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?"

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.

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...

Change is Good...Right?

The Greek philosopher Heraclitus proposed over two millenia ago that the only enduring thing in the universe is change. His theory has been reiterated thousands of times throughout the ages by Plato, Emerson, Tolstoy, Gandhi--even Bob Dylan crooned that "the times, they are a-changin'." And we as human beings do our best to embrace change a-la the adage, "Change is Good."

For Ben, however, change is not good. This was made clear to me about a week ago, when he lost his first tooth.

I knew the tooth had been loose--he showed it to me several days before and asked about nine dozen questions related to the process of tooth loss, tooth growth, and the whereabouts and lifestyle of the tooth fairy. I thought we had covered all necessary preparatory ground.

Still, one morning at breakfast last week, I looked over and saw Ben sitting still as a statue at the breakfast table, staring blankly ahead, "No Vacancy" emblazoned across his face. I was a bit startled. "Ben, what's wrong?" No response. "Ben, are you OK? What's wrong?"

His facial expression never changed, only tears began to roll down his cheeks. I hurried to take him in my arms as he unexpectedly sobbed, "My toof is yoose and it's going to fall out of my mouf and I don't want my toof to come out of my mouf!"

I assured him that everything would be OK, and inspected the "yoose toof" to discover that it was hanging by just a thread. I encouraged Ben to just jerk it out, but he refused--he wanted it to stay right where it was. So, I sent him to school, figuring that nature would take care of the extraction.

That afternoon I went to the school to pick up a cookie dough order, and figured I'd get the boys from school at the same time. When Ben reported to the office, the tooth was even less attached to his jaw than it was before school started, yet still it clung to his gums by the thinnest of filaments, and still Ben refused to pluck it out. Nor would he let me finish off the task. However, when a brave and compassionate school secretary offered to help, Ben was happy to stand in front of her, expose the dangling denticle, and not so much as blink as she counted, 1-2-3! And then plink! The tooth was out. We cheered, we applauded. Ben stood stoically, ne'er so much as a smile, just waiting for the tooth to be placed in a plastic bag, and that was that.

Change has a way of springing up around this time of year, though. For instance, Ben's Primary (his children's class at church) teacher mentioned a few weeks ago that at the beginning of the year, Ben really struggled in Primary. But now, he seems to have settled into the routine--the sameness--of it all. Tragically, the routine is about to change. Come January, Ben will be moved to a new class, a new teacher, a new meeting schedule...so buckle up: blasting zone ahead. Be prepared for the earth to shake for a while. Ben's behavior will deteriorate until he feels comfortable with the new routine. I'm not speculating: this is a time-proven fact.

I'm also noticing that his behavior at school has become more erratic of late: some good days, more bad days. Some good behaviors, more problems with pushing classmates, crawling under desks for large amounts of time, and avoiding class- and homework. Everything is in flux at this time of year: the weather is changing, the time zone is changing, and the daily schedules are changing as classes prepare for Thanksgiving feasts and Christmas programs. Even our home is changing as we begin to rearrange furniture in anticipation of a Christmas tree and holiday decorations. The very atmosphere of life is changing as we move into and through the festivities of winter.

For most of us, these changes make sense and we adapt quite quickly. For Ben, they represent chaos and confusion. Remember the title character in the old 1980's movie "Rain Man"? That character had to watch the same t.v. show every night, and purchase his underwear at the same K-Mart, in order to keep his world together. Ben's not so extreme--he won't bang his head and scream if we pick up some Underoos at Walmart--but routine is still critically important to him. When it changes, so does his behavior. And not in a good way.

So for us, change might be good. But for Ben, change is overwhelming. Unfortunately, Heraclitus had it right: change, for good or bad, is the only thing we can ultimately count on. How do I teach Ben that change IS routine? The irony will certainly be lost on him...it is on me, too.

You're Breaking Up

A few days ago during one of Ben's not-so-good days, I became quite frustrated with him. I lectured him for several minutes and then, noticing that he wasn't hearing a word I said, I asked, "Ben! Do you understand what I'm saying to you?" He looked up at me and replied, "Actually, no. You're breaking up. Sorry."

I laughed at first, but then realized that he might have been accurately describing his experience. James Ball, author of "Early Intervention & Autism," stresses that autistic children struggle to process verbal information--particularly in chaotic situations. I'd say that between my raised voice, the blaring television in the next room, and his siblings' nearby hooting (apparently I've given birth to a parliament of owls), Ben wasn't able to process much at all of my tirade. It may truly have sounded to him like I was breaking up, as the synapses in his brain fired on and off in an effort to process all the sounds around him.

Ball's comments also help explain Ben's urgent need to find signs and symbols that represent verbal words. For example, last summer Ben and I were attending one of Joey's (my 9-year-old) baseball games. I was so pleased to look over at one point and discover that Ben was standing among a few other children who were about his age, rather than wandering around by himself. Suddenly, though, he reappeared back at my side and said, "Mom, how do I say 'I don't know' in sign language?" I told him that I wasn't sure. He responded, "Oh. Maybe it's like this," and then he made a series of enigmatic hand motions, pointing to his head, then waving his fingers away from his body. Satisfied that he had figured it out, he ran off again toward his new friends and immediately repeated his signals as if everyone might take his meaning. He didn't seem to notice the blank look on the children's faces as they watched him and then turned back to their own games.

One evening several months ago, I instructed Ben to go upstairs and get his pajamas on. He turned to me, blew directly into my face, and then explained, "If I blow on you, it means yes." And then he trotted upstairs to change his clothes. For several days after that, he regularly blew in my and others' faces as a way to express his opinion--sometimes positively, and sometimes not.

It's hard to have a conversation with Ben, partly because he loses interest a few sentences into the effort, but also because if Ben's train of thought gets derailed midway through a sentence, he can't just pick up where he left off. He has to go back to the beginning of the sentence and start over again. Often Ben will begin a sentence four or five times before he can get all the way through it--and he and his listeners get frustrated after too much of that. Tonight, Ben was trying to tell me about something he learned in school. He started talking, but then stopped and said, "Wait. That was a mess up." He tried again, but again stopped mid-sentence and said, "No wait, that was another mess up." And then he started a third time, only to stop yet again to announce that he had made another "mess up." Finally, on the fourth try, he was able to verbally express his thought.

I know the frustration of talking to someone on a cell phone that cuts in and out. I wonder what it might feel like to have regular, face-to-face conversations cut in and out in the same way. Probably I'd do just what Ben does--I'd find new ways to communicate, preferably without using words, or I'd simply stop trying to listen. Because really, there's not much more frustrating than having to tell someone, "I can't hear you--you're breaking up!"

What's a Picture Worth?

Ben was the easiest baby born to human parents. He was docile, quiet (too quiet, really), and content to sit in one spot for hours, staring blankly at whatever parade of activity passed in front of him. He didn't roll over, as most infants eventually do, until he was six months old. He didn't crawl until he was almost one; he didn't walk for another five months after that. Did I worry? No. He was just moving at his own pace, I figured. He was meeting the developmental milestones--just not as quickly as other kids do. But he was my fourth child. He got lots of parental and sibling attention. I supposed that he just didn't see much need to change things up too quickly.

But once he got up and walked, my docile, quiet baby vanished and every waking, toddling moment was soon laced with some form of chaos: he pulled cereal boxes from the pantry to scatter millions of little oat circles across the kitchen floor; he dumped cups full of water or other accessible liquids (notably, my Diet Coke) into lakes and oceans on the carpet; he removed his poopy diapers to create fresco artwork on the walls and floor; he emptied full bottles of shampoo or dish soap onto beds or down the bathtub drain. Did I worry? No. I figured he was just an active kid. Maybe he was making up for lost time.

He was four when I sent him to preschool. He couldn't sit still, couldn't interact with other children in appropriate ways, couldn't control himself from hitting, kicking, or spitting on others, and often ran out of the classroom either into the hallway or else out the door into the parking lot when he spotted an opportunity (little jail breaker!). Did I worry? No. I figured he had ADHD, and took him to the doctor for a prescription that actually helped a lot.

I didn't worry when he started kindergarten, either, and couldn't tolerate sharing a table with other children. He never played with other kids on the playground. He often still pinched, pushed, and hit his classmates, but I figured that his meds needed some adjusting.

And then came Picture Day, which happened first thing in the morning for the kindergarten class. By 9:00 a.m., his whole class had smiled and said "cheese" for the strange guy with the rubber chicken. By 9:30, the school principal called me to say that Ben's behavior had escalated to a point where they could no longer keep him in school. I picked him up, drove him home, and finally started to worry--particularly after I began to cry and Ben punched me and said, "You're a big crybaby. You're a stupid crybaby!"

We've come a long way since Picture Day last year. With a diagnosis and a treatment plan in place, Ben's making some slow but certain progress. So when yesterday--Picture Day--rolled around again, I thought for just a moment about sending a note to his teacher to warn her that Ben might have a tough day. And then I changed my mind. It seemed like he was having a good morning, so I decided not to worry about it after all. Still, I wasn't entirely surprised when the principal called me at lunch time to report that Ben was sitting there in his office with him, after spending lunch spitting on, kicking, and pushing other children.

I thought a lot last night about what Picture Day means to an autistic child, and realized that it must almost feel like a horrid personal violation to him. Ben doesn't make eye contact with anyone--not even me, and I'm his closest connection in the world. Imagine if every time you were asked to look someone in the eye, your brain began shooting off electrons in a frenzy that would rival the finale of a 4th of July fireworks show. I think that's what it's like for Ben when he's asked to make interpersonal connections. Yet on Picture Day, he's put on a stool--the center of attention--and commanded to look up, look here, smile, and say magical, grin-inducing words. His over-firing brain can't have much left by the time that ordeal is over. So of course, Picture Day is almost impossibly hard for him to survive without some level of emotional overload.

Is it worth it? Do I continue to force him through that level of over-stimulation every single year for the rest of his educational career? I love his school pictures, and I cherish the memories that each picture inspires. But what about him? I think I have to remember that on Picture Day, Ben will always need a chance to regain some kind of balance and quiet in his own mind once the photo has been taken.

The fact is, Ben needs me to worry a little more about Picture Day.

Doing This Stuff...

A couple nights ago, I sat down at the kitchen table next to Ben after having been gone all afternoon and evening with Izzy to her Nutcracker rehearsal in Salt Lake. Apparently, Ben and his brothers had been saving up questions with which to bombard me upon my return. Within moments of sitting down, the kids began competing for my attention, all talking at the same time, each word a little louder than the last, in an effort to be heard first. It was chaotic, and too much for Ben. So he communicated a different way: he pulled back his fist and punched me in the back as hard as he could. Chris (my dh) jumped up, picked up Ben, and hustled him upstairs to our bedroom, where he tucked him into our bed until Ben could calm down and fall asleep. I listened as Ben screamed and yelled, and when he finally quieted down, I went upstairs to talk to him.

I crawled up next to him on the bed and said, "Ben, it really hurt me when you hit me." He replied, "I don't care if it hurt you. Because you wouldn't listen to me." I explained that hitting is not the way to get attention, even if everyone else is talking and yelling. He responded "Oh," and then looked blankly toward the ceiling. That's usually my cue that he's done talking. But I wanted to finish our conversation with some praise so I added, "Ben, I'm really proud of you right now, because you are calm, and you are using your words, and being really good." He looked at me and said in a very matter-of-fact tone, "Well, I don't want to be good. I'm only doing this stuff so I don't be in trouble."

I give him double-points for being honest. But I wonder: is Ben's behavior, good and bad, always so utilitarian in nature? He had a terrific week at school last week; he earned every sticker he could on his "good behavior" chart and only got "Good Day!" and smiley faces in the comments section of the chart. Truthfully, I feared for a couple days that Ben had actually stolen his teacher's stickers and given himself such high praise, but I don't think he has mastered a perfect forgery of her handwriting. Yet.

On the topic of school, Ben is struggling with spelling tests. Such a verbal skill: hear a word, process the sounds mentally, convert them to their letter-referents, and then transcribe them onto paper. The first week, I tried studying spelling words with Ben the same way I've always done it with all my other kids: I say the word; Ben repeats the letters--an entirely verbal activity. I thought it worked well, until he missed every word on the test. And then the little light-bulb clicked on over my head (well, first it swung down and cracked me across the skull with a little "Duh!" sound). Ben can't process verbal information very well. His strength is in tactile, hands-on skills. So the next week, I spent one night having him write the words down on paper. The next night, we sat on the couch with imaginary chalk boards in front of us. I said a word, and then Ben "wrote" the word, letter by letter, on his chalk board. It became quite an elaborate activity--at least in Ben's creative mind. He was pulling boards down, sliding them over, scratching erasers over them, trading boards with me if mine seemed bigger than his, and at the end of the activity he carefully folded up our imaginary boards and tucked them under the coffee table. The next day when I suggested we use our imaginary boards to practice again, he ran upstairs to the living room, made a series of banging and clacking sounds, and returned with the invisible boards tucked under his arm. He hung each (mine and his) on imaginary hooks over our heads, and we went through the spelling list again. That week, he only missed one word on his test. Sweetest are the small victories, I think.

But most importantly, I finally started to get it into my own head that Ben's world operates by "doing"--not "saying." He disassembles his toys, screw by screw, as his way of deriving joy from them. His favorite television show is "How It's Made"--a show on the Science Channel which details the mechanical process of creating various objects such as radios, gloves, hockey helmets, and compact discs. He can watch several episodes of that show in a single sitting and never get bored. By contrast, I am a student and teacher of English; I love and live in a world of words and language. I struggle to understand Ben's daily experiences as clusters of motion and action, rather than verbal expression. And yet, whether he's behaving or not, and whether he wants praise or just wants to avoid getting in trouble, Ben is "doing this stuff" because that's how his mind makes sense of his environment: Doing, doing, doing.