Student Parent

“Anyone who has never made a mistake, has never tried anything new.”~ Albert Einstein

July 24, 2006

Ben was due.  Josh had returned early from a 7 month deployment to Afghanistan – thankfully – safe, and in time for Ben’s arrival.

I was in the hospital for a late routine appointment and got the news that we’d be checking in.  It was D-Day.  I called Josh, who was home with Grayson, Mark, and John.  It would be a couple hours until he could get there to join me.

So I called Carla, my friend and lifeline for years while Josh was deployed.  She was there before I knew it, keeping me company through the check in and get settled process.  This was our fourth child; I was pretty mellow.  Carla – supremely, highly intense to begin with, was blazing a trail pacing back and forth across the room while we waited for Josh.

Our nurse walked in.  She was very young and visibly nervous.  “Hi, I’m Jeannie and I’ll be taking care of you today.”  She came to the side of the bed and began to fiddle with a tray full of instruments.  “Okay now”, she kept her gaze fixed on the tray.  “Time for your IV.”  She picked up a tube and then a needle.  And then a different tube, and a thingamajig and a bigger needle.  With an awkward laugh, she told us that she usually works at such and such hospital, and the equipment here was so much different.  I figured she was a student and waited, feeling the heat of Carla’s watchful eye as she came closer and stood protectively at my side.

I started to feel sorry for Jeannie.

Minutes passed, and she made her selections from the tray and approached me, needle in hand.  Not a fan of watching the process, I looked away.  poke, pinch “Wooops!”, she said.  Not exactly what you want to hear, but better now than later.  I glanced back over and she saw her fidgeting again with stuff on the tray.  Red splotches began rising along Carla’s chest and throat.  It’s okay, don’t worry, I willed her to stay calm.  She’s extremely passionate and an unbelievably talented basketball coach - I’ve seen what happens when she gets fired up.

poke, pinch “Wooops!”

poke, pinch “Wooops!”

Jeannie was struggling.  She had tried 3 times unsuccessfully to start an IV.  Carla was on the far side of the room now, with her arms crossed tightly, containing herself, sort of.  I’d decided to give it one more try before suggesting we take a break.  I said a little prayer for Jeannie, gave Carla a wink and a thumbs up, and turned away to wait for the final stick.

A choir of angels sang over us as the needle hit its mark.  Jeannie looked exhausted; relief washed over her.  Carla’s fists began to unfurl.  We’re good, don’t worry, I gave my taped hand a slight raise in her direction -”See?”.

At that moment, Jeannie stood from her wheelie chair.  Her clipboard caught a loop of tubing as she stepped away - ripping the IV from my hand.

It was a bloodbath.

Carla flew 8 feet in one step, her hands on her head, her mouth dropped to the floor.  “YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!”

Jeannie was white as a sheet, a stark contrast to the bubbling river of red running from my hand to the sheets and puddling on the floor.

Uncharacteristically calm, I grabbed a spare pillowcase and pressed it to the back of my hand.  “I’m fine, don’t worry”, I spoke over Jeannie as she mopped up blood from the floor and frantically searched cabinets in the room for fresh sheets and a new hospital johnnie.  “I’m so sorry”, she stammered.  She was mortified.  “Maybe I’ll just go get my supervisor”.

“No, it’s okay.  Let’s try again.”, I said.  The story would have a happy ending.

And it did.  Jeannie pulled it together and found a vein right away.

We didn’t see her again that day, but I’ve thought of her over the last few years.

*

We’ve been where she was.

We are student parents.

We fiddle with our instrument trays, taking time to select which tools might be appropriate for which child.  Hoping we get it right.  We have stuck and missed.  Tried and failed.  We have been nervous and have felt incompetent.  We work to hold it together.  We hope it seems that we know what we’re doing.  But there have been occasions where our facade has cracked or crumbled, exposing us for what we really are – just doing the best we can.

The boys are typical patients.  Different from one another, but generally predictable.  We pull back the curtains, examine, assess the issues at hand, and treat with relative confidence.

Grayson is an extra-ordinary patient.  We face additional challenges in making decisions on her behalf.  We spend more time hovering over our tray, selecting some tools, leaving others behind.   Her veins are never where we expect them to be.  She refuses to stay still most of the time.  And it’s hard to explain to her why she should.

Like Jeannie, with all of our kids, we’ve missed a stick or two.

Like her, we learn from those that have travelled this road before us.  Our own parents, our grandparents, respected friends.  They teach us, support us as we step up to assume the roles they have trained us for.  They are there for counsel and advice.  They still care for us, even as we care for our own.

We pray that we won’t yank a tube along the way.

That at the end of the day, our children will have received all of the love and care they need.

That they will be healthy and strong,

That they will know joy in its fullest forms,

and that we will have done all we possibly can to equip them for all that is in store in their futures.

They are our students and our teachers.

We all have a lot to learn.

Even Keeled

“When the habitually even-tempered suddenly fly into a passion, that explosion is apt to be more impressive than the outburst of the most violent amongst us.” ~ Margery Allingham

John is even keeled.  Though he has a twinkle in his eye, he is mostly on the quiet side, an observer, cautious, measured.  He thinks things through before he acts.  He is an outlier on the in-house excitability scale, calm and reserved (as is his father) in comparison to the rest of us.

In the midst of waves and winds ever swirling round his brothers and the tornado that is his sister, John somehow manages to keep himself anchored in the eye of the storm.

But today he is having a D A Y.

The early morning is crunch time here.  We’ve got a little over an hour to get everyone up, bathed, dressed, breakfasted, and out the door for school.  I count on Grayson and Mark to give me a run for my money most days.  Grayson can’t seem to sit still and is often anxious in the last minute perfectings of her own morning agenda.  Mark is wired, and a master at provoking his siblings.  I know it.  It’s part of the morning drill.  Ben can hold his own.  He is often on the receiving end of Mark’s shenanigans and his shrill protests are routine.

John is lured into the chaos sometimes, but he is rarely the instigator.  Today over breakfast, he boldly stepped up to usurp Mark’s role.  Snatching, mimicking, needling, mischievious, he was at the root of an uproar at the table.  “MOOOOOMM!!!”, the choir played.  Gah!!  No fair!!  Enemy forces are multiplying and I’m all alone!!    Fire the cannons!! “Hey!  No lunch desert!!”   Fire two!! “No Noggin dot com!!”

It took all I had this morning to make it through breakfast.  We piled into the Suburban and headed out to catch the bus.  I eyed a naughty stranger in the rear view mirror.   What was that all about??

*

Mark and Grayson hopped on their busses, we waved them off, and it was just the little boys and me.  I treasure time alone with one or two of our kids.  There is more of me to offer, moments of quiet, and time to really know each other.

We made our routine stop at Starbucks.  The boys picked out a table and we sat together, their small hands wrapped tightly around hot cocoas, mine cradling a morning cup of sanity.  The waters seemed to be settling.  I chalked up the early morning to a fluke.

But it wasn’t.

Storm clouds gathered and burst over our next stop.

Sunoco.  I pulled in to Power Vac the truck.  John spotted an abandoned toy monkey next to the trash can beside the vacuum.  He scrambled out of the truck and claimed it as his own.  “Hey!  Look what I found!”, he exclaimed.  I glanced at the monkey – broken, dirty, yucky.  “No honey, we’re not keeping that”.  And the dam burst.  He kicked and screamed and cried and flailed.  He could not be reasoned with.  What in the world?!

We finished our business and called a time out on the morning.

Straight home we went and up the stairs.  I sat beside him on his bed.  “What is going on buddy?  Why are you behaving this way?”  “I wanted that monkey.”  We went back and forth a few times.  It’s hard, at four, to pull together words to explain complex feelings.  So we just sat together and I held him, rubbed his back and ran my fingers through his hair.  I could feel his body relaxing.  “Mom?”  “Yes?”  The clouds were clearing; I braced myself for a profound revelation. “Can I watch Sci-Q?”  okay – “Sure.”

We walked down the stairs together, our differences behind us.  I set him up in the throne – an old Pirates of the Carribean fold out camping chair, tucked a soft blanket around him, and turned on the TV.  The screen flickered and a familiar tune played “…we put it in our notebook and it’s Whooo’s Clues?  Bluuue’s Clues!!”… “Noooo!!!  NOT BLUES CLUES!!”, Imposter John roared and simultaneously flipped backwards  in his camping chair.

Stunned by the fall, he lay back on the floor, cushioned by a soft rug and the blanket he’d been tucked in.

Stunned by his outburst, I stood staring down at him as he lay there.

Our eyes met, and the silence was broken with rising belly laughs.

.

With that, the spell was broken.

My even keeled, mellow Johnny was back and the rest of our day was welcomely uneventful.

We’ll hope for the same tomorrow.

Explosion

“As in an explosion, I would erupt with all the wonderful things I saw and understood in this world.” ~ Boris Pasternak

 

It’s Saturday morning.  O-dark-thirty. 

SMACK!  In a sudden and rude awakening, I jolt upright and come face to face with Little Bear.  She has colored, cut, and taped fuzzy brown ears to her forehead.  A label, crookedly attached to her chest announces her latest identity – b e a r.  I raise a hand to my own forehead, fingering a jaggedly cut paper firmly affixed above my brows.  “Grayson, what am I?”, I ask groggily.  “It’s a brown hat!”, she replies.  Seemingly  satisfied, she runs away.  I flop back on a pillow, pull up the blankets, and snuggle back down.  It’s cold.  And it’s Saturday. 

WHOOSH!  It is minutes later.  She’s back and in one quick move she’s flipped back layers of blankets and sheets.  Exposed now, in thin jammies and a crumpled brown paper hat, I sit up.  “You want a blue shirt!”, she says, emphatically, her face inches from mine.  “Okay”, I manage, straightening to offer her my chest and stomach.  She is holding an 8X10 sheet of paper – one side covered in small rolled pieces of blue masking tape.  The other, cut and colored to replicate a blue apron.  She plasters the paper to my chest.  We are creating the character cast from Nickelodeon’s Little Bear.  I’m the Mama. 

She stands before me, scrutinizing, evaluating, primping, perfecting.  “You see a Mama Bear!”, she declares.  I pass.  She takes off.

“Johnny!!”, she is calling.  “Johnny!!  You want to make a duck!!”.   Johnny is a duck this morning, a yellow triangle taped to his back side, a label on his chest.  d u c k

Later, we’ll laugh to find Josh manning the Saturday morning skillet - a spatula in hand, two fuzzy brown ears taped to his forehead and letters on his chest – b e a r - confirming his role in the day’s play. 

Mark and Ben wait in the wings for their assignments.  Soon, the casting call will be complete.  Then, this show will close and another will open.   

*

A light bulb went off for Grayson.

This week we have been living an explosion of pretend play. 

We have been the Backyardigans – antlers, antennae and propeller caps taped to our heads. 

We have been “Higgly Top Heroes”, pizza boxes and h i r o  labels pressed to our chests. 

We have been monkeys.  b l u e  m o c e  and r e d  m o c e .

We have been JoJo and Veggies and Little Einsteins. 

  

At night, we read stories. 

• “Little Sal followed her Mama over blueberry hill”, we say.  “Little Grayson followed her Mama over blueberry hill.”  We stand corrected. 
• “Once upon a time, there were three little bunnies.  Rosie, Posie, and Dozie chased fireflies in the – ” “Marco Bunny!  Johnny Bunny!  Grayson Bunny!”.  We amend. 

*

Swept up in a flood of fantasy, it seems that Grayson is making up for lost time. 

Josh and I offer ourselves freely.  We are coaching the boys.  Hey, this is a really cool time for your sister.  She is learning how to play!  We can help.  They are good sports, submitting themselves along with us, waiting expectantly for their assigned roles.

In the midst of a storm of creative energy and excitement, Grayson’s fuse is short and she is very easily frustrated.  A piece of tape sticks to another.  Her depiction of an owl does not come out exactly as intended.  “EEEEWW!!  Your tires are STUCK!!”, “III’m STUCK!!” she screams.  And screams.   Exasperation and anxiety plague her as she works. 

But she refuses help. 

She is spunky and determined.  Tenacious, independent. 

Messy, loud, demanding, unpredictable, and full of energy. 

She is moving, moving, always moving. 

Two steps forward, one step back, and then a leap and a bound. 

   

This week, on the heels of 2 stormy months fighting to hold ground, we stand witness to the latter.

A bright, explosive awakening in Imagination, Exploration, Pretend, Play,  and Self Discovery.

 

Make All Better

Grayson kicked Johnny in the head tonight. 

Often times, autism comes along with a variety of sensory processing differences.  In Grayson’s case, her body demands a high amount of deep pressure and movement in order to organize her central nervous system.  We do what we can to offer her the input she needs each day.  At home, she has a rock wall in her room.  She jumps from furniture and stairs.  She does gymnastics several times a week.  She has an intensive sensory program at school and opportunities throughout her day to bounce, climb, jump, and swing.  And she has a pull up bar that hooks over any standard door frame.  She loves to swing from it. 

Tonight, she hooked the bar in a doorway in the hall.  She was in a full force swing when Johnny happened by and they collided hard. 

Johnny was startled and hurt.  I scooped him up and held him on the couch while he cried. 

Usually, when someone is hurt, Grayson carries on with her own activities and appears indifferent.  If she is at fault, we facilitate an apology.  She will supply the prompted words – “I’m sorry!” and then she is off running. 

So tonight I was surprised when she immediately dropped from her bar and ran to the couch where Johnny and I were sitting. 

“Don’t cry Scarecrow!”, she said.  She stood by him and brought her face close to his. 

“It’s okay Boots!”, she added.  She looked awkward, like she didn’t know what to do with herself.  But she clearly wanted to help. 

“Grayson, pat his back, like this”, I said.  I showed her.  She copied. 

“It’s okay Boots!”, she said again, “It’s okay Grayson!”, and finally, “It’s okay Johnny!”. 

Her brow furrowed, and she leaned in again.  This time, she wiped his tears with her hands.  It was an incredibly tender gesture coming from her. 

And then she ran off. 

I leaned in to Johnny and whispered my own thoughts in a shared moment with him. “Hey buddy, do you know how special that was?  Do you see how she was loving you?  She was trying to make you feel better!”    He got it too.  I had watched the interchange between them – they had both seemed unsure, treading on new ground in a place they had not been together.

And then suddenly, she was back. 

She had a band-aid in her right hand.  She squatted beside him on the couch, and carefully stuck it to his head. 

“Make all better!”, she declared. 

And she did. 

She Lied

lie

– (lī) verb//:  to speak falsely or utter untruth knowingly, as with intent to deceive.

One of the cardinal sins in our home is lying. Josh and I bring down the hammer when we catch our kids in a lie.  It has happened from time to time with each of our boys.  But we have never caught Grayson, because she doesn’t lie.  She has never told a lie.

Until now.

On non-sports days, 4:15 is “rest” time at our house.  Ben usually naps, while the big kids have 45 minutes to play together in the basement playroom, or upstairs in their bedrooms.   Lately, Grayson has been fighting the process.  She loves to bake and draw pictures on the main floor of the house, so she’s been trying to sneak up or down when it is rest time.  She’s stealthy – I see her scooting down the stairs, one at a time, quietly.  When she sees me catch sight of her, she makes a dash for the baking cabinet.  “Grayson,”, I’ll say, my voice thick with warning, “It’s rest time.  Go back up/downstairs”.  She will race off then, shouting a few choice expletives my way - “Eeee!  Eeee!”  “Goooeey Geyser!!”

On Monday, she got a new idea.  “Mommy!!”, she called down the stairs, “You need to make a pee-pee!”.  “Okay Grayson”.  We have established that she is allowed to come down the stairs during rest time to use her preferred potty on the main floor.

Only this time, she came down the stairs, and guiltily, deliberately ran past the bathroom and straight to the baking cabinet.

For a second, I was thrown off.  But then it hit me -

SHE LIED!!

The significance of the lie trumped the broken rule.

Lying is an advanced cognitive process.  A child who is planning a lie must recognize the truth, intellectually conceive of an alternate reality, and then convincingly sell that new reality to another person.  Lying also requires empathy, the ability to understand and suppose what someone else might be thinking or feeling.   Empathy is a particularly slippery sucker for most people with autism.  This week, Grayson got her hands around it and held on.

*

Though it may seem grossly unjust, we are holding back the hammer.

In yet another unexpected adjustment in our parenting plans, this week, we are partying over a deception.

Dance With Me

Dance With Me Mommy

more about “Dance With Me“, posted with vodpod

 

Dance With Me Mommy

We don’t spend much time on the bell curve with Grayson.

She cannot be contained by averages and scales and norm charts.  She floats way out above, below to the left or right, or off the page all together.

Three months after Grayson was born, my friend Heather, a sister to me,  had her daughter, Maria.  I remember one day, our girls were a little over two years old.  Heather and I were talking on the phone, and Maria came to her.  I could her her sweet, small voice as she approached Heather.  “Dance with me Mommy, Dance with me!”

Thwaaack. It was the first time I remember feeling hit hard with the differences between Grayson and her peers.  At the time, we were struggling to help her put two words together.  Mark was one, and I was pregnant with John.  We piled in the Suburban every day, taking Grayson to speech therapy, occupational therapy, music therapy, and preschool.  We waited together in waiting rooms and listened through doors – “Is this a baaall?”, a therapist would ask, her voice animated.  There was silence.  Eventually the therapist would supply her own answer – “Nooo!  It’s a horse!”

“Dance with me Mommy!”

Talking with Heather that day, I realized fully how important it was going to be for me to keep my focus directly on my own daughter.  I would need to fight destructive urges to compare her to her peers or to our other children.  She was going to have her own charts.   We would set the bar high for her.  But as others vaulted over to the left and right, or missed all together, we would commit to keeping our sights on boosting her up in her own ways and in her own time.

For the most part, we keep our focus where it should be.

But still, sometimes we get hit.

“Mommy”.  John and I were driving away one day after dropping Grayson off at school last year.  “How come Grayson doesn’t talk?”   Thwaaack! She had come so far and worked so hard.  I felt the urge to defend her.  “She does talk Johnny”, I said.  “Well, she doesn’t talk to me”, he replied.  Ouch.

“Mommy!”, the kids were playing in the upstairs loft last week. “Grayson ruined my Crystal Sweeper!!  She smashed it!”  Mark was crying and angry, a pile of Lego pieces in his hands.  ”I’m sorry Buddy, we’ll fix it; she just didn’t understand.”  “Well she should understand”, he replied , “She is seven years old“.  Thwaaack!!

Seven years old.

The boys are getting older.  They will be on the front lines with Grayson.  We have started explaining to them what we still work on ourselves.  It is a big lesson to learn.  “Grayson’s brain works differently”.  “She is learning more all the time, but sometimes she will say and do things that we don’t expect and sometimes she will make mistakes.”  ”We have to be extra patient, even when it is hard.  She is trying her best”.

*

Although Grayson is most affected, we all share in lives touched by autism.

We share when there are times to celebrate.

“Mommy!  Grayson is tickling me!!”

“Grayson made me my breakfast!”

“Mommy!  Grayson smiled at me!!”

And we lean on each other when the hits come.

Grayson is reading, writing, and spelling.  She is supremely coordinated and athletic and filled with boundless energy.   She is pure and innocent and untouched by the world – way off the charts in many beautiful and unmeasurable variables.

We will dance in our fashion.

*

 

No Pelé

Today, we had the awards ceremony and party celebrating the end of Mark’s Fall Pee Wee Soccer season. 

This was season 3 for Mark playing soccer.

The first two seasons, he was coached by the Wiggles, a crew of goofy Brittish college boys whose primary purpose seemed to be entertaining their teams and themselves.  We are pretty sure that he came away from those seasons thinking that soccer is a game where you hide a black and white ball under your shirt and run in circles. 

This season was a whole different ballgame.  There were rules, warm up exercises, drills, and scrimmages every practice.   The tone of the league was both laid back and organized; they knew how to teach the game of soccer.  261 kindergarteners participated, had fun, developed an understanding of the game and built a foundation of skills. 

A genuine Soccer Mom, I came to every practice and settled in to a fold out chair on the sidelines, coffee in hand, poised and ready to cheer on my son.   

It took only a few practices watching Mark to begin to notice that he and I are way different in our approaches to playing sports.  I’m a competitor, aggressive on the field, acutely aware of what is happening around me.  Mark has a natural athletic talent.  He is coordinated, fast, and picks up new motor skills quickly.  He could compete and do well in any sport.  But it seems that for now, he is much more interested in socializing than competing. 

I could hear him from my spot on the sidelines as the ball was kicked off to start his first scrimmage.  He was calling from his position on the wing to a full back on the opposing team. “Oh hey!  I know you!  You’re in Miss Clemens class and you go to my school and hey!  Cool shoes!”. 

“Maaark!!!” 

“Buddy – Go get the ball!!”   

“Marco!  Pay attention!!”

“For goodness sakes buddy! Hustle!!” 

He’d cast a smile and an exaggerated thumbs up in my direction.  And then it was back to business.  Hopping around on one foot, flirting with girls, and cheering other players on both teams as they whizzed past him left and right.  “Hey!  Good job You!  Lookin’ good!”  “Nice goin’ bud!, Yeeah!!”  His account for how well a game went was based on whether he’d scored a play date before it was time to go. 

*

What to do with this? 

Josh and I have committed to identifying and encouraging each of our kids in their own talents and interests.  Before they were born, I joked that we’d probably end up with a bunch of accordian players.  He said if that was the case, we’d look to find redeeming qualities in the accordian and if there were none we could see then we’d just be good with seeing our kids loving it. 

I’d love for my boys to play soccer.  But as this third season was drawing to a close, I wondered if maybe Mark might prefer another sport.  So I asked him a couple weeks ago.  “Hey Marco, would you like to sign up for soccer again?  Or would you like to try out a different sport?  It’s up to you.  You make the choice and then be sure, whatever it is, to give it your best.”   He thought for a minute or two, and then announced that he might like to try golf or hockey.  Okay then.  I told him we’d look into it. 

He had his final game on Sunday afternoon.  It was the first weekend game and the sidelines were packed with dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles and neighbors.  We were there in full Norbury force, sending up silent prayers that Grayson would not steal the ball or scale the goal. 

I’d become accustomed to Mark and his soccer antics.  But Josh was there this time - ”Hey, what’s he doing out there?”  It was cold and wet outside, so Mark was flapping his shirt sleeves and giving his usual shout outs to players around him.  “Hey bud, nice shot!  Sure is chilly out here!  Hey, whatcha doin’ after practice today?”  “That’s what he does”, I told Josh.  He’s playing his accordian. 

Today was it.  The awards ceremony, certificate presentation, and soccer party. 

Mark sat shoulder to shoulder with his team mates, eating, talking, and straining to touch their tongues to their noses.   I sat back with the moms, sipping a juice box and thinking about golf and hockey.

But then, one gold medal, one cupcake with shimmery purple sprinkles, one chocolate chip cow pattie, and two phone numbers later, and soccer was “the best sport ever!!”

Spring sign up sheets were passed around, and Mark signed at the top of the list.

It looks like we’ll be back. 

By then, I expect we’ll have seen half of the league for play dates in our living room and Marco will enter the season armed with plenty of fodder for conversation.

I Am JoJo

The DSM-IV (American Psychiatric Association) diagnostic criteria for autistic disorder includes a lack of varied, spontaneous make-believe play or social imitative play appropriate to developmental level as one of the indicators of autism.

*

Children with autism show abnormal play and limitations in imagination.  This is particularly apparent in symbolic and pretend play.

When Grayson was first diagnosed with PDD, we took her to see a well known developmental psychologist in Chapel Hill who specialized in autism.  I remember the visit well.  Grayson was 2 years old.  We stepped into her office, and the doctor sat down on the floor next to Grayson and dumped out a big bucket of pretend food on the floor.  Then we all sat back to see how she would play with them.

I knew before she began what she would do.

She immediately collected all of the eggs, separated them from the rest of the food, and lined them up in a neat row.  She then returned to the pile and repeated the process with all like groups of foods – within minutes, we had perfectly lined rows of corn, hot dogs, apples, bananas, etc.  The psychologist picked up a pear and pretended to take a bite. ”Mmmm!!”, said the doctor.  She held out the pear to Grayson – “Would you like a bite?”  Ignoring the question, Grayson took the lone pear and relegated it to the reject pile of foods with no mates.

The visit was a good representation of the play we knew Grayson to prefer.  She lined things up.  She stacked.  She sorted.  She would often carry 2 matching somethings in her right and left hands.   Her second birthday presents were all collections of Two’s.  Two hippos, two moraccas, two slinkies.  Always two.

She had her own play with her own rules.  Peek-a-boo games were lost on her.  Dress up and costumes were of no interest.  There were no tea parties, no dolls and playing house, no imitation typical of little girls.

She did her thing, and we’d play along with her, sifting, sorting, lining up, digging in dirt, splashing… whatever she would allow us to join her in we did.  But we knew it was atypical.  We knew that there were some who would recommend thwarting the rituals.  We knew that it would serve her well to learn to imitate, copy, pretend.  But she just wasn”t there yet.  She didn’t respond when we tried to engage her in play of that sort.  So we joined her where she was.

The development of symbolic pretend play seems to have much to offer in the remediation of the core difficulties that are experienced by children with autism (Sherratt, 1999).

We have been blown away lately watching Grayson change.

She is engaging in and initiating forms of play that we have rarely seen from her in the past – She is pretending.

*

A couple months ago, she began assigning character roles to friends and family.  She began by bestowing the title of “Tasha” upon my friend Ali.  Ali, who is wonderful with and loves Grayson, understood the significance of the gesture and was happy to assume the role of a dancing yellow Hippo.  To Grayson, she has been Tasha for months now.  A week or two later, Josh accepted his new title, Pablo.  And I was dubbed Uniqua.  She is pretending; We are the Backyardigans.

*

Over the past several weeks, she has been planning and hosting birthday parties.  She finds old toys, old shoes, art supplies and she wraps them thoroughly with paper towels and many rolls of tape.  Then she draws “bows” and tapes them on her “presents”.  Then she folds, cuts, and colors her own party hats.  And she bakes,  frosts, and decorates cakes.  She adds candles, and invites us all to celebrate.

*

She’s been planting cornfields (and a scarecrow):

*

She’s been a princess, and a princess, and a princess!

*

Yesterday, I came into the kitchen to find her like this:

“Grayson, what are you doing?”, I asked.

“I am JoJo!”, came her answer.

*

Today, we all went to cheer on Mark in his Soccer season finale.  Before the game, the kids played on a playground by the fields.  It was cold and wet so Josh and I enjoyed our coffee while the kids climbed.  Grayson broke from the playground and came running to us.  “You want chocolate!”, she said.  “Grayson, honey, we don’t have chocolate here.  First soccer, then home and chocolate”.  “Here is the chocolate!”, she said.  She thrust a mulch chip toward Josh.  He stooped down and she tried to force feed him.  “Here you go chocolate!”, she said, opening her own mouth as she pressed the mulch chip to Josh’s.  Yes!

*

If it was just that size 4 Ali is a hippo, I could call it a fluke.

But there is so much more.

There are pretend parties, costumes, make believe food, and paper gardens.  There are elaborate lego creations, imaginative and varied drawings, bee holes in trees.

There is a new flexibility in thought and a lightening of the shadow cast by rigidity.

It may just be time to dust off the teacups.

 

Hall-o-ween Hall-o-ween Hall-o-ween

Saturday morning was gray and rainy.

Four hopeful trick-or-treaters stood in full costume at 8am, looking out the window as drops pummelled the glass and puddles formed on the walk.

“Can you check the weather Mommy?”,  one little knight’s brow furrowed with concern beneath his shining silvery hood.

“Oh I think it will clear up by tonight”, I say.  “And if it’s still rainy, we’ll take umbrellas”.

Nothing was going to keep us from this long awaited night.  For weeks, we have been talking about it.  Planning for it.  Selecting and reselecting our costumes, waiting eagerly for their arrival or their creation.  There have been celebrations at school.  Halloween Parades.  We have shopped with caution, avoiding the scary displays at Target and the grocery store.  Boycotting Walgreens.

Halloween was finally here.  We were counting down only hours now until it was time for the main event  – Trick or Treating.

At 6:00 it was dark.  The kids were like thoroughbread race horses waiting at the gates for the sound of the gun.  “Okay!”

And then, they were off:

Trick or treating can be risky with a kid as unpredictable and quick as Grayson is.  We never know what to expect as we knock on neighbors doors and they open with Grayson positioned dangerously in between them and us.

Last year, an open door was an invitation to come inside and make herself at home.  We made more than one desperate grab at the trails of her princess gown as she attempted to push past neighbors and into their homes.  And when those attempts were thwarted, she’d lunge to grab their candy baskets in their entireties.  We mastered ’sorry about that’ gestures and expressions and arrived home ready for a glass of wine and with a mental note to have a couple before heading out the next year.

This year we were braced for a repeat of last.  As doors opened, Josh positioned himself stategically and assumed our familiar posture – ‘poised for whatever’.

I am amazed to report (though by now we should expect the unexpected) that we pulled off Halloween with barely a hitch.  The kids ran happily all together from one house to the next, knocking, waiting, taking “one”, and remembering their “thank you!”s before racing off to the next doorstep.

Grayson understood and was thoroughly delighted with the whole experience.  She scurried happily from house to house, quietly singing, “Hall-o-ween!  Hall-o-ween!  Hall-o-ween!”  Two small knights and a space villain joined in the chorus.

Josh and I followed in their wake, taking in the night.  It was wet and rainy, windy and Fally, and really an excellent Halloween.