time with his behavior. After two weeks, the Principal thought it would be best for Ben to go outside for at least one recess. Ben met this suggestion with resistance, insisting that he would much rather be alone with his toys, but wisely the Principal suggested that just because Ben is more comfortable being alone, that does not mean that it's in Ben's best interest to spend so much time away from other children.
So for the last month or so, Ben has been spending the lunch recess outside. The Principal has an aide keeping a close eye on him, and honestly, I have no idea what he does when he's out there. Sometimes I ask him if he has friends that he plays with, but the answer is always the same: no. When I ask him to tell me the names of some of his friends, he always says, "I don't really know." When I ask him to tell me the names of some of the kids in his class, the response is usually also the same: "Um...I'm not really sure." Occasionally he comes up with a name or two, but usually not.
Still, we seem to have struck a balance that works. Ben spends one recess outside, and then he spends the afternoon recess in the Principal's office. The Principal has supplied several puzzles--Ben's favorite activity--and Ben works those puzzles each afternoon. His teacher reported that when Ben comes back to class after he's been working on his puzzles, it's like he has been reset, and he can focus on his work just as well as he does when he gets to school in the morning.
I find myself thinking about next year already. It's time to request teachers for the coming school year, and I'm at a loss. I fear that no one will have the skills and the patience that Ben's current teacher has. No one will understand him quite so well, or accommodate his challenges quite so adeptly. I'm sure I'm wrong--certainly there are 2nd grade teachers who will help Ben succeed. But I worry. Balance is a precarious achievement at best, and I just don't want to lose it--not when we finally seem to have found it.
Huh? I haven't told that story? Sorry about that...here it is:
A few months ago, I drove to the school and then sat in my car, in line behind somewhere around a zillion other parents, at the top of the circular drive that is supposed to be used for dropping off and picking up kids in front of the elementary school (you'd think all the parents would be clear about this system, but there continue to be some who think it's a "put it in park and have a picnic" lane...but that's for another time and another blog...), waiting for my turn to pull down and gather my offspring. As I sat there, I spotted Ben standing near the kindergarten equipment, pummeling the heck out of another child. And not just any other child, but the one he'd had the most trouble with from the time we started preschool--the one who has a mother who already thinks I'm incompetently raising an antisocial child (as if there might be a way to competently raise an antisocial child...). The one whose mother thinks we have family meetings about the best way to attack an unsuspecting innocent from behind.
Because that's what happened. This child (whom I will refer to as "Billy" in order to preserve his privacy) stood waiting for his mother, and as I helplessly watched from the top of the hill, Ben approached Billy from the rear and laid into him--hitting, scratching, kicking--completely unprovoked. I saw the whole thing. So did Billy's mom, who was also trapped among the pressing auto throng, and she was not happy. Not at all. When we finally reached the children, this mother "invited" me to join her in the Principal's office. I found a parking spot (resisting the incomprehensible custom of parking right there in the circular drive, but again I digress...), took hold of Ben's hand, and for the first time in my life, reported to the Principal for reprimand.
The first thing I discovered was that Ben had already been involved in a problem at recess earlier in the day involving Billy and a couple other boys, too. In that situation, Ben had decided that the other boys were doing something inappropriate, and so he announced that he was going to get a teacher. These boys knocked him down to keep him from reporting their wrongdoings. Billy's role (because he happened to be standing nearby at the time and witnessed the event) was simply to defend Ben when the Principal was trying to sort out the reports. Billy took Ben's side.
In the Principal's office, Ben explained that after school, an older boy had made a loud noise and scared him. The Principal asked him, "Ben, if another boy scared you, then why did you attack Billy?" Ben explained, "I was going to get the other boy, but then I saw Billy, so I attacked him instead."
Oh, gentle readers, I know that right now you are plumbing the depths of your psychological knowledge to make some kind of sense of that response. You are thinking that surely there must be a connection--something to do with Billy's familiarity, or with finding some sense of safety in attacking someone who had just championed Ben's cause an hour earlier. But here's a small insight that I gathered years ago about Ben:
Don't try to make sense of anything. Ben does not live in the same world that we do--he does not process social expectations like you or me, and he does not act in logical, rational ways when he is pushed into a state of alarm or intense emotion. He just reacts, usually violently, and that's all there is to it. But back to the story:
After Billy's mom completed her quite justified torrent of tears and frustration that her son was not being protected adequately from mine, the Principal assured her that we would make some changes, and then he excused her and turned to me. He made some suggestions that I agreed with. First, we decided that Ben should not go outside for recess for a while. Instead, we decided that I would put together a recess bag filled with legos, and playdough, and art supplies, and Ben would spend recess times in the office adjacent to the Principal's office, doing projects on his own. Second, we agreed that from then on, his teacher would walk him to a specific door after school where I would be waiting to meet him, so as to minimize his contact with other children and limit his exposure to the noise and chaos that floods the school grounds after the final bell.
I know--it seems cruel to tell a child that he cannot go outside and play during recess time. But to Ben, this was a slice of heaven. For two weeks, he quite happily reported to the Principal's office during each recess break and played quietly on his own. Not surprisingly, his behavior and performance in class quickly improved--especially in the afternoons when he had previously been having a difficult time with his behavior. After two weeks, the Principal thought it would be best for Ben to go outside for at least one recess. Ben met this suggestion with resistance, insisting that he would much rather be alone with his toys, but wisely the Principal suggested that just because Ben is more comfortable being alone, that does not mean that it's in Ben's best interest to spend so much time away from other children.
So for the last month or so, Ben has been spending the lunch recess outside. The Principal has an aide keeping a close eye on him, and honestly, I have no idea what he does when he's out there. Sometimes I ask him if he has friends that he plays with, but the answer is always the same: no. When I ask him to tell me the names of some of his friends, he always says, "I don't really know." When I ask him to tell me the names of some of the kids in his class, the response is usually also the same: "Um...I'm not really sure." Occasionally he comes up with a name or two, but usually not.
Still, we seem to have struck a balance that works. Ben spends one recess outside, and then he spends the afternoon recess in the Principal's office. The Principal has supplied several puzzles--Ben's favorite activity--and Ben works those puzzles each afternoon. His teacher reported that when Ben comes back to class after he's been working on his puzzles, it's like he has been reset, and he can focus on his work just as well as he does when he gets to school in the morning.
I find myself thinking about next year already. It's time to request teachers for the coming school year, and I'm at a loss. I fear that no one will have the skills and the patience that Ben's current teacher has. No one will understand him quite so well, or accommodate his challenges quite so adeptly. I'm sure I'm wrong--certainly there are 2nd grade teachers who will help Ben succeed. But I worry. Balance is a precarious achievement at best, and I just don't want to lose it--not when we finally seem to have found it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Christmas Craziness
Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! These little syllables blurted out in quick succession can make anyone seem a little...well...nutty. Justifiably so. Christmas is one of those times of year that, for all the joy and excitement of the season, nevertheless always seems inescapably emotional, intense, and stressful.
A few days before school ended for the holiday, I was over at the school as the first graders were returning from a rehearsal for their Christmas program. Ben's teacher stopped in the hall to chat with me for a moment as the kids headed outside for some much-needed fresh air. I asked her, "So, how is it going?" She replied, "Well, it's definitely Christmas."
She went on to explain that Ben was having a hard time dealing with the changes in his class schedule, and with the heightened energy that electrified the school as hundreds of children anxiously anticipated school vacation and holiday gifting. It seems he wasn't able to get up from his desk for any reason without feeling compelled to rush over to any random nearby classmate and issue a push, or a hit, or some other intrusive form of touching. I wasn't sure if he'd make it to the last day of school or not, but he seems to have gotten through (much to the credit of a very patient, caring teacher).
Yet out of chaos, Ben managed to create order. As he came home from school on the last day before Christmas break, he produced from his backpack two pages of very intricate pin-hole art. I can't imagine how many hours he had spent at school carefully poking hundreds or maybe thousands (I am not exaggerating--I would not have had the attention span required to accomplish this project) of evenly spaced holes into his construction paper with a push pin, following complex patterns to create images of candles, holly, and candy canes. I could sense from his short demonstration of the process that the project had soothed him, offering him a chance to focus his mind on a single, simple task while simultaneously shutting out external stimuli. Once home, he located more construction paper and spent a few more hours sprawled out on our living room carpet punching patterns into the colored paper with a small push pin. I suppose it's the same rhythm and motion that calms him when he works puzzles or creates mosaic art with small foam shapes--both good "go to" activities when he's uncontrollably upset.
I was humorously reminded of Ben's need for order when he discovered one evening that I had wrapped a gift for myself and placed it under the tree--a clear violation of the gift-giving custom. He read the package: "To mom...from...mom?" Then he called out to me: "Mom! Why does this present say 'to mom, from mom'?" I explained that I had given myself a present. "You gave a present to you?" he repeated. He thought about this for a moment, puzzlement lining his scrunched up face, and finally said, "Oh. Well...do you know what it is?"
Ben loves Christmas. He is delighted when we extricate the tree and decorations from the attic and set them up throughout the house every season. He looks forward to "Christmas milk" (his title for egg nog) all year long, and drinks gallons of it by himself as long as we bring it home. And yet, I think that in some ways, like all of us, Ben likes to put Christmas away when the season has ended. He won't admit that he does (quite the opposite, actually), but I sense the calm that comes over him when our home is restored to its original decor, and when the routines of school and family are reintroduced. Out of chaos comes order; out of Christmas comes a new year. I wonder what this one will bring...
A few days before school ended for the holiday, I was over at the school as the first graders were returning from a rehearsal for their Christmas program. Ben's teacher stopped in the hall to chat with me for a moment as the kids headed outside for some much-needed fresh air. I asked her, "So, how is it going?" She replied, "Well, it's definitely Christmas."
She went on to explain that Ben was having a hard time dealing with the changes in his class schedule, and with the heightened energy that electrified the school as hundreds of children anxiously anticipated school vacation and holiday gifting. It seems he wasn't able to get up from his desk for any reason without feeling compelled to rush over to any random nearby classmate and issue a push, or a hit, or some other intrusive form of touching. I wasn't sure if he'd make it to the last day of school or not, but he seems to have gotten through (much to the credit of a very patient, caring teacher).
Yet out of chaos, Ben managed to create order. As he came home from school on the last day before Christmas break, he produced from his backpack two pages of very intricate pin-hole art. I can't imagine how many hours he had spent at school carefully poking hundreds or maybe thousands (I am not exaggerating--I would not have had the attention span required to accomplish this project) of evenly spaced holes into his construction paper with a push pin, following complex patterns to create images of candles, holly, and candy canes. I could sense from his short demonstration of the process that the project had soothed him, offering him a chance to focus his mind on a single, simple task while simultaneously shutting out external stimuli. Once home, he located more construction paper and spent a few more hours sprawled out on our living room carpet punching patterns into the colored paper with a small push pin. I suppose it's the same rhythm and motion that calms him when he works puzzles or creates mosaic art with small foam shapes--both good "go to" activities when he's uncontrollably upset.
I was humorously reminded of Ben's need for order when he discovered one evening that I had wrapped a gift for myself and placed it under the tree--a clear violation of the gift-giving custom. He read the package: "To mom...from...mom?" Then he called out to me: "Mom! Why does this present say 'to mom, from mom'?" I explained that I had given myself a present. "You gave a present to you?" he repeated. He thought about this for a moment, puzzlement lining his scrunched up face, and finally said, "Oh. Well...do you know what it is?"
Ben loves Christmas. He is delighted when we extricate the tree and decorations from the attic and set them up throughout the house every season. He looks forward to "Christmas milk" (his title for egg nog) all year long, and drinks gallons of it by himself as long as we bring it home. And yet, I think that in some ways, like all of us, Ben likes to put Christmas away when the season has ended. He won't admit that he does (quite the opposite, actually), but I sense the calm that comes over him when our home is restored to its original decor, and when the routines of school and family are reintroduced. Out of chaos comes order; out of Christmas comes a new year. I wonder what this one will bring...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)