Tag Archives: Speech

A Conversation with Paula Durbin-Westby

You’ve described yourself as a “nonspeaking (at times) Autistic.

“Yes, I think the phrase “nonspeaking at times” captures my experience, and also that of others who do have speech capabilities but can’t always access them. Because one can speak at times does not mean that speech is a reliable form of communication for that person. Also, when someone can speak some of the time, others may not notice that they are having trouble speaking. I have sometimes not been able to speak and other people just thought I was “being quiet” or did not have anything to say; that dates back to childhood.”

Why did you make a video of you not speaking?

“I made the video because we need to change some of the ideas about “high functioning” and “low functioning” Autistics.  Not being able to speak is equated with “low functioning”.  A constellation of characteristics are said to be true of only “LF” people, such as self-injurious behavior, toileting difficulties, and not being able to speak or having limited speech, while “HF” people are said to have another set of characteristics, also fairly stereotypical, such as being “geniuses” who are good at computer programming and lack empathy.  These binary divisions don’t address the wide variety and range of characteristics of Autistic people, and paint a limited picture of individual Autistics, many of whom defy (not necessarily on purpose!) the expectations surrounding their “end” of the autism spectrum.  I have always known I can’t speak on a regular basis, but the conversations about “nonverbal” people assume that I have a different experience when in fact it’s not so different at all.”

Can you talk about how and why you sometimes are unable to speak?

 ”I can’t say I speak “most of the time,” since most of my waking hours are not spent talking.  I showed on my video, even when I am alone, I frequently can’t talk. I don’t need to talk at those times, but I am very aware that if I were suddenly presented with a situation in which I needed to talk, I would not be able to. I am, however, usually able to make what some Autistics have called “speech sounds,” which means that I can say something, even if it is not exactly what wanted to say. I have a number of reasons for not being able to speak at any given time. I distinguish between not being able to talk at all and having trouble with word finding, which does not make me lose speech, but can have some interesting results when I find a word that is not the right one!  I can go “in and out of speech” several times during the course of a day.

The following list has some of my reasons for not being able to talk. These are not in any particular order: Sensory overload, being tired, reading or seeing something disturbing, thinking more in visual images than in words, trying to talk when other people are talking too fast and not taking turns‒which is not limited to the autism spectrum, although a lot of literature exists about teaching us to take turns. Some of that teaching is necessary, but I think it should be introduced to non-autistics as well!”

Are there other things that stop you from being able to talk?

Another thing that will stop me from being able to talk is to have big chunks of time where I am not talking because I am mostly alone, like when my son spends the weekend with his dad. After a weekend spent primarily not talking, I am not used to it and have trouble getting started again. It does not take more than half a day of not talking before I need to urge myself to take it up again. It’s the inertia of not doing it, plus I have to remind myself, consciously, of how to move my muscles (mouth, lips, larynx) and intentionally will myself to speak, which does not always work. Sometimes my son will ask me “Mommy, are you having a hard time talking?” and if I manage to say “Yes,”  I  am able to start talking again, although I can have a hard time formulating sentences and finding words for a bit.”

Of all the items on the list, which ones affect you the most?

“The thing that will stop me cold, suddenly switching from being able to speak to not being able to utter a word is seeing, reading, or hearing something that is disturbing. I write indexes for nonfiction books. Some of them have very graphic descriptions of things like genocide or war. I did my “make myself talk experiment” on a day when I was using voice recognition software to do data entry for a book that had ten chapters of very disturbing material. I used VRS a lot at that time to save my wrists and fingers for playing the organ. Since I am a visual thinker, not only was I reading it, but also seeing it in my mind, like an awful movie that I did not want to watch,. I found myself typing instead of dictating, and realized I had been doing so for maybe half an hour. I said to myself, “Why did I switch to typing?! I don’t want to be typing!” and my experiment was underway. I spent the next two hours trying to make myself talk, with no success. I was online at the time, so was typing to people telling them about the experiment. Some of them were a bit concerned that I was trying to force myself to talk when I couldn’t, but I needed to find out if I would be able to talk if I tried really hard.  My answer was provided after two hours, in the form of a small squeak. That’s the only sound I could make after all that trying. I had two realizations as I finally ended my experiment, still not able to talk except for that squeak. The first was that it reminded me of when I had an epidural for a procedure and tried (yet another!) experiment to see if I could wiggle my toe. The doctor got “mad” at me and told me I was actually wasting physical energy I would need to recover from the procedure. I had the same feeling of exhaustion from trying to make myself speak. The other thing I realized is that maybe I should be carrying an autism card with me in case I was at the scene of something upsetting, like an accident or crime, and could not talk to first responders. Some things that I find disturbing and thus making me not able to talk are not that dramatic. It can be someone saying something that I did not expect them to say (not limited to “bad” things) or anything unexpected or surprising.”

What are your earliest experiences of not being able to speak?

“When I was a child, there were many times when I could not speak. I think very early on, I was not very aware that I could not talk at times; I simply did not talk when I couldn’t. I definitely spent a lot of time looking at things like dust motes in the air and the thread on my blanket and other tiny little interesting things; I have no idea if anyone tried to talk to me and got a response, how fast a response they got, and whether or not I was conscious that I wanted to say something but couldn’t. In later childhood I was more aware that I was both not speaking and wishing I was. I attributed loss of speech to being “shy,” and was angry at myself for being that way. I spent quite a few decades having times of not being able to speak, including the entire day once, and being angry at myself for not being more “brave.” Reasons include some social ones, such as being afraid of another person for whatever reason, feeling “on the spot,” having a particularly anxious day, people interrupting me. I think people were not aware they were interrupting me, as my speech was so tentative. Other reasons include being tired, having more visual thinking and not the accompanying language-based thinking, since my thinking is visual with an audio soundtrack and the soundtrack sometimes drops out for whatever reason. Sometimes the lighting or the color green will render me speechless. I love green! It is very mesmerizing! It often makes me unable or disinterested in speaking, especially the green of a large field of grass. Eeeeeeee!!!!!”

When did your views regarding your inability to speak at times change?

“After I learned about autism, I started thinking more about the reasons I lost speech.  I met people who either could not talk at all, could not always reliably access speech (like me!), stuttered (like me, again), had trouble finding words, or had to say other words, circling around until the right one was selected, such as one of the “big words” I used to get teased about in school.

One of my ongoing word-choice problems is “French toast.” Early in the morning, I can’t think of “French toast,” for some reason. I ask my son if he wants “Um, um, um, um, …. uh… (then I draw a square shape in the air, since I can see the French toast clearly in my mind) … um, square things!…. French toast!” Since my son now knows that “square things” means French toast, sometimes we just stop at “square things” and he says yes or he will say, “Mommy, I want square things!” and we laugh and I make the French toast.”

Does it trouble your son that you can’t talk at times, or have trouble saying what you mean?

“My son is very good at talking about things he doesn’t like, but I don’t assume that he would feel entirely comfortable directly telling me things he doesn’t like about me. The things he does say indicate support rather than discomfort. A few times I have been annoyed at myself for stuttering and he says “Mommy! Don’t ever be mad at yourself for stuttering!” or, a few times, “Mommy. Stuttering. It’s a way of life.” I don’t not-communicate with him, so he does not feel ignored. I use alternative ways of communicating with him, just not talking. I write, point, use some of my extremely limited repertoire of ASL signs. I once was writing to him about what to wear to church and he wrote back “Yes, mother dearest!” He (as is true of most people I write to) matches my communication mode and writes back. I have written to him (and to others) “You don’t have to write to me; I can hear you!” He has noticed, and told me, that when he comes back from visiting his dad I “seem different.” We have talked about his coming back as a transition point- the house is suddenly noisier, and definitely “talkier.” I have often said that my child talks to think, so we are quite different in that way. I am working on what would make the transition from “kid gone” to “kid in the house” an easier one for both of us.”

 For people who do not have difficulty speaking, they may have trouble understanding how someone might be able to speak in one situation and then not able to in another.  Can you talk more about this?

“Some abilities are not there every single time a person wants to access them. This is true for all people, but for an Autistic person, these fluctuations in abilities and access to abilities might be more pronounced. If I don’t play the organ almost every day, it’s almost like I forget how to play it. That’s why I always practice on Saturday night and Sunday morning before church. There is no way I can go in there cold and play like I want to. Think of something like delivering a presentation. For most typical people, there will be good days and bad days, presentations you wish you could do over, and days when you were really “on your game.” Or, think of your favorite sports team and player. Some games are not so good; other games the team really does well. But playing the organ or hitting a home run is not an essential life skill (ballplayers  and organists feel free to disagree!). But when it comes to anything considered really basic, like being able to talk, a sense of mystery surrounds the topic, when a person can do it one time and not another. I maintain that it’s not that different anything else, but is more noticeable and pronounced when it’s something that is expected of everyone, and when one can do that “expected thing” most of the time. Maybe for some of us talking is an extreme sport, in the sense of having to really work, practice, try hard, take risks, and think consciously about what we are doing, whereas for some people the ability to talk is very natural and not even a conscious effort.”

 Talk about the idea of language and thinking.

“I have read more than one author who opines that without language there is no thought. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Language includes both written and spoken words, as well as picture-based communication systems like PECS. Not talking (and also not writing) does not equate with “not being able to think,” “being lost in an unknown world” or anything other than specifically not being able to talk.  For some people it could mean a lack of focus on “the present moment” (how many people are fully present in each moment anyway?!) or not being able to think in words, which is another one of my reasons for not talking.  But it is not, generally speaking, accurate to assume that because someone can’t talk, they can’t think.  You wouldn’t look at someone who has a tracheostomy tube and go “Oh wow.  That person can’t think!”

What is it like when you’re unable to speak while in public and are expected to? 

“It’s a bit nerve-wracking, but only in situations where people do not know me well and are expecting that I can speak like a non-autistic person. I try to anticipate what I will need to be able to communicate at those times but I can’t always build in my own supports. When I am with friends, it’s no big deal if I can’t talk or can’t talk much. In work situations it’s more difficult for me to feel calm about it. Unfortunately this expectation is not limited to people who don’t know much about disabilities, so that I have had to really struggle at autism-related events where there really aren’t accommodations for Autistic ways of communicating. It’s an ongoing process for nondisabled people to learn about communication differences and to anticipate them so that Autistics and other people with communication disabilities aren’t doing most or all of the work to create our own accommodations.”

How do people react to you?

Really, I mostly don’t get reactions, because often the times that I can’t speak coincide with the other person continuing to talk, maybe because they think I don’t have anything to say, or that they are like “Well, if she’s not going to talk, I will!” I do get all kinds of reactions, from total acceptance to “you could if you wanted to- try harder” kind of thing that made me feel sad when I was making the video. Sometimes people don’t believe me when I say (in speech or writing!) that I have trouble talking. I have to be very clear that I mean not being able to talk at all. I have learned that “trouble talking” might mean not saying the right thing, or stage fright, and “I can’t talk right now” can mean “I am too busy to deal with you” rather than that I literally an unable to speak with words coming out of my mouth! I have had a few mixups when people did not know I meant “I can’t talk right now” very literally. Sometimes people just don’t quite believe me and think I am making it up. I am not sure why they would think I would go to that much trouble! There are also people who have never heard me stutter, who think that I don’t, even though I tell them I do. They are going to get treated to another video in a few weeks! I was finally able to capture myself stuttering at a time when I also had the webcam with me.”

Are there things that help you speak after a period of not speaking?

“I mostly just have to wait. I don’t particularly want to talk a lot, but I need to. It’s just one of those things that is expected, and it is expected that if I can do it some of the time, I can do it all of the time.  It might seem that someone who can speak but loses speech at times would want to find ways to prevent speech loss, but I often welcome not being able to talk.  It gives me a break from the exhausting task of speech production.  My idea of the perfect conversation and this is ideal for a number of my Autistic friends, too, is two laptops or mobile devices or text-based equipment, but we can be in the same room together writing to one another. I don’t get a lot of this because I live in a rural area and most of the people I write to are long-distance. Some friends locally are very accepting but we don’t have any alternative setup other than me scribbling on paper. I also get way overloaded by hearing other people talk, as it challenges my auditory processing abilities and I can only take so much talking. If other people, whether or not they can speak, would type to me, I think I could get a lot more accomplished with the interaction with that person. Or, at least I think I could. If writing is not that person’s strongest form of communication, it will be a limit for that person. We should not be expected to always accommodate “talkers” and not the other way around. But it does take extra effort on my part because people can’t tell just from looking at me that I am a person who sometimes can’t access speech.

Ideally, we could take turns using each person’s communication strengths and weaknesses, assuming we are able to do that much. Of course, sometimes it just won’t work.”

Paula and her son’s writing


To read Paula’s blog, go to Paula Durbin-Westby Autistic Blog

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Greeting Granma

Friday we arrived safely in Aspen, or as Emma described it, “We have to take two planes, then get to see Granma!”  Despite my reservations about not having any seats together, people were kind and accommodating, several happily moved for us and we ended up all together.  I didn’t have to plead with anyone, or explain; I think this was a first!

Upon our arrival Nic and Emma ran ahead, first Nic flinging his entire body against my aging mother with all his might, so happy was he to see her and then Emma, more timidly perhaps, but with no less excitement wrapped her arms around her granma and hugged her.  We have been through this routine dozens and dozens of times, taking two airplanes, arriving in Aspen, my mother always there at the airport to greet us and never has Emma greeted her granma like this without at least some prompting.  My mother looked up at me with her beautiful smile and said nothing.  She didn’t need to.  Emma was now holding one of her arthritic hands and exclaiming, “Oh, Granma hurt her fingers!”  But instead of then racing off or letting go, she continued to hold her granma’s hand, tenderly examining her arthritic fingers, the same misshapen fingers my grandmother had, that as a child, I too had found so fascinating.

Later as Richard was unpacking and I was setting my computer up in the adjoining bedroom, Emma came in and said, “Going to go outside.  We can go outside and talk. Talk with Mommy.”  She then opened the door to the porch directly outside our bedroom and sat in one of the chairs.  ”Mommy sit here,” she said, pointing to the other chair.

Obediently I did as she directed and we talked.  Emma talked about how high it was from where we were sitting to the ground downstairs where she could see the dogs playing.  She talked about how I was sitting with her in the chair next to her.  She walked the length of the porch and talked about how she couldn’t reach the dogs, nor could she reach the ground downstairs.  We discussed distance and the difference between being inside and outside and then she stood in front of me and said, “Now I’m going to sit on Mommy’s lap.”

Which she then did.  And I wrapped my arms around her, while we looked out at the Rocky Mountains, jagged and covered in snow and breathed in the crisp mountain air together.

The next morning, outside with the dogs, who were behind me looking at Emma.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism, go to:  Emma’s Hope Book

Building Blocks & Autism

Sadly, I have no new photographs of Emma petting Merlin.  After that one brief encounter she has returned to ignoring him.  He seems to take it all in stride, poor kitty.  But it leads me to another topic I keep meaning to write about – building blocks.  Not the literal kind, but the developmental kind.  Children typically go through a series of advancements in their speech, physical abilities, etc.  There are specific physical milestones –  lifting their head, turning over, crawling, standing walking, and on it goes.  A foundation is being laid down which further progress is built upon.

What I have seen with Emma is less a foundation and more a series of seemingly unrelated events.  We see her do or say things never to be repeated or if they are, not for many months or even years.  I’m not sure I would have noticed this, except that I’ve made a habit of noting everything she does and then writing about it.  She pets Merlin and then instead of tentatively reaching out to him again the following day, it’s as though she never spent those few minutes petting him.

It reminds me of when she was just over a year old.  She would learn to say something – “play catch” and we assumed that these two words would now be added to the other words she had, such as ba-bye, dada, ah da (all done), hi, okay and no.  We expected to hear them uttered again.  At the time, knowing absolutely nothing about autism, we weren’t looking for signs of anything being wrong.  When she didn’t repeat – play catch – we assumed it was because she didn’t want to play, not that it was a one time event, never to be spoken again.

When I look at her baby journals, (which I discontinued after she was diagnosed – more about that some other time) the first two and a half years of her life, I am struck by the words she knew by the time she was thirteen months old.  Including the ones I’ve listed above she said, Bertie (the name of our elderly cat), Ma-ma, Nic, and Ra-ra (our caregiver).  I was concerned with her lack of language, but it wasn’t as though she wasn’t speaking at all and then she’d come out with something like “play catch” and I would sigh a huge sigh of relief and push my concerns aside.  Except that she never said play catch again.  The full list of words she spoke as a thirteen month old were either salutations or proper nouns of the main people in her life.  Other than the one time she said, “play catch” she did not use any  verbs or nouns.  It was at around this time, between thirteen and fifteen months of age that she would seem to learn a new word or phrase – “play catch”, but also, “chase me” and “go out”.  Some of them, like “chase me!” she would say many times but at around eighteen months she suddenly stopped.  We never heard her say those two words again.  It was as though there were some sort of black hole sucking all those words and phrases away.

Still we fully expected to hear her say those words again, that she did not was something we didn’t realize until much later.  At the time we were sure it was because she chose not to, as opposed to something neurologically wrong.  Why would one assume something was terribly wrong when she would come out with a new phrase or word the next week?  It wasn’t until we were told she was autistic, and only after much research did I begin to look back on all those hopeful notes from her baby journals and see a pattern.  There was not the steady building of a foundation of words, ever added upon to become an extensive and diverse vocabulary.  Instead there were a few scattered words and phrases some repeated, some never heard again.  Arbitrary words, perhaps she heard us say and repeated, but the milestones were not being reached in the time frame one normally would expect.

What I see now is that Emma is slowly, slowly building a vocabulary, but it is at a snail’s pace and it does not follow a neuro-typical trajectory.  Still she is advancing in her own haphazard way.  Who knows, she may even pet Merlin again.

For more on Emma’s criss-crossing journey through a childhood of autism and my ongoing attempts to make sense of it all, go to:  www.EmmasHopeBook.com

Emma and The Peach Gum

Last night Emma arrived home in tears.  It turns out she had swallowed a piece of peach flavored gum and her therapist, Joe, who had warned her that if she swallowed the gum he would not give her another piece, wouldn’t allow her to have another.  He offered her two other flavors to no avail.

“No!  Peach gum!” Emma cried when I went into her bedroom to sit with her.

“But Em, you swallowed it and Joe told you, you couldn’t have another piece if you swallowed it,” I said, stroking her hair.

“No!” Emma shouted, tears streaming down her face.  ”NO!  Peach gum!”

“How about a different flavor?  But you can’t swallow it or you won’t be able to have another piece of any kind,” I offered.

“No, no, no, no.  Peach,” Emma insisted.

I often wonder, when Emma is derailed by something, seemingly rather insignificant, if there isn’t a whole series of events – perhaps unrelated – that have lead up to this kind of monumental upset.  It reminds me of days I’ve had, when everything that could go wrong does.  I get to work and my printer won’t scan, the cartridge is out of ink and I don’t have a back up, I can’t remember my password to upload images that have been requested to my FTP site, my merchant account isn’t showing my latest sales transaction, my gem setter calls to tell me he’s chipped a stone, I forgot to bring some documents I need from home, etc.  and then after all that I go home, having put in nine or ten hours of work, tired and grumpy and find a light bulb has blown in the living room. It just seems too much.  Meanwhile my husband wanders in, sees me and says innocently, “Hey, what’s going on?”

Those words are what flip the switch and suddenly I feel nothing but rage.

Is that what it’s like for Emma sometimes?  Only she can’t take a deep breath and explain that her day has been a nightmare of frustrations and mishaps, while the other person nods their head and says things like, “God that sounds awful.  Here why don’t you put your things down and let’s talk about it.”  Or “I know just what you mean.  It’s been a hell of a day.”  Poor Emma can’t say any of those things.  She doesn’t have the words to tell me how she’s feeling she can’t keep it together for one more second, so she just screams and cries and if things are really bad, bites or hits herself.

This morning one of her therapists emailed me, telling me about some of her frustrations at school yesterday.  I thought about how upset she was when she came home and it all began to make sense.  She had a bad day.  I can relate to that.  I have bad days from time to time too.  But I can pick up the phone and rant about it to one of my girlfriends or I can call my husband and tell him or I can sit and try to be quiet for a few minutes, “sit with the discomfort of it all”, as a meditation teacher I knew referred to those moments when it all feels unbearable.  The point is I don’t have to be alone with those feelings of frustration.  I can reach out and by reaching out I mitigate the feelings.

“You were frustrated, you scream, you bite,”  Emma told her therapist yesterday.  Emma was doing what we all do when we’re upset, trying to communicate her feelings with another human being.

Emma on a good day when she was seven.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism and how that effects her older brother, go to: www.EmmasHopeBook.com

The Bakery

Emma is fussy about what she will eat and drink.  The type of food is sometimes less important than the packaging.  If the packaging changes or varies, even a little the item is rejected.  As with so much in autism it is all about regularity and routine.  Emma is completely thrown by the unexpected when applied to things she is accustomed to.

For the past two years Vanilla Milk from Horizon has been on Emma’s top five list of favorites.  It’s the little milk in a white and purple box with plastic wrapped straw glued to the side.   Except Horizon changed the packaging about three months ago – the colors remain the same, as do the graphics, size, shape and even the little straw. What has changed is they no longer use a coating to make the little boxes appear ever so slightly glossy.  The boxes are now a bit flatter looking.  Honestly, it wasn’t until Emma stopped drinking them, that I realized they had changed.

When we arrived in Aspen, we had a case from Christmas in the mudroom with the original packaging and Emma immediately grabbed one.

“Vanilla Milk!”  she said with pleasure.

We are nearing the end of that case and so she will boycott them once again.  Not that I care much as they are one of the least healthy things she consumes, but I do mind that she won’t eat the Cheerios we buy here, haven’t figured out why.  We bring her special bread with us, which we cannot get out here and her jam, so it was with some dismay when she refused to eat any of those things this time out, as well.  Last night I asked her what she wanted for dinner.  I told her what I was having and asked if she wanted some.  She always answers no, so it wasn’t a big surprise when she again said, “No?” as though it were more of a question, than a statement.

“Okay, so what would you like?” I asked.

“Bread,” she announced and handed me two pieces of her bread, which she had buttered and placed together, like a butter sandwich.

“Oh!” I said with surprise.  “You don’t want it toasted?”

“Yes.  Toast.”  Emma said.  Then she handed the bread to me and said, “Put it in the bakery.”

“In the bakery?” I repeated, looking around, wondering what she meant.

“In the bakery?” she said again gesturing at the oven.

“Oh!  You mean the oven.  You want me to put it in the oven to warm.”  I am often amazed by Emma’s creativity in her choice of words.  She has seen me bake bread in the oven.  She knows bread comes out of the oven and more often comes from a bakery.

“Yes.  Make it nice and warm!” Emma said.

“In the oven,” I said.

“In the oven,” Emma repeated.

“We have to heat the oven first and then we can toast it.  But we have to get a cookie tray to put it on, otherwise the butter might drip out,” I told her.

When her bread was done, I opened the oven.

“You have to stand back,” Emma said sternly.

“It’s okay Em.  Here, I’ll take it out and you can take it to the table.”

After Emma ate her bread she said, “Another bread from the bakery?”

“Yes.   We can do that.  You make it and I’ll put it in the oven.”

“Make it nice and warm,” Emma said.

Tiny Steps

I keep waiting for the kind of miraculous progress you only find in movies or works of fiction.  Every now and then I’ll hear a story about a child who has recovered (or as they say in the field – lost their diagnosis) but these are so rare they fall into the category of fantasy in my mind.  Every now and then, when I find myself longing to wake up one morning and have Emma jump into bed with me speaking in full sentences, a look of cognition unmistakable on her face, I must remind myself of all the steps, the tiny steps of progress she makes everyday.  It isn’t just about making myself feel better, it’s about charting her progress.

Last night she went over to the phone in the kitchen.

“Hey Em.  Do you want to call Daddy?” Joe asked.

“Call Daddy?” Emma responded in her typically enigmatic way.

“I’ll say the numbers,” Joe prompted.

Emma dutifully found the right buttons to push and held the receiver up to her ear.  ”Hi Daddy!”  Pause.  ”Hi Daddy!”

I stood next to her, wondering if she’d gotten the answering machine.

“Hi Daddy!”  Emma said again.

I tried to listen to see if I could detect Richard’s voice.  I didn’t hear anything.  ”Did he answer?” I asked Joe.

“Yeah.  He picked up.”

“I’m fine,” Emma said.

Silence.

“Yes.  Glenwood rec center.  Swimming, ice skating,”  Emma said into the phone.  A clear response to the question – What did you do today?  ”Sledding, skiing…”

“No, you didn’t ski today,” I interjected.

“No skiing,” Emma said.  ”Sledding.”

By this point I had my ear next to her cheek and could hear Richard’s voice.  ”I miss you, Emmy,” I heard him say.

“I miss you, Daddy,” she said.

The conversation went on a bit longer, but I was so overcome by the fact she’d said – I miss you Daddy – in response to him saying, I miss you.  Usually when Emma repeats us she repeats us in total.  In other words she would say – I miss you Emmy.  An exact replica of his sentence to her.  But she didn’t do that.  She responded appropriately with the appropriate pronoun.  I was impressed.

I know this is small, but to us, it’s HUGE.  A huge step for Emma to express emotions regarding another person.

Later I said to Richard, “That was completely unprompted!”

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes!  I wasn’t prompting her to say anything,” I told him.  ”She said it all on her own.  It’s the Aspen air out here,” I said, referring to our theory that there’s something in the air out here, which seems to inspire an uptick in her language and cognition.  We have seen it every time we come here.  Blame it on Aspen, blame it on all the exercise she gets out here, blame it on anything, we’ll take it.

Visiting

“It’s Mommy!  Mommy come to visit!” Emma said this morning when she saw me.  It’s an odd feeling to have one’s own child, a child one lives with and sees on a daily basis, exclaim with apparent happiness that I’ve come to visit, especially when I am in my own home.  My first thought was that as Richard and I went out the night before and I only saw Emma for a brief period before we left, she was indirectly expressing her feelings that I haven’t been around enough.  Then I began to feel guilty and consoled myself with the fact that I will not be going out again in the foreseeable future.  ”You came to visit!” Emma said, cutting through my thoughts.

“Well it’s not really a visit, when I’m here all the time,” I said in an effort to clarify and unburden myself of just a little guilt.

“It’s Mommy!”  Emma repeated, as though she were surprised.

It reminded me of a time not long ago, when Emma on one of her perseverative loops of anguish, kept running through the house crying out something none of us could decipher.

“What is she saying?” we asked each other more than a few times.

Emma’s upset became more extreme and ended with her biting herself.

Someone (it may have been me) then asked, “Why is she doing this?”

I remember thinking, “Umm, because she’s autistic?  Do we really need to look much further?”  But I didn’t say it out loud, okay so maybe I muttered it under my breath.  The point is, applying my own reasoning to Emma’s behavior usually doesn’t get me very far.  And often it is counter-productive.

“You came to visit!”  Emma repeated again.

“No Em.  I live here.  You visit someone when you go to their house, a different house to see them for a little while or when they come here, to our house, but then leave, then they visit you.”  Okay, so it wasn’t the best explanation I’ve ever come up with, but it was the best I could do in the moment.

Emma stared at me for a moment and then said matter-of-factly, “Have breakfast now.”

“Right,” I said.  Too much information.  Got it.

When Emma and I were in her bathroom, getting ready to brush her teeth, she stood on her little stool and while looking at herself in the mirror, put her arm around my neck, pressing her cheek against mine.  ”It’s Mommy!” she said, pointing to my reflection.  Then she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

It was one of the moments you wish you had a remote control to hit the pause button on.  I thought of how it was such a typical little kid thing to do, how wonderful it was to see her do something like that.

“Let’s go visit Nic,” I said after she’d finished brushing her teeth – meaning we should go find him, see what he was doing.  And I caught myself.  I understood how and why she said, earlier – I was “visiting.”   Emma was hearing the word used and applying it as best she could in a similar situation.

The Past Tense

Last night as Emma was getting ready for bed, she said, “Remember, he took it.”  She looked over at me and then said, “He take – no, he took it?”

“Took.  He took it.  That’s right Em.  You had it right the first time.”  I was dismayed to hear her correcting herself.  I’ve never heard her do that before.  There have been countless times, Emma has used the past tense, but this was different.  She was using the past tense, then playing with the present tense as though she were trying it on for size and coming to the conclusion the past tense was what was needed.  And she was correct, which made it all the more incredible.

She smiled at me and repeated, “Remember when he took it.”

“Who, Em.  Who took it?” I asked.

She ignored me and continued, “Remember then you running – you ran.”

“You’re remembering our day at Bounce U, aren’t you?”  I said.

“Mmhm,” she answered.  ”Mmhm” is new.  It’s something Emma says now instead of “Yes,” which she often said in the past, even when she meant “No.”  Now she says, “Mmhm,” or however you write out the sound of agreement people make which is less than “Uh-huh” and more than “Mmmm.”

“That was a fun day, wasn’t it?”

“Mmhm,” Emma nodded her head and added, “He took the picture!  You have to give it back.  You ran.  That’s funny.”  She sat up and began giggling.

I realize a little explanation is needed here.

On Emma’s birthday – which she shares with Martin Luther King – Richard, Joe, Nic and I took Emma to an indoor playground filled with inflatable structures.  It’s way out in Brooklyn and appropriately named, BounceU.  Emma loves the place and since we’d celebrated her birthday with a party and friends the day before, it seemed the perfect setting to spend her actual birthday.

Once we arrived, we ran into a friend of Emma’s from her school who was there with both her parents, Ryan and Susan.   Ryan had a camera with him, which Emma immediately wanted to take pictures with.  It quickly became a game with Becca’s good natured dad chasing Emma as she ran around taking shots of – the carpeting, people’s feet, her own face, etc. before he caught up with her and took the camera, often hiding it in places she could see.  Emma would then try to sneak the camera away while Ryan pretended not to notice, the whole thing was hilarious and Emma has referred to that day many times since.

Emma continued to giggle.  ”He took it.  He want to take a picture.  You ran!”  She was laughing so hard she had to catch her breath.  ”No!  You have to give it back!”  This last was said in a stern voice.  ”Emma!”  Then she doubled over with laughter and said, “Remember?”

At this point I was laughing too.  ”Em, that was such a fun day, wasn’t it.  And you got to spend time with Becca.”

“Yeah,” Emma said, before starting to giggle again.

Em & Becca

Emma’s self portrait

Emma and her Singing

“Sing Zoo Zoo Zoo with your mouth closed?”  Emma said this morning as she was getting ready for school.

“Good idea!” I said.  And then began to sing one of her favorite songs with my mouth closed.

She waited patiently until I had finished the first refrain and then said, “Emma’s turn!”

I knew, before I began singing that she meant she wanted to sing the song with her mouth closed, but since repeatedly correcting her over the years hasn’t made a dent in her continued use of “you” in place of “I” or “me,” I have begun taking her words more literally and seeing how that works.  Other than mildly irritating her, I’m not sure it’s making much of a difference.  The elusive pronoun continues to trip her up.

In addition there are words which she finds impossible to articulate.  A few of them can be found in another of her favorite songs – “Fabulous”.  Emma says – Sandy lot – or something that sounds suspiciously like that, in place of Fabulous as well as humming the word “imported” which is used repeatedly in the song, instead of making an attempt to say some version of the word.

Yesterday I tried more than a few times to have her repeat my enunciation of “imported” first by singing the lyrics “towels imported from Turkey, Turkey imported from Maine…” but when that didn’t help I tried to have her say “imported” all by itself.  I could see how hard she was trying, she watched my mouth as I said the word, she tried her best to mimic me, all to no avail and eventually wandered off into our bedroom where I could hear her singing loudly her own special version of the song, the tune utterly recognizable even as the words were not.

Richard found the lyrics of the song online and printed out several copies so each of us could review and sing along with her when she launched into yet another rousing rendition of it, which happens more than a few times over the course of a day.  Emma articulates a few lines of the song beautifully – “I want MORE!” and”Excuse Me Thank You” then lapses into her “Emmalish” – impossible for anyone to decipher.  Sometimes Emma will allow all of us to join her in singing, but often, particularly when it is her brother, Nic who is singing along she will stop abruptly and yell, “Nicky L. stop singing!”  or “Nic!  Stop talking!”

To which we respond, “No Emma.  Nic can sing too if he wants.”

“Forget it, it’s no fun now,” Nic will say as we wait for him to continue.  ”She ruined it.”

Or if Nic does have the fortitude to continue, Emma will stand silently for a moment before seeking refuge in her bedroom and shutting the door.  It seemed as though it was as much a gesture of contempt for the whole unruly scene as a desire to escape the singing.  Nic usually shrugs and returns to whatever it was he was doing before the whole thing began.

I cannot hold a tune.  This is a fact I came to terms with early on in junior high school when I was contently singing along to “Angie” by the Rolling Stones and was ridiculed for my off key trilling.  My ego bruised, I was careful to hum or sing quietly under my breath or in the privacy of my own room.  Something I have continued to do ever since.  Emma however, did not inherit my tin ear.  Hers is the voice of an angel or Broadway singer, (depending on the song) as she belts out songs in decibels I didn’t know were possible.

The other week when we gathered to sing Happy Birthday, the one song anyone can sing off key with abandon, with no fear of ridicule, Emma out sang all of us put together.

“She’s  got a set of pipes on her,” Richard said, proudly when the song had come to it’s end.

“Yup.  She sure does,” we agreed.

“Bleagh!”

Sunday night Emma appeared at the side of our bed, “Why?  Why did you throw up?”

“You threw up, Em?”  I asked, craning my head to see that the clock read 12:43AM.

“Yeah.  You threw up in the bed.  Why?  Why did you do that?” she answered.

I felt her forehead – she had no fever.  “Does your head hurt?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you feel sick?  Does your stomach hurt?” I asked, pointing to her stomach.

“No.  I’m fine,” she said, bouncing up and down.

“Maybe you ate too many cupcakes,” I suggested.  Emma said nothing in response.

Together we went to view the damage.  Her bedroom light was on.  Soiled sheets were in a pile at the foot of her bed, as though she had made an attempt to clean up.  Vomit covered the bed, the floor, was sprayed onto her desk, books and photographs.   Thankfully she’d missed the rug.  I stared at the mess and tried to prioritize.  Emma, tiring of my inaction, ran into the bathroom.  “Have to clean it up!” she announced proffering forth a large towel.

“Right.  We have to clean it up,” I said.  “Okay, let’s get Daddy.”

“We have to go get Daddy!”  Emma shouted cheerfully.

With Richard’s help we managed to clean her room, strip her bed, start a load of laundry, take the garbage down to the street and get Emma settled into our bed, while Richard made up a “bed” for himself in the living room.  By 2:00AM everyone was back in a bed, Emma happily nestled into ours as she went over the course of events with me interjecting on occasion:  “You threw up.  Bleagh!  Have to go see Mommy.  Mommy!  I threw up.  We have to clean it.  We have to clean it up!  Why did you do that?”

“You threw up, Em, because you’re stomach didn’t feel well.  Do you feel okay now?” I asked.

“Why!” Emma continued gleefully, without missing a beat.  “We cannot throw up in the bed!  We have to throw up in the sink!”  With this last statement she looked over at me for confirmation.

“Well, no.  The toilet is a better place to throw up,” I said, stroking her head.

“You have to throw up in the toilet.  I see thunder.  Bleagh!”

“Em, are you thirsty?  Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” she said before continuing her summarization of the past two hours.

It was like listening to Howard Cosell, an endless running commentary.  When Emma reached the conclusion, which was usually, “You have to come get Mommy.”  She then began the narration all over again.

Eventually I broke in, “Em.  You have to get some sleep now.”

“You have to go to sleep,” Emma repeated in a stern voice, far sterner than my own.

“Yes.  All of us have to sleep.”

“Shhhhh!” she said, holding an index finger to her lips, followed by a loud,  “You have to be quiet!”

“Time to get some sleep,” I reminded her.

“You have to stop talking!” Emma laughed.

“Good night, Emma,” I said, turning off the lights.

“Good night Mommy,” Emma whispered.

After about ten minutes I heard Emma say very quietly, “Bleagh!  You have to be quiet.  You cannot throw up in the bed.  You have to go to sleep now.”

She went on like that for a while.  I can’t remember all that she said because, at some point, I fell asleep.

The following morning I said to Richard, “What do you think?  Should we send her to school?”

“Yeah, she seems fine,” he answered as Emma raced around the house on her scooter.

At 9:30AM I received a call from Emma’s school asking me to pick her up.  The school nurse told me she had a fever of 102.  I could hear her in the background crying.

When I arrived at her school Emma ran to me shouting, “It’s Mommy!  Mommy come get you!  Mommy take you home!”

“Oh Emmy.  I’m so sorry.  Come on, let’s go home.”

As we headed home I said, “I guess it wasn’t the cupcakes, Em.”

“No you cannot have a cupcake,” Emma said, leaning into me.

“Let’s get you home and into bed,” I said.

“Emma threw up!” Emma said.

“Yeah.  You aren’t feeling well, Em.”

“You have to get Mommy!”

“That’s right, Em.”

“Bleagh!” Emma said.