Tag Archives: relationships

Separation Anxiety

In our ongoing “spring cleaning” (which never seems to end) I came upon a large spiral notebook filled with notes from the dozen or so ABA therapists who came to our home beginning in November, 2004 through August, 2005.  Emma was just two years old when all of this began.  It’s a fascinating document of that time period and it depresses me to no end.  Over and over the notations remark upon Emma’s “clingy-ness to Mom”, her “whimpering” and “despondency” when I would leave the room and her internal discomfort.

It is impossible for me to read the notes and not see an obvious pattern.  For a therapy that prides itself in collecting data, it is curious that this larger and, what seemed to me anyway, obvious pattern was largely ignored or, perhaps it is what naturally happens when we pathologize a neurology.  Emma’s desire to seek comfort and assurance from me, her mom, was seen as a negative, something to be trained away, something that was getting in the way of more important things.  It is ironic that this was being said about a young child who was diagnosed with autism, which has, according to all those experts, as one of its most defining characteristics, “social impairment” and an inability to form close bonds.

A two-year old not wanting to go off with a stranger is considered a “good” thing by most people.  That this same child would prefer being with their mother, even after getting to know someone else, would still, in most instances, be thought of as an excellent example of bonding and having a close relationship with one of the most important people in that person’s life – their mother.  After all, if you cannot trust your mother to protect you, to be there for you when you are two, how will you learn to trust anyone later in life?

Richard and I talk about “what we would have done” all the time.  Not as in – what would we have done if we could do it all over again – as much as, what would we do now if we had a two-year old today who was just like Emma.  And the first thing, the absolute first thing would have been PRESUME COMPETENCE.  That is the key, the foundation by which everything else would have been gauged.  This does not mean expecting a two-year old to understand, know and behave as a twenty year old.  It means we would have presumed she understood and felt what a two-year old is capable of understanding and feeling not less.

When Emma began her ABA based preschool in the fall of 2005, I was told to drop her off and immediately leave.  Yet when my non autistic son went to preschool they had a three-week “transition period’ in place where parents routinely stayed with their child, slowly reducing the time they stayed until eventually the child separated from their parent when they felt comfortable to do so.  Each child was different.  Some children ran off within the first few days, others needed more time, some needed several weeks, but no one said, “Leave now, even though your child is hysterically crying and clinging to your leg, it will be good for them.”  I remember asking about this at Emma’s preschool and being told they didn’t allow parents to stay with their child as this only prolonged the child’s suffering.  How is it that one method is good for one child, but not another?

Knowing how sensitive my daughter is and was, knowing how intensely painful this must have been for her, I can only sit here, filled with sadness that we just didn’t know better.  It was as though, when we got her diagnosis, all common sense left us.

So I am asking all my Autistic friends – What would have helped you when you were a small child?  Would it have been helpful to have your parent stay with you until you were comfortable and felt safe enough to go off on your own?  Would you have liked knowing your parent was there, even if you didn’t need to be right next to them?  What do you advise parents new to all of this?

OT session ~ 2005

OT session ~ 2005

An Interview With Emma About Stimming

What follows is an interview I conducted this morning with Emma about stimming.  Emma patiently tried to explain to me what stimming is like for her.  

A:  Is it okay to ask you some questions about stimming?  (For those of you unfamiliar with the term, stimming is a repetitive action or verbal output.)

E:  Stimming is fun.  And I am in calming and obedient service to those who are in charge.

A:   Are you being facetious when you write “obedient service to those who are in charge?”

E:  (Smiles)  Yes.  (Laughs)  The stim is a great way to roam around feelings that are too intense.  You treat me like a baby.”

A: Are you speaking specifically to me or are you using a more universal “you”?

E:  All people out there.  Bloated feelings despair and anger me.  Almost all feel too much to manage and I cannot be present all the time.

A:  Can you tell me more about stimming?

E:  I am not able to write about stimming because words cannot describe it.

A:  Can I ask some specific questions about it though?

E: Yes.  (Leans over and gives me kisses on my cheek.)

A: Is stimming ever not fun?

E:  Yes.  When feelings are too extreme, even a good stim won’t help.

A:  Is there anything that will help?

E:  A lot of patience and love.  Acknowledge my attempts to self-care and do not cause me more pain by trying to change or control me.

A:  What happens if someone stops or tries to stop you from stimming?

E:  It makes thick feelings worse.

A:  Do you ever feel stuck in repetitive loops?

E:  Yes, but so do others who are not autistic, but they are called passionate and are looked up to instead of looked down on.

A:  Yesterday you wrote: “Raging beasts of pain masquerading as stims cause many to misunderstand.”  Can you elaborate on that?

E:  Stims alter the persistent anxiety of life so that I am able to function as well as I am.

A:  So you weren’t saying stims are painful as much as that they help you cope with the pain and anxiety you often feel?

E:  It is impossible to describe to all who have not experienced a lot of distress.  Day after day I am scared of people’s opinions about me because they can harm me with their beliefs about my lack of intelligence.  People treat those they believe stupid, very badly.  I am not stupid.

A:  I know you aren’t!  You are the smartest person I have ever met!!

E:  (Smiles and squeezes my arm.)  I am intelligent and cannot speak with the same brilliant words that are in my mind.

The timer goes off.

E:  Now we are all done!

A: Yes we are!  Thank you Emma for your patience with me and helping me understand.

Addendum:  I asked Emma just now if I could ask her one more question.  She told me that I could.

A:  Do you like the word “stimming” ?

E:  No.

A:  Is there another word you’d prefer?

E:  Yes, but words are not as meaningful to me as they are to those who talk all the time.

A:  If you could choose any word other than stimming, what would it be?

E:  Self-care

Em with her string!

Em with her string!

Man and Woman – A Tale

This story was written by Emma and was inspired by a photograph she was shown of a small house built in the middle of a lake atop a large rock with steps carved into the rock leading into the water.  Against one side of the house was a kayak and paddle.  (To read more about how Emma is writing, please click, ‘here‘ and ‘here‘.)

“Man and woman landed into marriage.  Both worked hard to make thousands of pennies.  There was trouble when they decided on what to do with the thousands.  Woman wanted to buy a boat; man did not agree.  Man and woman gave fighting a try, but it was not for them.

Welcome to their new home.”

Earlier when first shown the photograph (I’ve posted it below) and asked to make a comment about it, Emma wrote, “There is many reasons to believe it is fall.”

When asked to write one question she thought people would ask the person(s) who live in this house, she wrote, “Do you know how to swim?”

house-river-serbia_57361_600x450

Living Independently on the Autism Spectrum: by Lynne Soraya

Unknown-1Living Independently on the Autism Spectrum by Lynne Soraya is described as “What you need to know to move into a place of your own, succeed at work, start a relationship, stay safe.”  In fact, it’s a great deal more.  Lynne, who writes for Asperger’s Diary in Psychology Today and works for a Fortune 500 company, covers everything from proper conduct and attire at a job interview, what to do when stopped by the police, setting boundaries, career goals, work related issues and self advocacy.  My copy is filled with highlighted sections and notations, such as this quote regarding boundaries:

“The unfortunate reality for many on the spectrum is that the training that we receive to help us to “blend in” to the wider world can have the difficult side effect of teaching us to ignore our own boundaries.

“We learn to tolerate pain and discomfort of situations beyond what many others experience in order to appear more “normal” or to “fit in.”

In the margin I scribbled – “encourage a sense of self, listen, honor and respect.  Attempts to teach how to “fit in” ensures the opposite within one’s own self. Feelings of being a fraud.”

And this, in her chapter on safety:

“There are times when you will not want to make eye contact.  For example, for men, making eye contact while in the bathroom or at the urinal may be completely misunderstood.”

I wrote in the margin, “Privilege = never having to think about things like this.”  And, I would add, not only never thinking about something like this, but never having the thought occur to me to think about something like this.  Many of the things Lynne writes about are not only things I’ve never had to think about, they are things that have never even occurred to me to think about.

Another sentence I highlighted regarding encounters with law enforcement:

“If you are concerned as to how your body language or speech patterns may be perceived by the officer or first responder, let her know that you have autism and/or provide an autism information card.  Before you reach for the card, however, indicate to the officer either verbally or with gestures that you will be reaching into your pocket or wherever the card is located so that the officer will not think you are reaching for a weapon.”

And this about job interviews:

“However, the way many charities represent autism, mixed with our culture’s very simplistic understanding of what disability is all about, can be devastating to many of us who are seeking deeper inclusion in the world.  The reality is that I, you, and everyone else on the spectrum need to help the world understand that having challenges – even extreme ones – does not mean a person does not have abilities and contributions to make to the world.  Ability isn’t a binary thing.  Unfortunately, many people who have limited experience with disabilities tend to act like it is, so when challenges are emphasized, lack of ability is assumed.”

Throughout this book I thought about my daughter.  I thought about how, as she grows older, she may encounter, at least, some of these issues.  I thought about how she put music to a slide show of photographs on her computer last night and was so excited because I came in to watch it with her and told her how impressed I was.  I thought about how creative she is with language and how she comes up with ideas and ways of saying things that would never occur to me, I thought of her joy in music and how when she dances, she is without inhibitions or self-conscious thought.  I thought about society and how so many would suggest we “train” her to conform, fit in, and how, many believe, it is all for her own good.  And I thought about how I hope my daughter never feels she must betray herself to appease or please others.

Lynne’s thought-provoking and insightful book is available in paperback and on kindle at Amazon.

To My Father

I had a complicated relationship with my father.  One of my earliest memories of him was when I was no more than four years old.  I knocked on the door to his “in home” office and waited for permission to enter, just as I’d been taught.  Upon being told I could come in, I went over to his desk where he was seated and asked, “Why don’t you ever call me into your office?”  He smiled at me and replied, “Because you never do anything wrong… yet…”

It was the early 60’s.  Having children was not viewed with the same kind of thoughtful consideration it is given, by many, today.  Mothers were expected to stay home, while fathers were expected to go to work.  In-home offices were considered unusual.  Personal computers did not exist.  My father made notes and calculations on hundreds of pieces of paper.  It wasn’t until I was in my twenties before I could reliably decipher his illegible scrawl.  During my teens I fought with him daily.  I was more in touch with my animosity toward him than love.  During my twenties, his glaring deficits outweighed his assets.  It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I was able to begin to forgive him.  My last memory of my father, aside from his actual death, was when I went to visit my parents after a grueling and unexpectedly, emotionally, draining trek in Nepal.

I can still remember the sound of the gravel under the wheels of the car as it drove down the slight incline of their driveway.  I can still picture my father seated in his wheelchair waiting for me, under the fig tree to the left of the front door.  I can still remember the feelings of emotion – relief, love, exhaustion and gratitude – that I felt upon seeing him there waiting.  I ran to him, crouched down so I was eye-level and threw my arms around his neck.  I remember the words I whispered into his ear as tears streamed down my face,  “I am so happy to see you.  I love you so much,” I said.  And then I kissed his wrinkled, tanned cheek and didn’t let go.  “I am so grateful you are here,” I said between sobs.

I remember the look on his face, the emotion expressed in those blue, blue eyes of his.  He smiled at me with so much adoration and love and said to my mother, with a slight grin, “I think we should send her off to Nepal every year.”  And then he placed his hand on my head and stroked my hair as I wept.

That is my favorite memory of my father.  Not six months later he was dead.  I am as grateful for that memory today, as I was seeing him that day, now so long ago.

Emma - 2008These are your grandchildren… (Taken in 2008)

Nic -0 2008

Dreams, Love, Loss and Gratitude

I had a dream last night that unsettled me.  I dreamt that I was standing with some other people and saw a woman with her young son.  He was small, maybe five years old at most.  I was fascinated because he was holding what looked to be a “string” like Emma has, but much smaller.  It was proportionately the same size as Em’s given how little he was.  I turned away because Em was saying something to me and when I turned back around the mother and her son had walked away.  On the ground was the little boy’s string.  So I picked it up and ran after them.  As I approached the mother I held out the tiny furl of string and said, “I think this is your son’s.  I wouldn’t want him to lose it.”  The mother stared at me and said, “What is that thing?”

I said, “Oh!  I think it’s maybe his string.  My daughter…”  but before I could finish she interrupted me and said, “That isn’t ours.  It’s garbage.”  I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach.  And then she turned away, carrying her son who gazed at me wordlessly over her shoulder.  I stood there watching them walk away from me and felt stunned and confused.  I wondered if maybe I’d somehow misunderstood and that perhaps it wasn’t important to her child.  And then I felt ashamed for having approached them and said anything.  Ashamed that I’d assumed it was important because my daughter’s string is so important to her.  Ashamed too, that what is considered beloved and of value to my daughter is seen as garbage by another.  I stood there feeling these things and then I turned to find my daughter was no where in sight.  I felt that horrible surge of panic and adrenaline as I began going through the various scenarios of where she could be or what might have happened to her.

When I woke up I wanted to cry I felt such unspeakable sadness.  All morning that dream stayed with me like a shadow.  All morning I have felt fragile and on edge.  And then I read my friend Gareeth’s latest blog post.  You can read it ‘here‘.  It is a daughter’s moving and powerful tribute to her mother.  I cried as I read because it is so beautifully written, but also because it is about profound loss as well as gratitude for what wasn’t lost.  Loss of time, loss of relationships, loss of missed opportunities…  and as I read I realized that dream was also about loss and judgement and denial and how we harm those we love.  And now as I sit here in my studio looking out at the bumper to bumper traffic on the 59th Street bridge, the rain pours down.  I can hear drops splattering the top of the air conditioner that juts out of one of my studio windows in irregular plops and pings.  Rain drops stream down the windows obscuring my view and I am surprised that I hear no angry honking given how treacherous the traffic is, just the occasional siren can be heard in the far distance.

I feel so grateful to all those people driving their cars who aren’t honking at each other.  I feel so grateful that though the traffic is at a crawl, people are being patient and it gives me hope.  Let me be patient today with every person I come into contact with.  Let me give myself the same respect and patience.  Let me be aware and kind and respectful to others today.  Let me feel gratitude for all that I have.  Let me feel my feelings and not behave as though my feelings are facts.  But most of all, let me know the difference.

Em’s string – February, 2013

Em's string

 

An Ode To Richard ~ On His Birthday

Richard’s birthday falls on Valentine’s day.  We met on Christmas day at a Christmas party.  I didn’t know many of the people at the party, but parlor games were being played (always a good ice breaker) and Richard, no matter who he was teamed up with, was winning.  I remember seeing him seated on a couch near the window that looked out on to the snow drifts on 8th Avenue.  I remember how intense he was and focused.  He was funny, in a dry, smart kind of way.  He was  one of those people who doesn’t seem to really care about what others think, a bit of a rebel, certainly someone who doesn’t take orders from others.  (Have I mentioned that people say I can be a little “bossy”?  Not that there’s any truth to that mind you.  I just have really good ideas about how things should be done.)  I remember the way he looked at me.  I remember saying to him in front of everyone there, “Are you flirting with me?  I thought you were flirting…”  He grinned at me, with those dimples of his and answered, “Well I was flirting, but I was also asking you a question.”

I can’t remember the question any more.

Right from the beginning ours was not a traditional nor particularly conventional courtship, if you can even call it that.  We went out with groups of friends a few times, always making sure we sat together, always pretty much ignoring everyone else.  We had planned on going to a New Year’s Eve party together, but Richard got the flu, so I went alone.   The next day I received a call from my mother that my father wasn’t well.  I grabbed my wallet, a toothbrush and a pair of underwear, (I’m serious and yes it was a bizarre choice, particularly as I brought nothing else) hailed a cab and caught the first airplane I could get, out west.  Those were the days when you could show up at the airport, without a driver’s license and take a plane where ever you felt like going.  By that night I was at my parent’s house.  Two days later my father died.  Richard and I spent at least an hour every night on the phone.  He held my virtual hand.  He said all the right things, he listened, he talked, I listened.  We talked about death and life and our childhoods and everything in between.  There were lots of tears and emotions.

A week later I returned to New York in love with a man I had spent almost no time with alone.  But I knew the essentials.  I knew he was kind.  I knew he was smart and funny and wise and ambitious and curious and utterly unconventional.  I knew he was a tad quirky.  I knew he had strong opinions, was a bit esoteric, had some weird ideas about aliens and wanted more than anything to see a UFO in his lifetime.  I knew he had a tough childhood and a past that was complicated and I knew we were both in for the ride of a lifetime.  I knew it wasn’t going to necessarily be an easy relationship,  we are both far too feisty, opinionated and sensitive for that, but I knew this was a man who would challenge me and I wanted and needed to be challenged.  That hasn’t changed.

Over the years we have learned to give each other slack, to not pick apart every perceived slight, we have learned to weather our differences, we’ve learned to respect our marriage even when we’re angry with each other and don’t agree.  We’ve learned the art of letting go, not needing to control so much, it’s definitely a work in progress.  We’ve learned a great many things from each other and we keep learning.  We have two beautiful, quirky kids whom we love and adore.  We do not own them.  We do not mistaken our children as extensions of ourselves.  We do not mistaken each other as extensions or expressions of ourselves.  We are a family, a beautifully diverse, vibrant family who respect one another and give each other the space each needs to (hopefully) grow and flourish.  Richard reminds me to “take it down a notch” when I become too fixated on something that is not within my power to change, he encourages me to fight and change the things I can, he is always there for me, supporting me and cheering me on.  He believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.  He believes in our children with the same dedication and passion.

I can honestly say I love him even more today than when I first fell in love with him on that snowy, wintry Christmas day so long ago now.

Happy Birthday dear Richard!

Richard – then

A young Richard Long

Richard – Now

*Richard

The Art of Breathing and Just Being: Lessons From my Daughter

One of the single most difficult things I have had to practice in life is the art of being present.  Simply being shouldn’t be so hard, yet I have found it is.  It is something I have to practice, something, I have come to understand, that is much like breathing, I will never be “done with it”.   Doing nothing is surprisingly difficult.  Doing nothing in the face of horror is even harder.  When I have a great many feelings, sitting still and being present is all the more difficult.  The last thing I want to do is sit and actually feel.  Why would I want to do that?  Now’s the time for action (!) and yet, it is during these times that it is vitally important for me to practice being still.  Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to move, to make sense of, to understand, to find the thing, the motive, something or someone I can blame, something that allows me to say, oh yes, of course it was that, that’s why this has happened.

Yet, it is an illusion.  The feelings remain no matter what is said.  No matter what has been written, the feelings remain.  Feelings – grief, fear, horror, sadness, confusion, pain, suffering, outrage and anger.  Feelings.  Lean into them.  Do nothing.  Breathe.  

Emma, unlike me, does not need to practice the art of being.  She does this without trying.  It seems to me, as I watch her, that she comes to this idea of “being present” naturally.  It is not an “idea” for her, it is simply life.  Emma just “is”.  Emma is one of the happiest, most joyful beings I have ever come into contact with.  Her median state is one of happiness.   She is without judgement or blame.  She does not hold onto resentments or grudges.  Emma does not talk about people behind their backs, she does not condemn or bully.  Emma is not dishonest or cruel.  And yes, Emma is Autistic, which must not to be confused with “mental illness”.   In fact, Emma is the opposite of “mentally ill”.  Perhaps because of her neurology she is able to be present in a way that I do not come to as easily.  I must work hard at something she does not think about.

People say all kinds of things in anger, in grief that have little to do with anything.  People say things while trying to make sense of something that is senseless.  They latch on to an idea, they offer a reason, a cause, it’s because of this, or that they say.  Oh, that person did that because of __________.  We talk and reason and blame.  People say and do things we find offensive, things that will hurt us and our children.  When people are scared they say and do things they would not, upon deeper reflection, say and do.  So don’t do anything, I keep telling myself. Sit and be still.  But it hurts to do so.

Don’t say anything, just sit and be present.  And it feels unbearable.

Don’t move, just be present.  Look around.  What do you see?  What do you hear?  What do you smell.  What are you feeling?   I don’t want to feel.  

Close your eyes.

Breathe.   Fear.

Be present.  I can’t!

Breathe.   Anger.

Breathe.  More fear.

Breathe.

Breathe and just be.

Emma performing for us, Saturday evening

1Em_performs

Yes, These Are Things I Think About – What About You?

We, non-Autistics say all kinds of things without thinking.  We use a sort of socially accepted shorthand during a great many encounters.  It’s a way of being in the world that requires no thought, rote gestures and words that are mindless and often meaningless.  Expected utterances we don’t think about, we do and say them because we are taught to do otherwise is impolite.  Upon meeting someone we automatically put out our right hand in greeting.   We are taught to smile and ask, “How are you?”  The response is unimportant, after all we aren’t really asking the person we’ve only just met to seriously contemplate their mental state and then divulge this information to us, neither are we honestly curious except in specific instances when we know something about the person and have wanted to meet them.  But typically, “How are you?” is an opener.  It’s merely a polite question we’ve been taught to ask, showing the accepted degree of interest in the other person, even if we actually have none.

Someone I know sent me a wonderful piece she’d written about meeting her baby nephew for the first time and being expected to say immediately that she loved him and how disappointed her family member was when she couldn’t bring herself to say those words right away, even though she felt a number of things that we non-autistics would probably identify as feelings of “love”.  Reading her wonderful piece (click ‘here‘ to read it in its entirety) made me think about all those years when I would encourage Emma to say “I love you.”  I even said to her, on  a number of occasions, “I love you Emmy.”   To which she would reply, “So much.”  I then laughed and said, “No Em, you’re suppose to say, I love you, back.” And Em dutifully said, “You’re suppose to say I love you back.”  I don’t, for a second, doubt that Emma loves me.  I know she does.  I also know my desire to have her say so, is my wish and not a desire she puts much weight into.  For all I know Emma doesn’t say those words because she doesn’t  feel the need to, perhaps she doesn’t see the point in reminding me of this fact.  Perhaps, and this is the one I hope is most true, she doesn’t feel the need to utter those three words because she is secure in the knowledge of her love and assumes I am too.

Many of the “niceties” we non-autistics say are said with a degree of dishonesty because really, how “nice” is it to meet someone you may or may not ever see again, may or may not have anything in common with and do not have time to actually get to know?  And while we’re at it, let’s consider “how are you?”  How many people really care?  We are taught to respond with the equally (often) dishonest single word, “Fine” but how many of us really are “fine” when we’ve been asked how we are?  Seriously.  How many times have you been asked, “How are you?” and you either didn’t actually know, hadn’t had time to think about it or weren’t fine, but were instead feeling something else, yet replied with “fine” because it was simpler, easier, safer or because the conversation had already moved on, before you’d had the chance to give your more thoughtful reply?

So I’m curious – what if we didn’t ask or say things unless we were honestly interested and meant what we were saying as a way of communicating something new or that required discussion?  What would happen if, upon meeting someone we weren’t sure we really were pleased to meet, said nothing?  Would this be so bad?  What if, when asked “how are you?” we answered truthfully?  What if when we voiced our love for our children and they said nothing in return, we didn’t assume that meant anything other than our child did not find it necessary to state the obvious?

Em & Nic – Summer 2004

The Best Marital Advice I Was Ever Given and How It Applies to My Daughter

One of the single best pieces of marital/relationship advice I was ever given was:  Every day record all the things your partner did that was kind, helpful, thoughtful, ‘right’.  What are the things you love about this person?  What do you admire about this person?  What do you respect about them?  What are the things they do that make you happy?  What do they do that fills you with joy?  To many, these questions may seem obvious, but try doing this when you’re angry or fearful or even just annoyed.  I remember sitting with my journal that first evening and wondering what the hell was I going to write?  He breathes?  Could that really be seen as a good thing?  (It’s okay to laugh.)  I’m a master at this exercise now.   In fact, I’m so good at it, I now think of the positives FIRST!  And guess what?  My marriage is pretty fabulous, of course it helps that I’m married to such an amazing guy.

The first time anyone asked me about Emma’s assets we were a year or two into the diagnosis.  I thought it was a trick question.  Seriously.  It was my brother Chris, who asked, “What does Emma like to do?  What is she interested in?  What is she good at?”

My mind went completely blank.  No one had asked me these three important questions about my Autistic daughter.  Listing assets does not fit neatly into all those questionnaires I was constantly having to fill out.  Those little booklets with questions broken into categories of age.   Example:  From 3-5 years old:  Your child plays appropriately with toys  The choices were:  Never, Rarely, Sometimes, Usually, Always.   My pencil would hover over the choices as my mind raced.  What does “appropriate” even mean?  Why is pretending a doll is an actual baby, when it clearly is not, considered “appropriate”?   Eventually I resigned myself to the task and considered “Rarely” and “Sometimes”.   Depending on my mood, I would mark one of the two and feel the all too familiar sensation of constriction in my stomach and throat.  Fear flooded my body and mind as I tried to concentrate on the next question:  Your child eats using all utensils.  Again I would resist the urge to fudge the truth.  I had to force myself to choose the answer that came closest to reality.  I came to dread those questionnaires almost as much as reading the evaluation reports sent in once a year from the Board Of Education.  They were both exercises in, so-called, critical thinking – Look at this picture and tell me what’s wrong with it.  Look at this child.  Now let’s compare her to her neurotypical peers.  Let’s make a list of all that’s “wrong” so we can make things “right”.

But wait!  How is this helpful to anyone?  Comparing anyone to anyone else is a lesson in how to live one’s life in hell.  But compare a neuroatypical person to a neurotypical one is absurd.  Why do we even do this?  To what end?  How is this helpful?  Certainly it isn’t helpful to the neuroatypical person.  We do not say to a person who uses a wheelchair, well, you’re not walking and your same age ambulatory peer is, so let’s get you up and out of that chair and try to build those muscles. Then, when you resist or protest, we restrain you, tell you to stop complaining or tell you that you can’t fully comprehend the situation.  When you still do not manage to stand, let alone walk, we shake our heads sadly and tell you, you really need to have a better attitude and try harder, but don’t worry, it’s okay, we’ll keep working on it.

What does this thinking do to a person over the long-term?  If we are judged, compared, relentlessly criticized, taught that we fall short, told we don’t measure up, dissected publicly, privately and shunned, what does that do to us?  What would that do to any of us?  We are, after all, regardless of our neurology, human beings.  We do all share that.  Has the human piece gotten lost in all of this?

What does she like?  What’s she good at?  What is she interested in?

I’ll have to get a bigger pad of paper.

Em at Gymnastics – October, 2012

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Piggyback Rides and Bats

The other day Emma said to me, “Give piggy back ride?”  Then she leapt from the couch where she was balancing herself into my arms.

“Em!  You’re heavy!”  I said.

“I feel your pain, Mom,” Nic said to me.

“You do?”

“Yeah, she did that to me the other day,” he said.

“You’re kidding?  How did you carry her?” I asked.

Nic laughed.  “It was tough, Mom.  It was tough,” he said, shaking his head as he left the room.

Later Geneva, one of our wonderful caregivers, confirmed that Nic had given Emma a piggy back ride.  Here are the photos she took documenting it.


Last night Emma said to me, “I’m going to fly and bite you!”  Then she ran over to me and bit my cheek.

“Ouch!  Em you just bit me!”  I said.

“A bat, fly and bite you!”  Emma said, laughing.

“Are you a bat?”

“Yes!  Don’t bite me!  Fly and bite you!” she said coming close again.

“No!  Don’t bite me!” I said.

“I’m going to bite you!”

“Ahhhh!!” I yelled running away from her.

It’s always difficult to know whether encouraging her to play a game that she might “play” with another child at school, who doesn’t understand that this is a game is a good idea.  And yet, to not encourage her to be playful seems wrong.  Is this an opportunity to discuss biting and how it’s not okay to hurt, how it’s important to be gentle, how this is a game only to be played with me?

With these thoughts in mind I approached Emma, “Hey Em, when you’re pretending to be a bat…” I began.

“You have to be gentle,” she interrupted me.

“Yes!  You have to be gentle.  And you can only play this game with me, okay?”

“Yes.  Just with Mommy,” she said, nodding her head.  Then she pointed to my cheek and said, “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“And you didn’t…” I started to say.

“You have to be gentle,” she added.

“That’s right Em.  You have to be so gentle and you can only play this game with me.  You know that, right?”

“Yes.  Just with Mommy,” she said pointing to me.   “Now play – Don’t say Mommy!”

“Okay.  One game of Don’t-say-Mommy,” I agreed.

With which she put her face up into mine and said, “Don’t…  say… Mommy!” and then ran out of the room with me following close behind.

For more on Emma’s journey through a childhood of autism go to:  EmmasHopeBook.

Making Friends

When Emma and Joe picked me up yesterday evening from the store, Emma launched into the list of all the things they’d done through out the day – swimming, Justin Beiber movie in 3-D, Bowling in El Jebel, except there was a tournament going on so they didn’t have any free lanes with bumpers, the Wheel Carousel, which is really the metal merry-go-round in El Jebel.  Emma had a blast.

“Emma did something amazing today,” Joe said, when Emma had finished.

“What?” I asked.

“She was doing some great interacting and initiating with another girl at the playground.”

“Really!  What did she do?”

“She asked a girl to come ride the merry-go-round with her.  She said – Girl, can you ride on the carousel with me?” Joe laughed and then said, “We’re still working on the “girl” part.”

“That’s fantastic!” I said.

“Want to ride with girl,” Emma said from the back seat.

“Last week we were working on saying – My name’s Emma what’s yours? – We’re still working on that,” Joe said.

“Hey Em,” I turned to look at her.  “You can say – Hi! My name’s Emma, what’s your name?”

“Girl,” Emma said.

“No Em.  You can’t call her girl.  She has a name, just like your name is Emma.  Joe’s name is Joe.  She has a name too.  Maybe it’s Cynthia or…

“Cynthia.  Girl,” Emma said.

“But, Em, we don’t know what her name is.  That’s why we have to ask, but we can’t call her girl, because maybe her name is…”

“Cynthia,” Emma broke in.

“Maybe, but maybe her name is Lisa or Lily or Sally.  We don’t know.  Her name could be anything,” I tried to explain.

“Cynthia!  Do you want to ride on the carousel?”  Emma said.

I looked over at Joe.  “I think I’ve made it worse.  I wonder why it’s so hard for her to understand though.”

“I think she understands people have different names.  I think it’s hard for her to role play or understand the way we’re explaining it,” he said, ever the diplomat.

“Right, she’s taking it all literally.”  As we drove up Red Mountain I thought about how instead of realizing we’re saying – maybe her name is this or that – Emma’s hearing me say – what’s her name? and she’s answering that she’s a girl.  That’s what she is to Emma, a girl and since she doesn’t know her name, the name becomes secondary.  I don’t know that this is what she’s thinking, but it would make sense if she were.  It’s the same when I’ve asked her – “What’s your doll’s name?”  The idea that Emma could make up some arbitrary name for her doll seems to be something she cannot conceive.  So she answers – Doll.

“Was the little girl offended?” I asked Joe.

“Oh no.  She said – I’m sorry.  I have to go home now – Emma understood.”

For Emma to reach out to another child is definitely noteworthy.  Children are typically much more difficult for Emma to connect with as they can be so unpredictable.  It’s always wonderful to hear when Emma is making an attempt.