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Thursday, 25 July 2013
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
Hot ear
So, I have a question. It is about ears.
I can now tell the emotional state of my sons based on the colour of their ears. And I have even found myself giving other people the inside scoop on ear reading. This feels very strange.
First of all, Ben and Davis feel the heat of summer most acutely in the, mostly upper, cartilage of their ears. This is excruciatingly annoying and intolerable to them. Hot ear is bad.
Secondly, when they are anxious or massively bored, their ears get hot. Hot ear is bad. Hot ear dilemma trumps all others, and the original stress trigger trades place with this hot ear stressor. Hot ear = red ear.
Therefore, slightly pink ear is low agitation; deeper the shade of red, the more intense the feelings of frustration and anxiety. Or, just plain hell hot weather; we live in Vancouver, but their ears say we live in the deserts of Australia.
Tonight Davis and I were at a class, one that, I grant, can be boring and thank goodness is almost done. He'd had a long day at school and while most Tuesdays he can tolerate the additional school-like environment, tonight was too much. It was also warm today, and he is always warm, even on cool days. He's the little furnace that warms my hands before bed with his hands. So does Ben. And my hands cool theirs - mutually agreeable arrangement. I like holding their hands because Moms just like that, temperature unrelated.
So, Davis scooted around on his chair with wheels (either a really smart or really dumb chair to give a kid, I don't know) and tried to cool himself down by licking the back of his hand and rubbing the spit on his bright red burning hot ears. Priority one now became finding an ear cooling strategy. Part way into the class his ears were so hot that an increase of spit wasn't working one bit. I suggested we go to the washroom and cool those ears. No, he was sure it was too far and the effort would only make him hotter. Finally, after a discussion of how spit is body temperature and therefore would be unlikely to effectively cool an ear in a non-air circulating room; even if his chair has wheels, the highest velocity he could achieve safely would not suffice in counter balancing the intensity of ear on fire. And it's gross. That part he didn't either get or care about, but he agreed that the puddle of spit in the palm of his hand wasn't working. Everyone around us was pretending they were so interested in the topic of healthy snacks they didn't even notice. On the way down the hall we found a water cooler with super cold water. In the washroom he cooled his ears and feet and hands and face. He calmed. We returned, with a cup of cold water as back up. Later he apologized to the teacher for breaking his pencil and trying to flee on a wheely chair in hot ear frustration. She smiled.
This all consuming hot ear problem sure does effect behaviour as I have seen on many warm days leading to sleepless nights, or stressful situations that hit the hot ear switch. So, a cold pack under a pillow slip is a life saver, and guess what Davis' favourite Christmas present was - an awesome purple hand-held fan from ToysRus that sprays cool mist from the little ice cube tray in the base. Oh, the joy.
I can now tell the emotional state of my sons based on the colour of their ears. And I have even found myself giving other people the inside scoop on ear reading. This feels very strange.
First of all, Ben and Davis feel the heat of summer most acutely in the, mostly upper, cartilage of their ears. This is excruciatingly annoying and intolerable to them. Hot ear is bad.
Secondly, when they are anxious or massively bored, their ears get hot. Hot ear is bad. Hot ear dilemma trumps all others, and the original stress trigger trades place with this hot ear stressor. Hot ear = red ear.
Therefore, slightly pink ear is low agitation; deeper the shade of red, the more intense the feelings of frustration and anxiety. Or, just plain hell hot weather; we live in Vancouver, but their ears say we live in the deserts of Australia.
Tonight Davis and I were at a class, one that, I grant, can be boring and thank goodness is almost done. He'd had a long day at school and while most Tuesdays he can tolerate the additional school-like environment, tonight was too much. It was also warm today, and he is always warm, even on cool days. He's the little furnace that warms my hands before bed with his hands. So does Ben. And my hands cool theirs - mutually agreeable arrangement. I like holding their hands because Moms just like that, temperature unrelated.
So, Davis scooted around on his chair with wheels (either a really smart or really dumb chair to give a kid, I don't know) and tried to cool himself down by licking the back of his hand and rubbing the spit on his bright red burning hot ears. Priority one now became finding an ear cooling strategy. Part way into the class his ears were so hot that an increase of spit wasn't working one bit. I suggested we go to the washroom and cool those ears. No, he was sure it was too far and the effort would only make him hotter. Finally, after a discussion of how spit is body temperature and therefore would be unlikely to effectively cool an ear in a non-air circulating room; even if his chair has wheels, the highest velocity he could achieve safely would not suffice in counter balancing the intensity of ear on fire. And it's gross. That part he didn't either get or care about, but he agreed that the puddle of spit in the palm of his hand wasn't working. Everyone around us was pretending they were so interested in the topic of healthy snacks they didn't even notice. On the way down the hall we found a water cooler with super cold water. In the washroom he cooled his ears and feet and hands and face. He calmed. We returned, with a cup of cold water as back up. Later he apologized to the teacher for breaking his pencil and trying to flee on a wheely chair in hot ear frustration. She smiled.
This all consuming hot ear problem sure does effect behaviour as I have seen on many warm days leading to sleepless nights, or stressful situations that hit the hot ear switch. So, a cold pack under a pillow slip is a life saver, and guess what Davis' favourite Christmas present was - an awesome purple hand-held fan from ToysRus that sprays cool mist from the little ice cube tray in the base. Oh, the joy.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
3 P.S. PoEmS for Mothers Day to Me from Me
When someone with Aspergers
feels misinterpreted,
or embarrassed, or wrong,
or right, or or tired, or hungry,
or alive...
They can argue their point
to enlighten you
and won't stop
until they will.
ps. don't respond with any emotion.
only logic will soothe the thirst of a marathon dispenser of logic and reason and scientific analysis and... Thank God For, and Curse You :Google!
ps. I silently cheer for myself when my cleverness, or silence, stops the verbal flow from overpowering, because I have been polishing my Shield of Smarts and my Armour of It's Not Personal. Plus, I am being frank about explaining how being right is not always the most important part of a relationship, or living in a family unit. Hmmmm, they say. They are considering it, and I see them trying to understand there are times when graceful concessions are beautiful offerings of caring. Gosh, it's gorgeous when they do it.
ps. and that has happened at an increasing rate! Happy Mothers Day Me!
When someone with Aspergers
wants to show they care
they change the operating system
on your computer as a surprise,
or follow you around the house
singing the numerical sign of pi,
or having seen you laugh at a scene
from the IT Crowd
that you showed them bits of
because it is a possible flash of their future
and hilarious,
they then repeat it over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over
finding it equally funny every time,
so of course you will too!
because you laughed!
ps. it was the scene from the IT Crowd where Moss sings the new Emergency Number 0118999881999119725 3, and it was the fun of the day to memorize for the boys.
ps. I now know the number too, from shear osmotic repetition. Happy Mothers Day Me!
When you want to laugh and melt
because you love someone with Aspergers,
think of the sweetest thing about them,
adorable and fantastic in their singular way.
ps. like yesterday, Davis went to a birthday party. Which is rare. So it was important. To me.
He asked if he could make something on the stove. I assumed he meant for himself. I said, "Sure, what?" "I don't know yet", he said.
He figured it out. He mixed bacon bits and BBQ sauce in a pot, simmering gently. When I came back into the kitchen he had put it into a round plastic container with a green lid. He was pleased with his birthday present for his friend's 10th birthday. Because, you see, Davis loves to cook. He loves to eat. He shows he cares by making things for you that he likes. And he likes bacon. And BBQ. (We were obviously low on groceries and time) We also bought his friend a gift certificate for EB Games, so we put both in the colourful Happy Birthday bag. At the party Davis was sure to intensely explain the possible ways to prepare and eat the well intentioned brown bumpy sludge - cold or hot, on pasta or rice, or on its own.....
The birthday boy's family are long time friends of ours; it was all quite sweet, and absurdly memorable.
ps. and I smiled with crinkly eyes. Because the pure kindness of Davis at his core is clear and true, and hard to see sometimes... and I can be blind...
And I am I ever lucky. Happy Mothers Day Me!
feels misinterpreted,
or embarrassed, or wrong,
or right, or or tired, or hungry,
or alive...
They can argue their point
to enlighten you
and won't stop
until they will.
ps. don't respond with any emotion.
only logic will soothe the thirst of a marathon dispenser of logic and reason and scientific analysis and... Thank God For, and Curse You :Google!
ps. I silently cheer for myself when my cleverness, or silence, stops the verbal flow from overpowering, because I have been polishing my Shield of Smarts and my Armour of It's Not Personal. Plus, I am being frank about explaining how being right is not always the most important part of a relationship, or living in a family unit. Hmmmm, they say. They are considering it, and I see them trying to understand there are times when graceful concessions are beautiful offerings of caring. Gosh, it's gorgeous when they do it.
ps. and that has happened at an increasing rate! Happy Mothers Day Me!
When someone with Aspergers
wants to show they care
they change the operating system
on your computer as a surprise,
or follow you around the house
singing the numerical sign of pi,
or having seen you laugh at a scene
from the IT Crowd
that you showed them bits of
because it is a possible flash of their future
and hilarious,
they then repeat it over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over
finding it equally funny every time,
so of course you will too!
because you laughed!
ps. it was the scene from the IT Crowd where Moss sings the new Emergency Number 0118999881999119725 3, and it was the fun of the day to memorize for the boys.
ps. I now know the number too, from shear osmotic repetition. Happy Mothers Day Me!
When you want to laugh and melt
because you love someone with Aspergers,
think of the sweetest thing about them,
adorable and fantastic in their singular way.
ps. like yesterday, Davis went to a birthday party. Which is rare. So it was important. To me.
He asked if he could make something on the stove. I assumed he meant for himself. I said, "Sure, what?" "I don't know yet", he said.
He figured it out. He mixed bacon bits and BBQ sauce in a pot, simmering gently. When I came back into the kitchen he had put it into a round plastic container with a green lid. He was pleased with his birthday present for his friend's 10th birthday. Because, you see, Davis loves to cook. He loves to eat. He shows he cares by making things for you that he likes. And he likes bacon. And BBQ. (We were obviously low on groceries and time) We also bought his friend a gift certificate for EB Games, so we put both in the colourful Happy Birthday bag. At the party Davis was sure to intensely explain the possible ways to prepare and eat the well intentioned brown bumpy sludge - cold or hot, on pasta or rice, or on its own.....
The birthday boy's family are long time friends of ours; it was all quite sweet, and absurdly memorable.
ps. and I smiled with crinkly eyes. Because the pure kindness of Davis at his core is clear and true, and hard to see sometimes... and I can be blind...
And I am I ever lucky. Happy Mothers Day Me!
Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Heritage Fair
When I picked up Ben from school today, Jack, the SSA (Student Support Worker) told me Ben had "been very studious today". He waited for me to realize he was joking. Jack's a great guy, and we are glad he works in Ben's class. "But only I knew how to read his work," he laughed. He is also the unofficial I.T. guy for the school, which is a good match for our computer smartie, Ben. This also means Jack easily recognized Ben's attempt at "latin" today.
Ben had been working on the second part of his Heritage Fair Project, (the Reflection piece).
By answering the questions in Lorem Ipsum. I learned today, that is a way of injecting nonsensical words that look like readable latin in a text format as filler. When the teacher came over to check out his answers with a quizzical look, Ben told her he had written it in latin. So, she asked him to translate it. Then came the argument... why had she told him that he was all done the Heritage Fair, to then give him more unexpected Heritage Fair work? She shook her head. She is a lovely teacher, actually.
Grades 4 to 7 curriculum includes choosing a topic in Canadian History and doing a presentation, ultimately judged by judges that come to the school on a certain date who chose the best ones to go on to the next round of competition for prizes etc. Parents buy the big poster boards and kids decorate them with information and pictures etc. The students are required to include 5 "products" such as maps, timelines, fact files, pictures, 3D models etc. chosen from a list of at least 30 possibilities.
Over a month ago the teacher gave Ben the long list of products he could show and reminded him about the project very often. As the weeks went by, she was getting a bit frustrated that he hadn't begun. Good timing was that teacher-parent conferences came up and I brought Ben. We helped him narrow it down to 5 components and scheduled a calendar that home and school could work in tandem with.
The best thing lately has been that we bought him a portable scanner so paper is less of a big deal - (worksheets were getting lost, assignments got missed) So, now he scans his work, texts etc. and e-mails them to an account that he, school and home can access anytime. Progress:)
Anyway, back to the Heritage Fair. He put a lot of effort into his final presentation on the topic of The War of 1812, specifically Laura Secord. He did research and learned how to do a bibliography. Finally the day came for the presentation. The best motivation seemed to be the box of Laura Secord chocolates that we agreed he could have after the judging. It was a three day process. The kids presented to their classmates, and other Grade students cycled through, hearing their verbal reports, which they had to hone and perfect for the final presentation to the judges. Day 1, he was so exhausted and overwhelmed after that he couldn't sleep. Day 2 he took the morning off, stayed for afternoon presentations -got through it... and Day 3 he was so DONE! Chocolates... chocolates.... just think of chocolates.... he said to himself the whole time. He even sent me a video text of him smiling and eating a chocolate to "tide him over" during the last hour.
So, when it was all done, we all celebrated the effort and learning, and that it was OVER:)
When he was handed the blue paper with new homework about the Fair, he was not excited. And then he read the questions:
My Reflection on the BC Heritage Fair Project
Excellent work on your projects! Everyone should be very proud of their accomplishment.
A final assignment:
You are to provide a one-page typed reflection on your Heritage Fair project.
You are to include the following components:
- Introduce your topic and question.
- How could this project be described as a turning point in your learning this year?
- What new skills did you acquire over the course of this project of which you are most
proud of?
- How has this project changed your thinking on the topic?
- What would you have done differently? (Are there any other products you would have chosen instead?)
Ben's e-mailed assignment sent in tonight:
My Reflection on The BC Heritage Fair Project:
Here is Ben's project, and him dancing after it was finished, and him smiling at the park.
Ben had been working on the second part of his Heritage Fair Project, (the Reflection piece).
By answering the questions in Lorem Ipsum. I learned today, that is a way of injecting nonsensical words that look like readable latin in a text format as filler. When the teacher came over to check out his answers with a quizzical look, Ben told her he had written it in latin. So, she asked him to translate it. Then came the argument... why had she told him that he was all done the Heritage Fair, to then give him more unexpected Heritage Fair work? She shook her head. She is a lovely teacher, actually.
Grades 4 to 7 curriculum includes choosing a topic in Canadian History and doing a presentation, ultimately judged by judges that come to the school on a certain date who chose the best ones to go on to the next round of competition for prizes etc. Parents buy the big poster boards and kids decorate them with information and pictures etc. The students are required to include 5 "products" such as maps, timelines, fact files, pictures, 3D models etc. chosen from a list of at least 30 possibilities.
Over a month ago the teacher gave Ben the long list of products he could show and reminded him about the project very often. As the weeks went by, she was getting a bit frustrated that he hadn't begun. Good timing was that teacher-parent conferences came up and I brought Ben. We helped him narrow it down to 5 components and scheduled a calendar that home and school could work in tandem with.
The best thing lately has been that we bought him a portable scanner so paper is less of a big deal - (worksheets were getting lost, assignments got missed) So, now he scans his work, texts etc. and e-mails them to an account that he, school and home can access anytime. Progress:)
Anyway, back to the Heritage Fair. He put a lot of effort into his final presentation on the topic of The War of 1812, specifically Laura Secord. He did research and learned how to do a bibliography. Finally the day came for the presentation. The best motivation seemed to be the box of Laura Secord chocolates that we agreed he could have after the judging. It was a three day process. The kids presented to their classmates, and other Grade students cycled through, hearing their verbal reports, which they had to hone and perfect for the final presentation to the judges. Day 1, he was so exhausted and overwhelmed after that he couldn't sleep. Day 2 he took the morning off, stayed for afternoon presentations -got through it... and Day 3 he was so DONE! Chocolates... chocolates.... just think of chocolates.... he said to himself the whole time. He even sent me a video text of him smiling and eating a chocolate to "tide him over" during the last hour.
So, when it was all done, we all celebrated the effort and learning, and that it was OVER:)
When he was handed the blue paper with new homework about the Fair, he was not excited. And then he read the questions:
My Reflection on the BC Heritage Fair Project
Excellent work on your projects! Everyone should be very proud of their accomplishment.
A final assignment:
You are to provide a one-page typed reflection on your Heritage Fair project.
You are to include the following components:
- Introduce your topic and question.
- How could this project be described as a turning point in your learning this year?
- What new skills did you acquire over the course of this project of which you are most
proud of?
- How has this project changed your thinking on the topic?
- What would you have done differently? (Are there any other products you would have chosen instead?)
Ben's e-mailed assignment sent in tonight:
My Reflection on The BC Heritage Fair Project:
My topic was Laura Secord. My question was, "Was Laura
Secord A Heroine?". I think she was.
According to the definition of
turning point, which is a follows;
turning point
noun
1.
a point at
which a decisive change takes place; critical point; crisis.
2.
a point at
which something changes direction, especially a high or low point on a graph.
I would not
categorize this project as a turning point in my learning this year, unless we
recognize that it did have some striking resemblance to a crisis because it was
very stressful. And it interrupted my sleeping patterns.
The new skills
I acquired over the course of this project (of which I am most proud of) are:
• I learned to use a hot glue gun.
• I learned that hot gluing can be
somewhat dangerous.
• I learned where the War of 1812
museum was.
• I learned how to make a map on the
computer.
• I found my new favourite font.
This project
did not change my thinking on the topic as I had never thought of it before.
I would not
have done anything differently and there are not any other products I would
have chosen instead.
I put a lot of
effort into this project, and I am proud of myself.
I learned a
lot of interesting things about Laura Secord. I admire her for her courage. And I like Laura Secord chocolates.
Here is Ben's project, and him dancing after it was finished, and him smiling at the park.
It is easy to forget that executive functioning skills are learned and some kids need extra help breaking tasks down into manageable chunks - and that most kids are very capable once expectations are clear and assignments are well defined, and sometimes adapted. Asking ambiguous questions can lead to confusion, and resistance. What I love about Ben and Davis is, they are honest, logical... and bring lots of opportunities to not take ourselves too seriously.
I appreciate being reminded that some of what we ask of kids at school is hoop jumping, and I think it's okay to be open with them that a part of school is tolerating boring busy work at a prescribed pace, rarely based on their personal preferences or needs. And that sucks. I'm not saying that's okay, I'm saying kids keeping a strong sense of self while changing a fractured system from the inside is another way to make it better. There are many angles to take. Sometimes Ian and I find it hard to balance supporting the learning outcomes stipulated by the public school system, and clearly respecting the individuality of our kids, and we are lucky to have a few staff (not all, believe me) in Ben's life who allow him room to express himself and make use of helpful adaptations, like taking math tests orally, as one small example of many. Great things happen at school because of great people.
We care about his personal progress. That's it. We believe it's important for him to do his best in the present, be proud of successes and recognize that school is a place where information and learning opportunities are offered, but certainly not the place that has any power to define who he is as a person, or what qualifies as a turning point in his learning. He holds all the power to do that.
There are so many opportunities to broaden the educational horizons for our kids and stand by them when school tries to box them in too hard, while still maintaining and building good relationships with the adults who work with them. This is also progress:) And a fine balance. We've seen the best outcomes when everyone sets aside ego and focuses on common ground - the best interest of the child. I always believe this is possible, until it is proved that it is not. And we have had times where it was not possible, and that is very disappointing. But that is not the case so far this year with the staff who work with Ben; while we are not always on the same page, we are in the same book - Inclusive Education. And we are not the only family trying really hard to collaboratively improve educational experiences for all our awesome kids! I salute you.
And, I salute Ben:) Well done.I appreciate being reminded that some of what we ask of kids at school is hoop jumping, and I think it's okay to be open with them that a part of school is tolerating boring busy work at a prescribed pace, rarely based on their personal preferences or needs. And that sucks. I'm not saying that's okay, I'm saying kids keeping a strong sense of self while changing a fractured system from the inside is another way to make it better. There are many angles to take. Sometimes Ian and I find it hard to balance supporting the learning outcomes stipulated by the public school system, and clearly respecting the individuality of our kids, and we are lucky to have a few staff (not all, believe me) in Ben's life who allow him room to express himself and make use of helpful adaptations, like taking math tests orally, as one small example of many. Great things happen at school because of great people.
We care about his personal progress. That's it. We believe it's important for him to do his best in the present, be proud of successes and recognize that school is a place where information and learning opportunities are offered, but certainly not the place that has any power to define who he is as a person, or what qualifies as a turning point in his learning. He holds all the power to do that.
There are so many opportunities to broaden the educational horizons for our kids and stand by them when school tries to box them in too hard, while still maintaining and building good relationships with the adults who work with them. This is also progress:) And a fine balance. We've seen the best outcomes when everyone sets aside ego and focuses on common ground - the best interest of the child. I always believe this is possible, until it is proved that it is not. And we have had times where it was not possible, and that is very disappointing. But that is not the case so far this year with the staff who work with Ben; while we are not always on the same page, we are in the same book - Inclusive Education. And we are not the only family trying really hard to collaboratively improve educational experiences for all our awesome kids! I salute you.
Monday, 25 February 2013
How many bees
Ben and I walked along the path of a massive and beautiful flower garden last summer. I commented on how calm he was compared to how he may have reacted the summer before to a bee hopping from flower to flower. He nodded. He said he felt a bit sad about that. Why, I asked. He told me that when he was younger he had an incredible ability to instantly zoom in on exactly how many bees were in a space. It was powerful and scary and overwhelming to be so focused on one detail of a situation.
But also amazing, and he missed that. He didn't miss the anxiety that came with the fears of being stung, but there is something about that ability to focus so exclusively and quickly on one aspect that he wanted to acknowledge. He remarked that even though he felt his focal points had broadened to include an enjoyment of the flower garden, he recognized a loss as well; the intense and extreme levels of focus his mind could go to. He felt like he had lost, and gained.
I personally, have never thought of his ability to stay calm in public and tolerate bees as anything but positive.
When he was young he used to say that numbers had colours associated with them. I will never forget this because the numbers that were attractive colours he could write in answer to math questions no problem, but the number 2 was such a vomity camouflage green that he hated to write it, refusing. Everything had a "feeling", including knives and forks. He would gravitate to random things for reasons we never understood, but he found comfort in them because he saw them in a way, hidden to us. Holding a CD was way more comforting than a hug. Words of praise meant nothing to him, but acknowledging success with instruction manuals or allowing him to take apart the DVD player really made him happy.
The constant sensory bombardment was exhausting and led to screaming and crying and hiding and hitting and kicking and throwing. We are all glad those days are mostly gone; he is glad to learn impulse control and calming techniques that work for him, and we are learning to stop trying to convince him the things that help us stay calm will help him too. Granted, taking deep breaths works for everybody, but counting to ten includes the number 2. Just skip that number, we suggested to Ben, which caused a whole new stress-ball about how illogical and impossible that would be. Finding stress relieving activities is an on-going process, but at least now he is more in the drivers seat and is getting to really know himself better. Which only started happening when we stopped saying, "take a deep breath and count to 10." And when we stopped singing our helpful jingle: "Just take a deep breath and say it's okay." - Only made him more upset, because it was a "lie" that things were okay!! They were not okay!!!
Ok, Ok.
But they will be.
Sunday, 24 February 2013
Adjustments
I've read a lot about Aspergers. We've talked with countless professionals, gone to conferences, classes and workshops. There are so many insightful people out there! We have two sons diagnosed with Aspergers, or Autism Spectrum Disorder. The thing is, I just do not see it as a Disorder, without making a recognition that most of the focus goes to how people with Aspergers are different and need to adjust to every day situations, yet most of us rarely take any responsibility to doing some adjusting too. I am always amazed at how much change in behaviour and emotional states for the boys comes when we do some common sense adjustments to the environment. There is a possibility that kids with "special needs" may be barometers in a faulty system that always defaults to accomodate for the majority - like in school classrooms, but we can evolve with initiatives to include everyone, and embrace difference as contributory. There are exciting currents in these directions everywhere.
Ben and Davis' perception indexes are different, and although differently ordered than the more general population, not disordered. The negative connotation that comes with the word "disorder" causes me concern. They struggle partially because most of us want them to see the world "our way" - the "neurotypical" way. A great thing is, there is a huge concentration on helping kids with Aspergers learn how to self regulate, become more flexible, understand the perceptions of others etc. I would like to add that making an equal effort to understand and respect their points of view, and making changes in ourselves and common environments is equally important. We can ask questions. We can listen.
Ben and Davis' perception indexes are different, and although differently ordered than the more general population, not disordered. The negative connotation that comes with the word "disorder" causes me concern. They struggle partially because most of us want them to see the world "our way" - the "neurotypical" way. A great thing is, there is a huge concentration on helping kids with Aspergers learn how to self regulate, become more flexible, understand the perceptions of others etc. I would like to add that making an equal effort to understand and respect their points of view, and making changes in ourselves and common environments is equally important. We can ask questions. We can listen.
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
Goggles
My sister and I took my two boys and her twelve-year-old son swimming last week. It was fun... watching from the side, because I got to see the kids enjoying themselves, and doing interesting things.
Ben lost his goggles. As he was leaving the pool, I mimed a reminder to him, making glasses shapes with my fingers circling my eyes. He walked back along the side of the pool, slowling, thinking. He got back into the family hot tub and and sat down. I watched as he started pulling his hair out, one at a time. I remarked to my sister about him just sitting there not looking for the goggles. And why was he trying to pull out individual hairs? Was he ignoring me completely and just goofing off?
I watched him for a few more minutes until he proved he had forgotten all about the goggles by floating on his side. I began to dismiss them as lost, and focused my attention on reminding the other two boys it was time to leave. A few minutes later Ben came walking up, dangling his goggles, I gave him a thumbs up and the boys went to get changed.
Later that night I asked Ben how he found the goggles.
"Well," he said, "I thought about where I had seen them last. In the hot tub. So, I went back and sat down where I had been sitting. I wondered where they would have gone if I had dropped them in that spot. I noticed there is a current in the water from the air jets on the sides. Goggles float for a while and then will either sink or stay afloat depending on the current trajectory and pulling force of the undercurrent."
"Why were you pulling out the hairs on your head?" I asked.
"Each hair is light enough to stay afloat, so my thinking was if I watched the pathway of the hair it would lead me to a more probable and logical destination of the goggles. But, the hair was too light and fast and difficult to track. So, I made my arm as limp as possible and allowed it to float, watching its direction, and tried to follow it. This led me to a different part of the hot tub. I then found a water toy with a similar weight and boyouncy to goggles; I let them go, which actually worked and led me straight to the goggles."
---------
My assumptions of his intentions contradicted the reality that his behavior of sitting and playing with his hair and trying to float in the hot tub were actually clever ways to fulfill my request that he find the goggles. And it worked:)
Ben lost his goggles. As he was leaving the pool, I mimed a reminder to him, making glasses shapes with my fingers circling my eyes. He walked back along the side of the pool, slowling, thinking. He got back into the family hot tub and and sat down. I watched as he started pulling his hair out, one at a time. I remarked to my sister about him just sitting there not looking for the goggles. And why was he trying to pull out individual hairs? Was he ignoring me completely and just goofing off?
I watched him for a few more minutes until he proved he had forgotten all about the goggles by floating on his side. I began to dismiss them as lost, and focused my attention on reminding the other two boys it was time to leave. A few minutes later Ben came walking up, dangling his goggles, I gave him a thumbs up and the boys went to get changed.
Later that night I asked Ben how he found the goggles.
"Well," he said, "I thought about where I had seen them last. In the hot tub. So, I went back and sat down where I had been sitting. I wondered where they would have gone if I had dropped them in that spot. I noticed there is a current in the water from the air jets on the sides. Goggles float for a while and then will either sink or stay afloat depending on the current trajectory and pulling force of the undercurrent."
"Why were you pulling out the hairs on your head?" I asked.
"Each hair is light enough to stay afloat, so my thinking was if I watched the pathway of the hair it would lead me to a more probable and logical destination of the goggles. But, the hair was too light and fast and difficult to track. So, I made my arm as limp as possible and allowed it to float, watching its direction, and tried to follow it. This led me to a different part of the hot tub. I then found a water toy with a similar weight and boyouncy to goggles; I let them go, which actually worked and led me straight to the goggles."
---------
My assumptions of his intentions contradicted the reality that his behavior of sitting and playing with his hair and trying to float in the hot tub were actually clever ways to fulfill my request that he find the goggles. And it worked:)
Thursday, 7 February 2013
Bens
On Saturday Ben and I walked down to the Central Library, he’s doing a project on the War of 1812. It was a nice walk. We talked about his upcoming 12th birthday. As we walked passed The Art Gallery, we saw signs that read “Autism is not a Crime” and “Give Ben a Chance at Life”. I looked at Ben.
We were drawn to the tent made of white tarp, large photos of a boy named Ben lined the walls, “Free Ben” handwritten on poster board. And then I remembered, I had heard on the news about a family pushed to the edge. A family battered by injustice, but not broken. Not broken because of a Mother’s unwavering voice of love, and her strong, clear stand against an appalling lack of basic care and dignity from a Psychiatric System, who’s mandate it is to improve and monitor the mental well-being of those in its CARE. This family feels their only hope now is to appeal to the public to unite with them, because their voices have become hoarse from shouting into the wind of apathy and bureaucracy. Literally, this mother was losing her voice while speaking to us. She was living in a self made structure in a desperate attempt to raise awareness of her son’s plight, and unfortunately there are others like him, with unique profiles of strengths and challenges who are mislabeled and unjustly confined. As her sign read, “Autism is not a crime," nor should people with autism be treated as criminals. Right now, her son, Ben, is not being given access to care compatible with his current needs as a person with Aspergers.
He deserves access to mental health agencies and housing accommodation specifically addressing his needs as a person with autism, by a team of professionals specializing in autism, with consultation from his family. People with autism are highly capable of contributing generously to society and living independent, happy lives - like everyone else. To be honest, it feels a little on the ridiculous side that this situation is even possible in a world as capable of compassion and educated choices as we live in today.
She asked me, “How would you feel if your son were kept in solitary confinement, overly medicated without meaningful and appropriate access to professionals in our city who have offered their expertise and are willing to help him transition into independent living?"
How would you feel if that were your son? I know how I would feel.
There is plenty of hope, because with action we can ensure that all children with autism are enfolded with respect and understanding to the benefit of all.
Go to their website http://silentnomorebc.com/
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
Gross but encouraging
Davis had a cold, which shifted into viral induced asthma. So, he looks and sounds quite awful. Which is a step up from frightfully congested and coughing up a lung. On the mend, he went to school yesterday after being away for more than a week. I picked him up at noon and we went out for sushi. We talked about Minecraft, or rather he told me all about his house in the hill and how many diamond and gold blocks it would take to make a wedding ring for a potential wife if he ever wanted to get the mod? that would afford him interaction with villagers, but he finds them too scary looking so he is content on his own. And did you know that it is quite hard to be a vegetarian in Minecraft? Anyway, I learned that and many other weird and wonderful facts about his new life's passion. The most interesting part of our conversation came when I asked him about how his morning went.
"We'll, the SSW (Student Support Worker) had super terrible breath today!"
"Oh," I said. I've heard plenty of feedback about my and everyone else's body odor from my two olfacorily enhanced boys. They are very sensitive to smell. (Ben told me in the school lobby the other day that he knew I had entered the building before he turned around because he could smell me- because of the same perfume I've been wearing since he was born, he says. Makes me sound on par with a teenager in love with his Axe Body Spray.)
"We were sitting at the same table doing math, but I had to get up and walk around, to get a break from the awful smell," he said. "I hope she didn't know why I got up."
"But I can still smell her in my nostrils."
"Interesting," I said.
"It smells bad, like a foreign Chinese food restaurant where somebody was murdered."
He blew his nose. He stared, looked at his Kleenex, blew his nose again.
"It's me," he said. "It's my snot."
"Pardon?"
"It wasn't even her, it was in my nose the whole time," he said musingly.
"We'll, as disturbing as that is, I am really impressed that you didn't say anything to her about what you thought was her intense and disgusting smell. That may have hurt her feelings."
"I know... I didn't want to make her feel bad, so I just got up and moved away until I could stand it again... But then it stayed with me..."
"That is pretty funny," I said, smiling.
"Well, it's informative anyway," he said, nodding.
"You handled that very well," I said.
"Thanks," he said. "I still smell stink everywhere I go."
---------------
I am proud of him for trying to be sensitive to her feelings by not accusing her of smelling like death and bad Chinese food.
"We'll, the SSW (Student Support Worker) had super terrible breath today!"
"Oh," I said. I've heard plenty of feedback about my and everyone else's body odor from my two olfacorily enhanced boys. They are very sensitive to smell. (Ben told me in the school lobby the other day that he knew I had entered the building before he turned around because he could smell me- because of the same perfume I've been wearing since he was born, he says. Makes me sound on par with a teenager in love with his Axe Body Spray.)
"We were sitting at the same table doing math, but I had to get up and walk around, to get a break from the awful smell," he said. "I hope she didn't know why I got up."
"But I can still smell her in my nostrils."
"Interesting," I said.
"It smells bad, like a foreign Chinese food restaurant where somebody was murdered."
He blew his nose. He stared, looked at his Kleenex, blew his nose again.
"It's me," he said. "It's my snot."
"Pardon?"
"It wasn't even her, it was in my nose the whole time," he said musingly.
"We'll, as disturbing as that is, I am really impressed that you didn't say anything to her about what you thought was her intense and disgusting smell. That may have hurt her feelings."
"I know... I didn't want to make her feel bad, so I just got up and moved away until I could stand it again... But then it stayed with me..."
"That is pretty funny," I said, smiling.
"Well, it's informative anyway," he said, nodding.
"You handled that very well," I said.
"Thanks," he said. "I still smell stink everywhere I go."
---------------
I am proud of him for trying to be sensitive to her feelings by not accusing her of smelling like death and bad Chinese food.
Lemonade
Ever had a really long day, and you are so tired and you just want to go to bed, and there is still so much to do, and it's midnight which makes it technically tomorrow, and time is running out on the deadline for the inspiring new initiatives your new boss has stipulated you propose to him or you will lose your job, one of your children has a double ear infection, the other two are coughing and calling for you, your wife is crying while updating you on all the rotten things that happened this week that you can do nothing about, including that your son accidentally broke her computer while trying to do something nice for her by updating her system and she is expecting you to be a miracle worker and fix it before her 9:00 am meeting, and you haven't eaten since lunch, and you saw a picture of yourself today that made obvious to you that you are losing your hair...
Anyway, this is a sampling of my husband's day last week, which put him in the state of mind to heavily sit and slump, and say to me:
"They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
But you can't make lemonade out of urine."
We both laughed, and felt better.
Anyway, this is a sampling of my husband's day last week, which put him in the state of mind to heavily sit and slump, and say to me:
"They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
But you can't make lemonade out of urine."
We both laughed, and felt better.
Thursday, 10 January 2013
Reminder to me
We've all had times in our lives we would like to forget. Some memories are super embarrassing or painful. Some just remind us how dumb we can be. We need to give ourselves and each other a break. We all make mistakes.
Something I say to myself that applies to everyone, especially kids with exceptional strengths sometimes hidden to the untrained eye:
"Just because you've seen me at my worst, doesn't mean I don't have a best."
One of the boy's teachers forgot this and it made for a very hard year.
Cheers, to all the teachers and student support teams who see the golden nugget in every kid. And here's to the resilience in all of us.
Something I say to myself that applies to everyone, especially kids with exceptional strengths sometimes hidden to the untrained eye:
"Just because you've seen me at my worst, doesn't mean I don't have a best."
One of the boy's teachers forgot this and it made for a very hard year.
Cheers, to all the teachers and student support teams who see the golden nugget in every kid. And here's to the resilience in all of us.
Monday, 3 December 2012
Butt Mom
I finally got to do something I've been wanting to do for years. It was as funny as I had hoped, to me anyway.
Years ago I saw the movie Jack Frost; it was Christmas and I was feeling brain dead/cheerful enough to watch the TV holiday movie on at the moment. Now, the context is hazy (I've forgotten the entire movie except for one part), but there's a scene where the young son is complaining to his Mom about having to do something he doesn't want to do. You know, we've all done it as kids, but it so annoying as a parent to be on the other side of immature manipulative techniques (or sophisticated, depending on the level of charming). The boy says, in a whiny voice, "... but Mom..." and her response was great. I laughed so hard. And I resolved right then and there that I would tether this comeback in the back of my mind, and let it loose at the perfect moment.
Ben was a toddler at the time, but yesterday, almost 10 years later, my opportunity came, unexpected, like magic. Un-magically, I was unloading the dishwasher. I asked Ben to help. He came in the kitchen, head to the side, shuffling slowly. "But, Mooommm...." he started, and I perfectly timed,
"Did you just call me butt Mom?"
He stared. The wheels turned. "Nooo..." and while he back-pedalled, I laughed, and then we both burst into laughter. He has a great sense of humour. I even slapped my knee.
Part of the reason why I found this funny, was because it was a hard-earned joke. Ben is, almost always, highly effected by language. Where a coma is verbally placed, tone of voice, order of words, logical context requests(?)... can bring a smooth response and easy compliance, or a long drawn out argument, integrally linked to his mood and level of sensory overload. Oh, the stubborn stare that could have been avoided recently if I had just said "Yesterday you helpfully pointed out that we are low on toothpaste and batteries. I would love your help to make sure we get the right kind of batteries, and at the best price, so how about we go to London Drugs right now which is right beside the Rec Centre where Kate will be for a birthday party from 12:30 to 2:00. This will give us plenty of time to also compare the Canon and Nikon cameras you have been wanting to show me," instead of saying, "We need to leave now to take Kate to the birthday party," in a directional, distracted tone.
And if you just had the thought that kids should just listen to and obey their parents regardless of how they stipulate that the chores get done, I used to agree with you, but then I didn't have a son with Aspergers. And believe me, how you say it matters.
But, sometimes we can breezily shake off words, they make a soft sound, like plink plink of keys on pavement, like I can imagine they might in one of my favourite books, The Phantom Tollbooth. Who needs words when conversational nods communicate the restful delight in sharing an amazing cinnamon bun. Those connections are awesome.
Ben's laughter is infectious and his smile changes how I perceive time; a moment can feel like the best kind of forever.
(Ben just read this post, and said "It was funnier than that, but I can't think of any advice for you.")
Years ago I saw the movie Jack Frost; it was Christmas and I was feeling brain dead/cheerful enough to watch the TV holiday movie on at the moment. Now, the context is hazy (I've forgotten the entire movie except for one part), but there's a scene where the young son is complaining to his Mom about having to do something he doesn't want to do. You know, we've all done it as kids, but it so annoying as a parent to be on the other side of immature manipulative techniques (or sophisticated, depending on the level of charming). The boy says, in a whiny voice, "... but Mom..." and her response was great. I laughed so hard. And I resolved right then and there that I would tether this comeback in the back of my mind, and let it loose at the perfect moment.
Ben was a toddler at the time, but yesterday, almost 10 years later, my opportunity came, unexpected, like magic. Un-magically, I was unloading the dishwasher. I asked Ben to help. He came in the kitchen, head to the side, shuffling slowly. "But, Mooommm...." he started, and I perfectly timed,
"Did you just call me butt Mom?"
He stared. The wheels turned. "Nooo..." and while he back-pedalled, I laughed, and then we both burst into laughter. He has a great sense of humour. I even slapped my knee.
Part of the reason why I found this funny, was because it was a hard-earned joke. Ben is, almost always, highly effected by language. Where a coma is verbally placed, tone of voice, order of words, logical context requests(?)... can bring a smooth response and easy compliance, or a long drawn out argument, integrally linked to his mood and level of sensory overload. Oh, the stubborn stare that could have been avoided recently if I had just said "Yesterday you helpfully pointed out that we are low on toothpaste and batteries. I would love your help to make sure we get the right kind of batteries, and at the best price, so how about we go to London Drugs right now which is right beside the Rec Centre where Kate will be for a birthday party from 12:30 to 2:00. This will give us plenty of time to also compare the Canon and Nikon cameras you have been wanting to show me," instead of saying, "We need to leave now to take Kate to the birthday party," in a directional, distracted tone.
And if you just had the thought that kids should just listen to and obey their parents regardless of how they stipulate that the chores get done, I used to agree with you, but then I didn't have a son with Aspergers. And believe me, how you say it matters.
But, sometimes we can breezily shake off words, they make a soft sound, like plink plink of keys on pavement, like I can imagine they might in one of my favourite books, The Phantom Tollbooth. Who needs words when conversational nods communicate the restful delight in sharing an amazing cinnamon bun. Those connections are awesome.
Ben's laughter is infectious and his smile changes how I perceive time; a moment can feel like the best kind of forever.
(Ben just read this post, and said "It was funnier than that, but I can't think of any advice for you.")
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Book Strike
In Grade 1, Davis went on strike.
"I won't read any more books!" he said.
On library day at school he refused to even look at the book racks, instead hunching over with arms folded on the big fading couch in the corner by the plants.
Week after week the librarian encouraged him to at least wander with his classmates in the picture book section.
Dark scowl.
The teacher was concerned. "He's a very good reader," she said. "This is usually a student's favourite time of the week."
She tried picking a book for him and sending it in his backpack. We tried sticker charts and rewards. He would have none of it. And for some reason it became a bit of an issue, because he seemed angry and disconnected from a previous joy of reading.
Finally it came out in one big spill. "I hate reading kids books!" he said one night. "They lie. They say it's good to be different, it's good to be yourself," he looked down, "And then my class sits in desks all in a row and they make everyone be the same and write the same way and do art the same way, and forget all the smiles in those books!"
"I won't read any more books!" he said.
On library day at school he refused to even look at the book racks, instead hunching over with arms folded on the big fading couch in the corner by the plants.
Week after week the librarian encouraged him to at least wander with his classmates in the picture book section.
Dark scowl.
The teacher was concerned. "He's a very good reader," she said. "This is usually a student's favourite time of the week."
She tried picking a book for him and sending it in his backpack. We tried sticker charts and rewards. He would have none of it. And for some reason it became a bit of an issue, because he seemed angry and disconnected from a previous joy of reading.
Finally it came out in one big spill. "I hate reading kids books!" he said one night. "They lie. They say it's good to be different, it's good to be yourself," he looked down, "And then my class sits in desks all in a row and they make everyone be the same and write the same way and do art the same way, and forget all the smiles in those books!"
Thursday, 6 September 2012
The huge moth fluttered and spun along the ceiling, down the wall, toward the bed. Five-year old Kate dug under the duvet to tunnel away from its bulbous brown furry body. I sat beside her. We both called, "Dad!" We needed rescuing. Sort of, I just didn't want to touch it.
Ian hopped around the bedroom, stepping everywhere except on Kate's head, still buried under cover, her mewling peeps urging him to hurry... and not hurt it, but get it out, and put it outside, but not hurt it...
Davis came running in to see why all the commotion? Ian grabbed at the moth, and for the tenth time it flitted just out of reach. Davis ran to get the dog. "Go get the moth!" Davis told her, swishing his hands in its direction. Our little white puppy stared, head bobbing back and forth, watching the flying creature move closer. Davis picked her up, facing the moth, dangling her in mid-air. Our attention then went to encouraging him to put the dog down. He ignored us, running with her toward the erratic flying wings. The puppy wiggled and wiggled, Davis was losing his grasp, paws everywhere.
"Get the moth! Eat it! Eat it!" Davis yelled.
Kate cried, "Is the moth gone?"
"No!" Davis punched the air with the dog.
"Get it! Eat it!" The puppy squirmed, Davis held her above his head, to reach the moth.
Ian got the puppy, then the moth. He questioned the frustrated chaos of Davis' attempts to feed the dog.
Kate came out from under the covers, red and sweaty, wiping tears, and relieved.
Davis was angry. He wanted to make sure the moth went outside, that it wasn't crushed in Ian's hand. He was angry at us for not letting him force the puppy to eat the moth. The puppy curled up and went to sleep.
Later that night he told me and the dog that there was only one okay way to get rid of a moth, besides putting it outside, but that's not good either because moths might struggle to live through the cold of the night.
"If Dad killed the moth, that would be murder. If I killed the moth, that would be murder. But, if the dog killed the moth, that would be part of the cycle of nature. So, you see, I was trying to help Kate by giving the moth a natural death."
Monday, 6 August 2012
We had a playdate today with a five-year-old girl, Lily, who played with Kate, and a nine-year-old brother who played with Davis. While the two girls played post office, and grocery store in a tent in the living room of their home, the boys parallel played upstairs with lego or hung out in the back yard. Overall it was a very pleasant afternoon.
After a couple of hours we stood by the door to say our good-byes, and thank-yous for a delicious lunch.
Kate's friend asked me if Justin was going to bite her. She seemed genuinely worried.
"Who's Justin?"
"He's Kate's husband," she said.
"Pardon?"
Apparently, Kate is married to a boy named Justin that she met at the park two days ago.
He's 5. And imaginary. And he bites.
"He bites people he doesn't know. He doesn't bite me, though," Kate added. "I think he would bite Lily because he doesn't know her yet."
Lily started to cry.
Her Mom and I asked Kate if she could ask Justin not to bite.
"I can't control my husband," Kate answered.
"Sounds like a real marriage," joked Lily's good-natured Dad who happened to walk by.
"He doesn't listen to me when I ask him to not bite. He has Aspergers. Even if I ask him five- hundred times, he doesn't learn it. He'll still bite people he's never met before."
"Sounds like he needs to learn some social skills," I said, a bit surprised, trying to be funny. Lily's Mom and I raised our eyebrows and looked over at each other, sort of laughing.
I took Kate aside into the kitchen, probably making things worse by trying to convince her to tell Lily that Justin wouldn't bite her, as now Lily was burying her head under her brother's arm and quite upset.
Kate was adamant. Justin would bite anyone who was a stranger to him, and she wasn't going to lie to Lily.
I tried to be encouraging and turn this imaginary husband scenario into a teaching moment, by telling her that everybody can learn not to bite, and it's totally doeable with help. Kate didn't look convinced, which kind of bothered me.
We walked back toward the door while Lily's Mom assured her she wouldn't let anyone bite her, while trying to keep it light and friendly. Lily has developmental delays and really believed that a boy named Justin was going to bite her. Saying he was a pretend friend as a game, or down-playing it by moving to another topic seemed to backfire with both girls.
Lily's Mom joked that maybe Kate should have married a different guy, and Kate's voice rose, insistent that she wouldn't! Thoughts of future arguments over suitable boyfriends flashed through my mind.
Davis stood by the door, and as I turned to get my shoes, he slapped Kate's cheek, not hard, but hard enough. She screamed. He just stood with his arms straight at his side, staring at her, sure he was justified "because she had married a jerk!" he concluded.
I separated them, watching Kate's cheek turn instantly pink.
I praised her for handling that situation well by moving away from Davis and not hitting back. I've learned from experience how futile it can be to hash things out in the moment with a kid with Aspergers, we would discuss it later.
We reached the car. I said, no more talking about Justin, until we could do it calmly. Davis stormed ahead yelling he wanted to meet this Justin guy and he couldn't believe she had married a jerk who bites!
"He's not a jerk," she yelled back, "he has Aspergers!"
Crazy ironic.
"It is time to sit quietly for the next 10 minutes", I said, reminding myself to breathe.
"His eyes are telling me he is so mad", Kate said.
"I'm not talking", Davis growled through clenched teeth.
"His eyes are talking", Kate replied.
Davis gripped his seatbelt as if it was the only thing keeping him from lunging at her.
He stared harder.
We were all quiet, until Kate whispered, "I fibbed".
"You fibbed?"
"I fibbed about Justing biting. I taught him to do that, to protect me. I taught him to bite to protect me from my brothers when they get mad. He wouldn't bite my friends. I'll tell Lily that."
Aside: On the way to the car I calmly talked at him, being clear to everyone else how inappropriate it is to hit, especially in the face, for sure when we are feeling mad... he was too irritated to hear a word I said. Rather than insisting on apology right then I tried some deep breathing of my own and attention to Kate; we would discuss it later when he was calmer; he would apologize and acknowledge to Kate that he had made the wrong choice, and do something nice for her. I was mostly saying it to validate my distaste for his actions to myself and Kate, and my efforts at teaching appropriate emotional regulation and impulse control at the apex of his frustration and inflexible thinking, felt deja-vu non-effective. There would also be time later to accknowledge his feelings of protectiveness, loyalty and caring for his younger sister, and that there are better ways to show it.
After a couple of hours we stood by the door to say our good-byes, and thank-yous for a delicious lunch.
Kate's friend asked me if Justin was going to bite her. She seemed genuinely worried.
"Who's Justin?"
"He's Kate's husband," she said.
"Pardon?"
Apparently, Kate is married to a boy named Justin that she met at the park two days ago.
He's 5. And imaginary. And he bites.
"He bites people he doesn't know. He doesn't bite me, though," Kate added. "I think he would bite Lily because he doesn't know her yet."
Lily started to cry.
Her Mom and I asked Kate if she could ask Justin not to bite.
"I can't control my husband," Kate answered.
"Sounds like a real marriage," joked Lily's good-natured Dad who happened to walk by.
"He doesn't listen to me when I ask him to not bite. He has Aspergers. Even if I ask him five- hundred times, he doesn't learn it. He'll still bite people he's never met before."
"Sounds like he needs to learn some social skills," I said, a bit surprised, trying to be funny. Lily's Mom and I raised our eyebrows and looked over at each other, sort of laughing.
I took Kate aside into the kitchen, probably making things worse by trying to convince her to tell Lily that Justin wouldn't bite her, as now Lily was burying her head under her brother's arm and quite upset.
Kate was adamant. Justin would bite anyone who was a stranger to him, and she wasn't going to lie to Lily.
I tried to be encouraging and turn this imaginary husband scenario into a teaching moment, by telling her that everybody can learn not to bite, and it's totally doeable with help. Kate didn't look convinced, which kind of bothered me.
We walked back toward the door while Lily's Mom assured her she wouldn't let anyone bite her, while trying to keep it light and friendly. Lily has developmental delays and really believed that a boy named Justin was going to bite her. Saying he was a pretend friend as a game, or down-playing it by moving to another topic seemed to backfire with both girls.
Lily's Mom joked that maybe Kate should have married a different guy, and Kate's voice rose, insistent that she wouldn't! Thoughts of future arguments over suitable boyfriends flashed through my mind.
Davis stood by the door, and as I turned to get my shoes, he slapped Kate's cheek, not hard, but hard enough. She screamed. He just stood with his arms straight at his side, staring at her, sure he was justified "because she had married a jerk!" he concluded.
I separated them, watching Kate's cheek turn instantly pink.
I praised her for handling that situation well by moving away from Davis and not hitting back. I've learned from experience how futile it can be to hash things out in the moment with a kid with Aspergers, we would discuss it later.
We reached the car. I said, no more talking about Justin, until we could do it calmly. Davis stormed ahead yelling he wanted to meet this Justin guy and he couldn't believe she had married a jerk who bites!
"He's not a jerk," she yelled back, "he has Aspergers!"
Crazy ironic.
"It is time to sit quietly for the next 10 minutes", I said, reminding myself to breathe.
"His eyes are telling me he is so mad", Kate said.
"I'm not talking", Davis growled through clenched teeth.
"His eyes are talking", Kate replied.
Davis gripped his seatbelt as if it was the only thing keeping him from lunging at her.
He stared harder.
We were all quiet, until Kate whispered, "I fibbed".
"You fibbed?"
"I fibbed about Justing biting. I taught him to do that, to protect me. I taught him to bite to protect me from my brothers when they get mad. He wouldn't bite my friends. I'll tell Lily that."
Aside: On the way to the car I calmly talked at him, being clear to everyone else how inappropriate it is to hit, especially in the face, for sure when we are feeling mad... he was too irritated to hear a word I said. Rather than insisting on apology right then I tried some deep breathing of my own and attention to Kate; we would discuss it later when he was calmer; he would apologize and acknowledge to Kate that he had made the wrong choice, and do something nice for her. I was mostly saying it to validate my distaste for his actions to myself and Kate, and my efforts at teaching appropriate emotional regulation and impulse control at the apex of his frustration and inflexible thinking, felt deja-vu non-effective. There would also be time later to accknowledge his feelings of protectiveness, loyalty and caring for his younger sister, and that there are better ways to show it.
Tuesday, 24 July 2012
Perfect Peach Pie
I have one quest in life: to find the perfect peach pie. One hot summer afternoon, a bite into a perfectly ripe cool peach brought me delicious moments of pure bliss. Unforgettable.
Granted, there are rivals for the coveted place of ultimate summer fruit or berry. I love the sense of accomplishment from holding between pricked fingers, a plump sweet blackberry won from sharp selfish bushes, while on tiptoe teetering on the edge of a river. Or, ruby raspberries examined for bugs in Grandma's backyard. Fulfilled longing for a delicious summer berry is even better if there is a little risk involved. Or, juicy oranges, even the scent of strawberries...
But above all others, this one peach has the power to stop time. Pure. Simple.And while a badly made pie crust (mine) can bring me terrible disappointment, the treasure of a homemade pie (someone else's), enticing me by smell before I know of its existence with sweet sticky juices, brightens my mood every time. So, perfect peach + perfect pie crust = perfection worth searching a lifetime for.
Side question: can pie be truly amazing independent of time and place, or does a sip from a cold glass of lemonade on a lazy summer afternoon, pre-nap round off the notion of perfection. Another question: Do I enjoy the search more than the pie? If I did find it, that would end my quest, and that would be boring. Whenever and wherever I see peach pie I must try a piece. It is quite rare and must be experienced regardless of look or location. Imagine the cruel pleasure of judging a peach pie contest, and having to chose just one!
I practice my daydreaming skills so that when this perfect melody of flavours and smells lingers, I can begin an extended appreciation for the moment, and end with a light reve delicieux. I allow and encourage myself to have between one and three short daydreams per day, dependent on environmental factors (any less would be inhumane, and any more could lead to complete detachment from reality). These luscious moments range from the ridiculous to the sublime. The more detail the better, with requisite rambles and twists. I try not to re-run them, I like to keep my irrational whimsies fresh.
So, I've been trying to coax the boys into manufacturing a creative retreat for the drearier moments of life when they are stuck where they are, like stuck on a long car ride, pinned in between a crying younger sister and a sweaty, stinky teenage cousin.
First of all, they look at me like I'm crazy, and I inwardly cringe because I suspect they are right. But I don't give up, because an imagination can be a tool, or a reprieve, or sometimes the only syringe fast and legal.
Their minds are wired for logic, facts, rules and regulation; so it doesn't come easy. We have some good starts:
Ben's daydream: to rent a fancy hotel room away from everyone else with room service so he wouldn't have to leave his Mac.
Davis' daydream: for puppies to lick his face all day long.
Sounds good to me. We are still working on uncomplicated life quests; life can bring random and fierce struggles, so balance it out with an appreciation for a "simple thing done well," as my husband would say.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
A thousand rose bushes
Sensory Sensitivity
He squirmed awaywhen I pulled him close for a cuddle, even as a baby. He had his own ways of being close. He ran his little fingers through my long hair over and over. His hands were like delicate combs, adding a silky shine to my hair.
Something unexpected and bewildering was becoming more apparent as he grew. His senses seemed in constant overdrive. Soothing words brought no solace to his cries when we brushed his hair. Smiles and encouragement didn't produce a decrease in frantic panic at the park to a two-year-old Ben slightly jostled by another child. He shrieked at the feel of cotton on his skin and ate food based on texture as much as taste, which didn't leave many options. Before he could even talk, his body gave the first signals for us to search for answers beyond his behaviour, such as his tears of frustration when people talked to him; he seemed unable to filter out the sound of the TV or traffic as background. He also seemed unable to filter in our reassurances.
I found myself scanning every new environment for possible Ben hazards; crazy making to search for hairline fractures on the horizon. I began avoiding stores with fans on the ceiling because of their intolerable noise to Ben. No air-conditioning in the car unless I wasprepared for screaming about the "wind and smell" of the feather-light breeze. Clothing, food, sounds, light; each brought an intensity never before on my radar.
I found myself scanning every new environment for possible Ben hazards; crazy making to search for hairline fractures on the horizon. I began avoiding stores with fans on the ceiling because of their intolerable noise to Ben. No air-conditioning in the car unless I wasprepared for screaming about the "wind and smell" of the feather-light breeze. Clothing, food, sounds, light; each brought an intensity never before on my radar.
I didn't see any other children getting as upset when the loudspeaker at THE GAP came on announcing a "sale on women'souterwear, for a limited time only." The sentence wasn't finished before it was drowned out by his peels of raw primal screaming. I didn't know it was possible to scream like that without being stabbed.
Apparently no one in our life had any helpful answers either.
"Relax, be glad he's willful," my friends would say. " A lot of kids don't like getting their hair wet." Was thrashing about, running away and howling in panic really an excessive response to the suggestion of a bath? We wondered.
"What if you gave him a toy to distract him?"
"Ignore it."
"Ignore it."
The list of advice was endless... except there was little acknowledgment that he reacted at times as if his environment was...painful; apparently even the tiny hairs that fell on his neck during a haircut hurt his skin. How do you explain that making him wear the cute little jeans that Auntie bought him for his birthday somehow felt cruel.
"He'll grow out of it, wait and see," was the all-knowing answer of the public health nurse visiting our parent participation preschool.
"My son used to do the same things, it will pass," was the bemused and placating response of older mothers and grandmothers.
"You just need to be more firm with him," was the most common comment.
"You just need to be more firm with him," was the most common comment.
I thought they must be right.
I also knew they must be wrong.
Ben's sensory sensitivities have slowly but significantly decreased over the past few years, and his abilities to tolerate discomfort have improved.
He no longer says that putting on a wool sweater is like being thrust into a thousand rose bushes, maybe just a hundred.
Ben's sensory sensitivities have slowly but significantly decreased over the past few years, and his abilities to tolerate discomfort have improved.
He no longer says that putting on a wool sweater is like being thrust into a thousand rose bushes, maybe just a hundred.Monday, 4 June 2012
Twisted ankle
We leaned against the huge fallen tree beside the duck pond. Fluffy baby geese splashed under close watch of alert parent geese. Kate ran to the edge, her little hands pressed together with undisguised excitement... peaking with an intense trip and face plant in the mud. The goslings flapped their useless tiny wings while propeller feet swished them across the water. Kate blinked with shock before she cried and pulled her leg in close. She'd hurt her ankle, scraped her knees and redecorated her clothing. I leaned down beside her, mostly concerned that her foot looked oddly angled. Older brother hands reached in, grabbed her ankle and twisted it to its full range in the opposite direction. Kate and I gasped in surprise while her eyes opened wide. Her hands shot out to push Davis away and mine grasped his shoulders to pull him back.
"What are you doing?" I blurted.
Kate yelled. Davis' back straightened in frozen confusion. "I'm fixing her ankle," he said as he let go of her foot.
"What? How is that helping?" I tried to look calm while my frustration mounted and concern tripled.
He didn't answer.
"Davis, she's hurt her ankle..." we both looked down at his four-year-old sister.
"That's what they do on TV. If someone breaks their ankle they twist it back into place," He made a cracking sound as he demonstrated with his hands.
"In cartoons," I said.
"Ya, also in cartoons," he nodded. "It always helps."
"What are you doing?" I blurted.
Kate yelled. Davis' back straightened in frozen confusion. "I'm fixing her ankle," he said as he let go of her foot.
"What? How is that helping?" I tried to look calm while my frustration mounted and concern tripled.
He didn't answer.
"Davis, she's hurt her ankle..." we both looked down at his four-year-old sister.
"That's what they do on TV. If someone breaks their ankle they twist it back into place," He made a cracking sound as he demonstrated with his hands.
"In cartoons," I said.
"Ya, also in cartoons," he nodded. "It always helps."
Thursday, 19 January 2012
lunch table
(perspective of Davis, Grade 2)
I like squishy squeezy places. I told my teacher that I like it under the lunch table. The cafeteria in the school basement is very loud. It's echoey. Like a hollow crazy place. Kids move around a lot, even sitting in one spot. Bryan, who usually sits beside me is very jumpy and he bumps into me and bangs against my arm with his arm. I've been thinking that under the table might feel better, and maybe even be quieter. I climbed under there today and crawled near the end against the wall. I had enough room to eat my almond butter sandwich. My brain didn't feel so screamy and my legs weren't trying to run away.
Mrs. Dundas asked me to come out. I didn't hear her at first, so she got my brother to come over and tell me to come out. He asked me why I was under there. I told him "Because I like it", and he said okay and walked away. Mrs. Dundas told me that she had asked me four times to come out and she was going to get the Principal. I really hadn't heard her say it four times. But even if she says it four squared, I am not coming out until all the kids are gone.
When the Principal came she asked me come out, and said I wasn't going to get in trouble. I wanted to make sure, so I told her I was afraid Mrs. Dundas would yell at me and she must be hard of hearing because her loud voice could really echo, so I would rather stay under the table. Mrs. Dundas went to get a drink of water. The bell rang for kids to go outside and the room got quieter after the tables wobbled from their knees hitting them as they got up to go, and then I came out. The Principal told me that the little kids might copy me and that it is not safe to be under the table. I don't mind showing the younger kids how to crouch without getting kicked.
When Mom came to pick me up today I heard my teacher tell her that I went under the table and refused to come out for anyone except the Principal and that shows I was being defiant. I've heard that word before at school, usually with another word too: deliberately defiant.
My teacher reminded my Mom about "the incident in October". I had to apologize to the whole class for that. I am still not sure why. It was silent reading time. I went to the back of the classroom by the couch to pick another book. The books we have in this Grade 2 classroom are very boring and I can read them super fast. The space between the couch and the wall looked like a great place to read silently. I kind of climbed and fell down in there at the same time, and I was right, it did feel good. Then I heard the other kids moving around and the teacher started talking and nobody noticed I wasn't at my desk. I wondered how long it would take for anyone to find me. I still think that was an interesting question. I have an Ironman Timex water resistant watch, with a timer and a button on the side to light up the screen. Which was useful because everyone left and turned the lights off. It was so quiet and peaceful and comfortable. I had never felt so good at school before.
I was kind of hoping they wouldn't find me, but then 30 minutes went by and nobody had come back to the class, so I thought maybe school was over, but it was only 1:15, so that couldn't be it. After 32 minutes I heard the door open and then Ainsley's loud annoying voice that scrapes along my brain. She makes me so mad. She sings all the time too and no one ever tells her to shut up. Mark, the boy who sits beside me asked the teacher where I was. She said "Wasn't he with you all in your computer class?" " No" said Bryan. Mrs. Dundas told the class to wait a minute and we were all quiet. I didn't know why she was leaving the classroom. The computer teacher, Mr. Admor, argued with her that it wasn't his job to keep track of me and she should have been aware that I wasn't there when she dropped her class off at his computer lab upstairs.
Mrs. Dundas gave Mark the red card from her desk that we give to the Principal in case of emergencies, and she told him to take it to the office right away. Everyone else had to sit at their desks and work on their spelling. I was already finished mine, and was still feeling pretty good and cozy. One of the school Aides came to watch the class while my teacher left the room. I was getting a bit bored, but my watch was working well.
When a shadow stood over me I looked up. It was the Aide, with my teacher and the Principal standing behind her, all in a line. Mrs. Dundas said I made everyone search the school grounds and all the classrooms and washrooms. I didn't make them do that. Mrs. Dundas told me to get out of there right now and did I know what a scare I had caused everyone, including some of the kids who were crying. It was only Emily and William, who cry at everything. The Principal said that's not a very nice thing to say and that I missed the point. The Aide said "What do you think of what you've done?" I guess my answer was not what they wanted to hear because Mrs. Dundas grabbed the elbow of the Principal and said "See what I mean, no remorse." She took out a piece of paper and wrote down my answer so she could send in a report and tell my Mom. I only said that I thought I should be congratulated because 43 minutes is the longest I've ever hid without being found. She asked if I felt bad, and of course I said no because it was cozy and quiet and I read my book and my watch can be programmed to save important data like this.
I like squishy squeezy places. I told my teacher that I like it under the lunch table. The cafeteria in the school basement is very loud. It's echoey. Like a hollow crazy place. Kids move around a lot, even sitting in one spot. Bryan, who usually sits beside me is very jumpy and he bumps into me and bangs against my arm with his arm. I've been thinking that under the table might feel better, and maybe even be quieter. I climbed under there today and crawled near the end against the wall. I had enough room to eat my almond butter sandwich. My brain didn't feel so screamy and my legs weren't trying to run away.
Mrs. Dundas asked me to come out. I didn't hear her at first, so she got my brother to come over and tell me to come out. He asked me why I was under there. I told him "Because I like it", and he said okay and walked away. Mrs. Dundas told me that she had asked me four times to come out and she was going to get the Principal. I really hadn't heard her say it four times. But even if she says it four squared, I am not coming out until all the kids are gone.
When the Principal came she asked me come out, and said I wasn't going to get in trouble. I wanted to make sure, so I told her I was afraid Mrs. Dundas would yell at me and she must be hard of hearing because her loud voice could really echo, so I would rather stay under the table. Mrs. Dundas went to get a drink of water. The bell rang for kids to go outside and the room got quieter after the tables wobbled from their knees hitting them as they got up to go, and then I came out. The Principal told me that the little kids might copy me and that it is not safe to be under the table. I don't mind showing the younger kids how to crouch without getting kicked.
When Mom came to pick me up today I heard my teacher tell her that I went under the table and refused to come out for anyone except the Principal and that shows I was being defiant. I've heard that word before at school, usually with another word too: deliberately defiant.
My teacher reminded my Mom about "the incident in October". I had to apologize to the whole class for that. I am still not sure why. It was silent reading time. I went to the back of the classroom by the couch to pick another book. The books we have in this Grade 2 classroom are very boring and I can read them super fast. The space between the couch and the wall looked like a great place to read silently. I kind of climbed and fell down in there at the same time, and I was right, it did feel good. Then I heard the other kids moving around and the teacher started talking and nobody noticed I wasn't at my desk. I wondered how long it would take for anyone to find me. I still think that was an interesting question. I have an Ironman Timex water resistant watch, with a timer and a button on the side to light up the screen. Which was useful because everyone left and turned the lights off. It was so quiet and peaceful and comfortable. I had never felt so good at school before.
I was kind of hoping they wouldn't find me, but then 30 minutes went by and nobody had come back to the class, so I thought maybe school was over, but it was only 1:15, so that couldn't be it. After 32 minutes I heard the door open and then Ainsley's loud annoying voice that scrapes along my brain. She makes me so mad. She sings all the time too and no one ever tells her to shut up. Mark, the boy who sits beside me asked the teacher where I was. She said "Wasn't he with you all in your computer class?" " No" said Bryan. Mrs. Dundas told the class to wait a minute and we were all quiet. I didn't know why she was leaving the classroom. The computer teacher, Mr. Admor, argued with her that it wasn't his job to keep track of me and she should have been aware that I wasn't there when she dropped her class off at his computer lab upstairs.
Mrs. Dundas gave Mark the red card from her desk that we give to the Principal in case of emergencies, and she told him to take it to the office right away. Everyone else had to sit at their desks and work on their spelling. I was already finished mine, and was still feeling pretty good and cozy. One of the school Aides came to watch the class while my teacher left the room. I was getting a bit bored, but my watch was working well.
When a shadow stood over me I looked up. It was the Aide, with my teacher and the Principal standing behind her, all in a line. Mrs. Dundas said I made everyone search the school grounds and all the classrooms and washrooms. I didn't make them do that. Mrs. Dundas told me to get out of there right now and did I know what a scare I had caused everyone, including some of the kids who were crying. It was only Emily and William, who cry at everything. The Principal said that's not a very nice thing to say and that I missed the point. The Aide said "What do you think of what you've done?" I guess my answer was not what they wanted to hear because Mrs. Dundas grabbed the elbow of the Principal and said "See what I mean, no remorse." She took out a piece of paper and wrote down my answer so she could send in a report and tell my Mom. I only said that I thought I should be congratulated because 43 minutes is the longest I've ever hid without being found. She asked if I felt bad, and of course I said no because it was cozy and quiet and I read my book and my watch can be programmed to save important data like this.
Sunday, 15 January 2012
Literally
(fictional interpretation of one sibling relationship)
I’m writing this in my journal. Not the one I decorated at the "Siblings of Kids with Aspergers Bookbinding Craft Group" my Mom took me to so I could write stuff like how much I love my brother and understand how hard things are for him sometimes. That's true. But so is this.
He was going to hand that in! Mom said it was a good rhyme, and informative poetry is refreshing. I know he's way smarter than that because he is on the gifted list at school. He uses such big words, but he freezes if he has to write a story or poem, I think I get good grades in English because I hear him talk. He didn't say thanks, but he cleaned my computer screen after we'd finished with his homework. He told me that the number of oily fingerprints on my screen was consistent with a statistically relevant portion of the population who are unaware that they touch their computers as much as they actually do. He has a special cloth for that, so he rushed to his room to get it. Dad says that's Kevin's way of saying he cares about me.
Sometimes I hate him. I hate how my older brother Kevin checks the weather report every morning on the TV, radio, internet and newspaper. Not because he wants to be prepared for rain by bringing an umbrella, but because he needs to be sure that our all-season tires will be “sufficiently safe” for Mom to get to the clinic where she works so that she can make money to give him allowance every week so he can reach his goal of $170 plus tax for this laser projection keyboard he desperately can barely live without. My Mom reminds him every morning that he has a list of chores to do every day, but he can earn extra money by sweeping the floor or unloading the dishwasher. He just stares at her like she's bonkers and she stares at him without reaching for her wallet. He still makes money from his website that lists battery usage guidelines for hundreds of different cel phones, but it goes into his college fund.
He also cries about stupid stuff, which I think is disturbing. Like, if we don’t have Hellman’s mayonnaise- NON-LITE, because then he can’t eat his ham sandwich, which is all he ever eats. Obviously only full-fat mayonnaise can coat the bread with enough fat content to prevent dreaded seepage of totally needed ketchup. I don’t really know the whole list of ham sandwich hazards because I never stay in the kitchen long enough. Plus I don’t care. Sometimes it just feels good when I open the fridge and see that we only have a little mayo left in the jar, and I use it. I do that when I'm really mad at him and the timing is right. Oh ya, he’ll also eat apples if the peel is off and there are no bruises on it; with a fork so his fingers don’t get sticky! Who does that?
Yesterday he didn’t answer me when I asked him if he liked my new skirt. I really want to look good for Friday because I'm going to my friend Jesse’s house and she has a brother who is cuter than cute. I mean, there's no word for how good looking he is. He's the same age as Kevin, so I thought maybe Kevin would be a good test for how 14-year-old boys think and if they like brown skirts with pink lace along the bottom, but not too much because that would be babyish. Kevin didn’t even look at my skirt; he told me that some boring computer thing called Lion OSX has a new version coming out July 20th.
My brother is the definition of Ass-Burger. I told him that once when he got totally upset when I accidentally stepped on his Nintendo 3DS charger. I got into a lot of trouble for saying that, but it was worth it. He never shuts up about video games! Minecraft this.... Mario Galaxy that.... Lego Star Wars blah blah. And he only wears practically the same clothes every day because they are the only ones that don’t scratch his skin. He won’t let my Mom or Dad touch him lightly, like pat his back, but he's always asking us to squeeze him as hard as we can. How does that make sense?
I guess he’s not so bad. We have a secret system at school. I slip him a fortune cookie at recess from my friend Amber (she's Chinese and doesn't like the fortune cookies her Grandma puts in her lunch everyday) because he collects the ones that tell him he's lucky today. Odd for someone who tells me my horoscope isn't scientifically relevant. He heard on the show 'Age of Persuasion' on CBC radio that people have a neurological dopamine response to the word "lucky" so he's saving them up to give to Dad for Father's Day even though Kevin is sure that luck is a false construct based on a lack of logical reasoning. You can see why he’s confusing. I have to ignore him at school because he doesn’t have any friends.
I guess he’s not so bad. We have a secret system at school. I slip him a fortune cookie at recess from my friend Amber (she's Chinese and doesn't like the fortune cookies her Grandma puts in her lunch everyday) because he collects the ones that tell him he's lucky today. Odd for someone who tells me my horoscope isn't scientifically relevant. He heard on the show 'Age of Persuasion' on CBC radio that people have a neurological dopamine response to the word "lucky" so he's saving them up to give to Dad for Father's Day even though Kevin is sure that luck is a false construct based on a lack of logical reasoning. You can see why he’s confusing. I have to ignore him at school because he doesn’t have any friends.
I'm also doing really well in English. I love to write and I have a flare for the dramatic my teacher says. My brother has the imagination of a knat. If I hadn’t helped him write his poetry for English he would have failed his assignment for sure.
Bill Gates
With Windows 8
With Windows 8
Picked the dates
It’s going to be late
I can’t wait to get Windows 8
He was going to hand that in! Mom said it was a good rhyme, and informative poetry is refreshing. I know he's way smarter than that because he is on the gifted list at school. He uses such big words, but he freezes if he has to write a story or poem, I think I get good grades in English because I hear him talk. He didn't say thanks, but he cleaned my computer screen after we'd finished with his homework. He told me that the number of oily fingerprints on my screen was consistent with a statistically relevant portion of the population who are unaware that they touch their computers as much as they actually do. He has a special cloth for that, so he rushed to his room to get it. Dad says that's Kevin's way of saying he cares about me.
I’m in my room right now because Mom told me I need a break for a while, which is fine because I’d rather be in here than stay in the kitchen with him. He told me my hair looks messy, like I just woke up. I did it special today! I told him to take a hike, keep your shirt on, and make hay while the sun shines. It was all I could think of. Kevin started up about how he can’t go for a hike because we don’t live near a mountain and he can’t get to one because he doesn't have a drivers license. He asked me why he would take his shirt off, the temperature is a bit low in the house, and he started to stutter about the hay thing. This is an awesome way to confuse my brother and stay out of serious trouble myself by pretending to forget he takes everything literally. I left before I could hear the same lecture about how Kevin says stuff he thinks is true and he's still learning that some things hurt people’s feelings. He told a girl in my class that she should go to Weight Watchers and cut down on junk food, and she's my friend! Ya, she’s fat but anybody knows that’s rude to say right to her face. I do think it’s funny when he tells the Principal that she has bad breath. No matter how many times my parents tell him that it’s not polite to say, he still does it. He says it’s the truth and that he's being helpful, plus she could get some mint gum from the vending machine, but if she forgets or can’t afford it he could get some for her as a present. He’s so embarrassing.
My parents are always telling me to watch out for Kevin. He's older than me, he's a boy, and barely notices me. They don't get it. They take me to a friend’s house but then say I'm lucky because I make friends so easily. Why do I have to feel lucky because Kevin can’t do something and I can? And by the way, the word lucky doesn't cause a spike in my brain happy chemicals. It's not like he even wants to hang out with me. And we don’t do much as a family, like we can’t all go to the beach because Kevin will freak out that the water is sticky and the sand feels like glass on his bare feet, but he also won’t wear shoes because the sand gets in his shoes and that's just as bad. And I don’t think the ocean stinks, it smells great. It’s so relaxing.
Mom says it’s okay for me to feel mad at Kevin. She listens to what I say, most of the time. But… she doesn’t see that he's so selfish. I guess I’m mad too because Kevin makes her so happy. She smiled for days when he learned to ride his bike, when he was 9! I learned when I was 4. I’ve never seen her try so hard to hold back tears as when Kevin stood up and sang a bit of a song for music appreciation day in front of the whole school. When I do something good, she just smiles and hugs me and puts her hands on my cheeks and stares into my eyes. I don't see any tears. My brother doesn't notice when people are happy or sad, won't let anyone hug him and no one could ever touch his face or look into his eyes without him having a major meltdown, or he would just walk away. And not see that I smile too.
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