The Next Thing

 

After muddling through six years of public school, advocating for services, collaborating (and occasionally arguing) with school staff, stressing out every time the school number appears on the caller ID (what happened NOW?) we’ve finally decided to Give Up.

We used every resource we could find. Brought every possible idea to the table. Suggested successful methods tried by other parents.

Although we have done everything within our power, both kids’ performance and behavior at school has continued to tank.

He doesn’t want to interact with other kids and attempts to get suspended so he can come home.

She’s failing on purpose because she “gets more attention for a failing grade than a passing grade.” (Not kidding. Parenting a kid with RAD is the equivalent of standing on your head and reading backwards. Toss out everything you know about parenting.)

Finally, we’ve reached the last straw. I am going to try the only thing left in my arsenal.

Next school year, I’m going to let Hubby sleep with the teacher. 

No, really.

Because this fall, the teacher will be me.

We give up trying to get our boy to mold his Autistic behind into a hard plastic classroom seat.

We give up cajoling our girl to perform in a classroom, when the attention she craves is ours.

We give up what we’ve held tight for so long.

We empty our hands, holding them open to grasp the next thing.

We are going to home school.

Having been home schooled myself for almost a decade, I think I have a pretty good handle on the realities of home schooling. I’m under no illusions.

Here’s how I would like to imagine our year will go:

4876331893_658b7d782f_m

Photo Credit: Susy Morris

But I’m fully aware that this is much more likely:

8984321269_6fb234362e_z

Photo Credit: Astrid Budi

It won’t be easy, and some days may not be much fun. In the long run, though, it’s what they need.

And somehow, I’m really looking forward to finding the best ways to help them learn. Researching learning resources is becoming something of an obsession.

Plus, I get to sleep with the Principal.

 

 

 

Give Up

5458653194_8a55441f09_z

Photo credit: imelda

This has been the year from heck, educationally speaking.

Thank God for our Assistant Principal. Not only is he adopted himself, he also has an incredible ability to empathize with trauma kids and understand kids with special needs.

If only the IEP team members were all so gifted.

Several times this year, I requested meetings to discuss our boy’s classroom behavior (which is unconventional but explainable when one takes the time to see through his eyes). His Autism Spectrum Disorder has begun to shine through with amazing beauty—or a vengeance, depending upon your perspective.

I requested a one-to-one behavioral aide, which he’s had in the past but never with this particular school. The aide gave him an extra layer of self-control by monitoring the situation for triggers, then reminding him to focus.

We’re lining up for lunch. Other children will be close to you and may touch you. This is okay. You’re perfectly safe.

or

Sitting quietly during testing is important. You’ll need to focus. No chirping, squeaking or other noises. I’ll give you a check mark for every minute you are silent.

This didn’t always work and we went through several aides before finding the right fit, but by the end of first grade we were able to phase out the aide. In fifth, he regressed. We weren’t at physical-aggression-because-I’m-angry level anymore, but his self-management went out the window by the end of September.

There is much to be said for personality match when pairing a teacher with a special needs child. We had stellar matches for him in third and fourth grade; I credit his teachers for the incredible leaps he made both in social and educational arenas.

The fifth grade teacher is a GREAT teacher. Neurotypical kids probably adore her.

But she’s not a personality match for my son, and he’s not a match for her. No one is at fault; it’s just the way things are.

Part of the struggle, I believe, is a simple lack of exposure. Maybe she’s never had a Spectrum kid in her classroom.

Thanks to trial and error, the fourth grade teacher found that putting him in a desk by himself—in the corner with fewest articles on the walls—helped him focus. He began participating more fully in spite of the separation she perceived as potentially problematic.

I suggested (and the school psychologist agreed) that the fifth grade teacher should do the same. Until then, she’d kept her classroom desks in groups of four or five. One of the daily points of contention happened when another child touched his things (inevitable at close range, because his desk tended to overflow). The teacher disagreed with the tactic but said she would comply with the group consensus.

Arriving in the classroom to drop off supplies about a week later, I found that she had placed his desk alone, as asked, but IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM, allowing for three-hundred-sixty degrees of incoming stimulation. Anyone with experience would never consider the middle of the room a viable spot for a kid with ASD.

Our boy is focused on the end result. Consequential forethought is rare; he almost never thinks about how his choices may affect others.

For instance: a friend told him that when he stamps his foot, his shoes light up. He neglected to provide a demonstration. Our guy thought about those lights all day. His impulse control held fast until about thirty minutes prior to pickup. He couldn’t take it anymore. The light-up-shoes called his name.

He ran up and stamped the kid’s foot.

The teacher wrote me a note, stating he had “viciously kicked” another child. Write-up, suspension.

He came home with a packet of papers to complete. He sat in a chair all day and worked (and got almost everything correct).

For this kid, suspension = joy.

He can learn and do his work with no distractions.

About two weeks later, our girl was home sick. Boy wanted to stay home as well. No fever, so off he went.

I sent a note to the teacher and left a message for the assistant principal, letting them know he may be out of sorts or pretend to be ill because he really wanted to be at home.

Thirty minutes into the school day, he pulled a chair out from under another child. He truly didn’t think about whether the child would be hurt (thankfully not); he just figured that if stamping a kid’s foot sent him home, this should also do the trick.

After a phone conference with the Assistant Principal, we agreed on after-school suspension for several days, to prevent a rash of must-find-a-way-to-get-suspended behaviors.

Again, I called a meeting, explaining (for the millionth-ish time) my request for a one-to-one behavioral aide. An aide could help him process the situation. Could see—as I often must—the potential issues and prevent a problem.

For instance, the behavioral aide would have noted he left his desk and immediately required him to sit back down. He would have never made it halfway across the room in the first place, much less had the opportunity to pull out the kid’s chair.

The aide could walk him to-and-from class, preventing the spark of hallway chaos from lighting his trigger fuse. Might recognize hyper-stimulation and ameliorate his angst before it ballooned into behaviors.

The IEP team, in spite of my pleas, turned down my request because

he’s not failing.

In fact, he’s doing quite well.

He’s “unable to focus,” he “refuses to participate” and “doesn’t follow along with the class,” yet his grades are above average.

And because we must keep him in the “least restrictive environment” for his needs, this precludes the need for a behavioral aide.

When they announced the reason, I stared in shock.

You’re telling me that he constantly distracts the class, he’s not able to focus or self-manage, he doesn’t know the material, he can’t get along with others and he’s a problem that must be solved, but you won’t allow me to procure a one-to-one aide because his grades are too good.

Yes, that’s exactly what they were saying.

And so,

I Give Up.

Not on my kid, and not on his education.

And I’m sure as heck not telling him this:

I give up stressing about his classroom behavior.

 

Sometimes, the only thing left to do is give it up.

Because

you have to let go of what’s in your hands before you can pick up anything else.

And because sometimes,

moving on to the next thing is more important. 

He’s Trying

From Dictionary.com:

trying [trahy-ing]

adjective
1. extremely annoying, difficult, or the like; straining one’s patience and goodwill to the limit: a trying day; a trying experience.
irritating, irksome, bothersome, vexing.

try [trahy]

verb (used with object), tried, trying.
1. to attempt to do or accomplish: Try it before you say it’s simple.
2. to test the effect or result of (often followed by out): to try a new method; to try a recipe out.
3. to endeavor to evaluate by experiment or experience: to try a new field; to try a new book.
4. to test the quality, value, fitness, accuracy, etc., of: Will you try a spoonful of this and tell me what you think of it?
5. Law. to examine and determine judicially, as a cause; determine judicially the guilt or innocence of (a person).
6. to put to a severe test; subject to strain, as of endurance, patience, affliction, or trouble; tax: to try one’s patience.
7. to attempt to open (a door, window, etc.) in order to find out whether it is locked: Try all the doors before leaving.

Considering the week we’ve had, I find the first listed definition of “trying” interesting and possibly prescient. Does Dictionary.com know my life?

First definition of trying, adjective. Extremely annoying, difficult, or the like; straining one’s patience and goodwill to the limit:

I woke to a loud slam: our refrigerator door. Checking the baby monitor (which keeps me from having to roll out of bed at 6 am if the boy’s just getting a snack), I could tell he was “sneaking” whatever it was. I trotted downstairs. He heard me coming and hightailed it to his room.

“What do you have?”

He produced an egg.

“Why do you have this?” Still bleary-eyed, I thought perhaps he assumed it was hard-boiled. “Do you realize this isn’t cooked?”

“Yes…I wanted to throw it at a tree.”

UGH. He’d behaved well all weekend, so we allowed him general free rein of the picnic junk food. I was surprised at his lack of reaction, thinking maybe his intolerance of sugar had waned…nope. Heeeeere it is.

I replaced the egg and noticed another was missing (I’d just bought the carton).

First definition of try, verb. To attempt to do or accomplish:

I walked into his room and found that he’d had an “accident” and tried to clean it up himself. Yes, junk food is still a bad idea.

Second definition of try, verb. To test the effect or result of:

The good news? He used the appropriate smell-killing enzyme liquid to such excellent effect that his bedding had no smell at all, in spite of the obvious…incident. Efficacy of Nature’s Miracle Urine Destroyer even on non-urine accident = confirmed.

(Chewy.com is not paying me to advertise.)

Nature's Miracle Urine Destroyer, 1-gal bottle

The bad news? He dumped the entire bottle on it. Ah, well…at least he tried.

Third definition of try, verb. To endeavor to evaluate by experiment or experience:

I gathered his bedding and found the other egg swaddled in his blankets. Hatching a chick? Nope. He just wanted to throw it to see what would happen. My little mad scientist (ok, let’s be real; when he does “science,” I bring the “mad”).

Fourth definition of try, verb. To test the quality, value, fitness, accuracy, etc., of:

I feel the quality of my ability to mother in appropriate ways is often tried and found wanting…Egg Incident #1 (because I’m sure it won’t be the last) is a perfect example. Instead of praising him for attempting to clean up the mess himself (which, in hindsight, was a monumental accomplishment), I freaked out over the ENTIRE BOTTLE dumped on his (thankfully waterproofed) bed and over the egg—a potential mess—swaddled with care in the clean end of his bed.

Fifth definition of try, verb. To determine judicially the guilt or innocence:

Rather than give him props for attempting a clean-up after his incident (which is probably what triggered the need for crazy), I judge-and-juried him for the potential egg mess and for not coming to get me for help with the cleanup. Then, I found that he’d tossed his soiled shorts in with my CLEAN LOAD OF LAUNDRY and started the washer again, which meant I had to run the entire load on “sanitize” and couldn’t dry the load for another two hours. I know it’s my own fault for packing a schedule too tightly, but I had a limited amount of time in which to complete several tasks that day. The last straw (last shorts?) sent me over the edge of my sanity.

Sixth definition of try, verb. To put to a severe test; subject to strain, as of endurance, patience, affliction, or trouble; tax: to try one’s patience:

In my defense, we haven’t had respite for more than a couple hours in almost a year and I’m completely drained. If the boy isn’t getting into something he finds interesting (which means items broken, a mess to clean up or some other form of work for me), the girl is intentionally tanking her grades or sabotaging the boy.

My endurance is shot, my patience is tried and worn.

I’m exhausted.

So is Hubby.

But, being sapped and weary is no excuse for bad behavior. How can I expect him to do the right thing when he’s spent, if I don’t provide the example?

A few hours after the egg-in-the-bed trick, I apologized.

“You know better than to be wasting food and creating a mess, but I am sorry for overreacting. You did a great job trying to clean up after yourself. You even started the washer correctly. I wish you’d put the clean clothes in the dryer so we’d have room for your bedding, but I know your intent was good. I appreciate the hard work you did to clean up after yourself. I am very sorry for losing my mind and yelling.”

 

Seventh definition of try, verb. To attempt to open (a door, window, etc.) in order to find out whether it is locked:

We do what we can. Some days we fall down. But if we keep trying the locked doors, sometimes we find that they’re open.

He hugged me. 

“It’s okay, Mama. You’ve had a rough month.”

Ah, yes. Rough.

Sometimes, all I can do is laugh. At least he’s aware. That’s progress. And even though his behavior is trying (first definition of verb, adjective), I do believe he is trying (first definition of try, verb) to improve.

And yeah, it’s a waste of food, but maybe not a waste of connection: I think I’m going to schedule an egg-throwing contest.

Outside.

#AmWriting

Hypervigilant.org

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

It is so good to have a few moments to write.

Even better: hours.

I have hours. I’m away from the house. Cannot hear the dirty dishes in the sink or the clothes to be folded call my name. I have nothing but my laptop and am choosing to ignore my phone and social media.

BLISS.

If you are also a writer, you know what I mean.

And by writer, I don’t mean famous, or published, or even, “manuscript completed and rejected fiftyish times.”

Do keys tapping in a satisfying click-tick rhythm make your anxiety melt?

Words fascinate and enthrall you?

Sentences with perfect balance give you deep satisfaction?

Alliteration, onomatopoeia and entire-paragraphs-sans-adverbs bring you joy?

That’s what I mean.

Writer.

Hans Splinter Photo by Hans Splinter

View original post

#AmWriting

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

It is so good to have a few moments to write.

Even better: hours.

I have hours. I’m away from the house. Cannot hear the dirty dishes in the sink nor the clothes to be folded calling my name. I have nothing but my laptop and am choosing to ignore my phone and social media.

BLISS.

If you are also a writer, you know what I mean.

And by writer, I don’t mean famous, or published, or even, “manuscript completed and rejected fiftyish times.”

Do keys tapping in a satisfying click-tick rhythm make your anxiety melt?

Words fascinate and enthrall you?

Sentences with perfect balance give you deep satisfaction?

Alliteration, onomatopoeia and entire-paragraphs-sans-adverbs bring you joy?

That’s what I mean.

Writer.

Hans Splinter

Photo by Hans Splinter

 

 

FFfAW : The frostbitten heart

A little gem from one of my favorite writers (about a story by one of my other favorite writers). Enjoy the breathtaking moment away from reality.

Word Shamble

This week’s photo prompt is provided by loniangraphics. Thank you for our photo prompt!


Each time the snow fell, covering the land in gnawing cold and ankle deep crunch, she went out looking. And when ice turned the world to a hard snap … she searched then too.

Looked for the lamp post with its prism of glass, for dancing, gaseous shadows falling on hard packed earth. Looked for the faun and his presents clothed in paper and trussed with string.

Sitting under the fir trees, waiting for chattering beavers, for sleigh rides and Turkish Delight  – Always Winter, never Christmas – she was filled with so much yearning, such a need for magic, it was as if the frost had bitten her heart, as if it was in shards in her chest, cracked like a broken ice puddle. Beneath her feet there was never magic, only the parent of grey, gritty slush.

She’s old now…

View original post 68 more words

Chinese Lantern

If you’ve seen Disney’s Tangled, you may remember the Chinese lanterns filling the sky with warm light.

9250618515_f48a5e3ca6_m

Photo Cred: Chris Alcoran

Those lanterns are truly beautiful…in theory…with adult supervision…and safety measures in place.

 

 

See, this is inspiring, right?

4900283051_965e774547_z (1)

Photo Cred: Keith Williamson

Right?

Of course it is.

And a similar vision inspired our kid.

Sometime in the last month, our boy watched a “how to make your own Chinese lantern” video. This morning, he decided to put that knowledge into practice.

Without telling us.

I woke this morning to the unmistakable smell of burning plastic. Considering his propensity for experimenting, my first thought was,

What the heck did he put in the toaster?

I threw on my fluffy white robe and stumbled down the stairs.

“WHAT is that SMELL?”

Leaning against his doorframe with arms folded, I knew I exuded confidence in my momming abilities. Unfortunately, the fluffy makes-me-look-like-a-bunny-rabbit robe cancelled out my scowling face.

He immediately lied.

“Uh…I think that’s my toast.”

No, son, I’m sorry. Toast does not smell like Daddy did the day he replaced an outlet and found out our home’s previous owner had not marked the circuit breakers accurately. Shocking.

Our daughter appeared in the hall.

“Hi. I wiped the frame of the bathroom door, the spare bedroom door, my door and now I’m going to wipe the laundry room door.”

Due to some negative behavior this week, she earned a few extra chores and I told her last night that she needed to have them done before Daddy arrived home so she could have dessert.

Getting up in the morning to get them done is a strategy she’s used before, but giving me a detailed rundown of the few items she’s done is a clear signal that something weird is going on.

I thanked her and then stood in the kitchen, trying to figure out the quickest way to get the truth without the benefit of coffee to organize my thoughts.

The lighter on top of the fridge caught my eye.

“Hey. Did you see your brother with a lighter this morning?”

She paused. Froze like the proverbial deer in headlights.

“Did you?”

She shrugged. “Yes.”

I returned to his doorway. “What were you doing with the lighter? You have one chance to tell me the truth because I do not have the energy for this right now.”

He: “I was trying to make a Chinese lantern on the back porch. And SHE was laughing.”

She: “NOOOOOO! I was sitting at the table eating my breakfast! I wasn’t outside.”

After allowing them to spout about thirty seconds of conflicting stories, I said, “I’m going to look at the back porch. (To her): If I see your footprints in the dew, you are going to be in deep trouble because you knew he was playing with fire and didn’t come get us. (To him): If her footprints aren’t out there, YOU are in trouble for lying for saying she’s involved. You guys have from now until I get to the door to tell the truth.”

They both insisted they were telling the truth. No confessions.

Unfortunately, the dew didn’t cooperate. No dice on the footprints. The girl, however, couldn’t help herself. She hovered in the doorway, checking. I looked around and couldn’t figure out where the plastic smell originated.

“So, I can’t find the burned plastic…” I was talking more to myself than to her, but she answered.

“Oh, it’s right here,” she grinned, flipping the Welcome mat over. Sure enough, it was covered in melted grocery bags.

Then it hit me. The blinds were closed on the back door, and she said she’d been eating breakfast. At the table. If true, there’s no way she could have seen him burning the bag.

“So. You were here.”

Her eyes widened with feigned innocence. “I wasn’t outside!”

Mama Radar kicked in. There’s the tell.

If only she’d use her semantics superpower for good.

“You weren’t outside. But you were standing in the doorway with the door open. That’s why the whole house stinks. If the door had been closed, the smoke would have stayed outside.”

“But I wasn’t outside,” she repeated.

“Right,” I said, “but you know the issue isn’t about whether you were outside or not. The issue is that you stood there and watched him playing with fire. What are you supposed to do if he does something dangerous?”

“Come get you.”

“Did you come get us?”

“No, but I told him I was going to tell on him.”

“Right…but when I came downstairs, did you tell me?”

More pausing. “Well, no…because I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

This means that she was definitely involved, egging him on if not actually touching the lighter.

“Have we told you several times in the last two weeks that you need to come tell us if he’s doing something dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Was this dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know it was dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. From here on out, if you don’t come get us IMMEDIATELY when he’s doing something dangerous, you will get the EXACT same consequence he does.”

She was not happy about this. We talked about it further and she finally admitted that she didn’t come get us because she wanted to see what would happen, then realized that since she stood and watched (and laughed, which she knows is his cue to continue), she would also be in trouble.

This afternoon after school, they both had to write a two-page single-spaced paper on the dangers of playing with fire, when fires are appropriate/safe (with adult supervision) and what one should do when tempted to play with fire (or watch). We showed them pictures of people and pets who’d been burned and watched a video of a veteran who’d been burned during a training exercise.

Hopefully we’ve seen the last of playing with fire. We explained to they boy that if he’d simply asked (and waited instead of following his impulse) we could have looked up the proper way to make a Chinese floating lantern and then created some as a family this evening.

I explained to the boy that Hubby would have created a plan including:

  1. How to actually build the lantern
  2. How to use it SAFELY
  3. Backup plan in case things got out of control

and he admitted he didn’t have any of those three in place. We assured him that we don’t have a problem with his creativity, just the impulsive behavior and lack of safety.

Maybe later this weekend we’ll make some lanterns.

Good thing I told the grocer I wanted plastic instead of paper…if he’d been working with a paper bag, he might have burned the house down.

In all this, I’ve also learned a valuable lesson.

Just because it’s above his line of sight doesn’t mean he won’t find it. No more lighters on the fridge. In fact, I’m just going to move them all to the garage.

And on the bright side, I recently listened to (Daily Show host) Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime.

He actually burned a house down, and he still turned out okay.

I’ll just lean on that hope for the next 7.5 years…

If you have a chance, get the book on audio (Audible.com or your local library); read by the author, it’s an absolutely gripping memoir of his childhood during Apartheid. Hearing it straight from Trevor (yes, we’re now on a first-name basis, since I’ve listened to it three times) is perfect. In five words: funny, sad, triumphant, don’t miss. 

Boy Meets Osmosis, Part 1

Photo Credit: Immanuel Brändemo

Photo Credit: Immanuel Brandemo

 

Several times in the last few months, our boy has mentioned that he seems different from other kids his age. He feels they think in a different way than he does.

He isn’t wrong, since he’s on the Autism spectrum. If the DSM-V hadn’t changed everything (okay, not everything), he would be diagnosed as having Asperger’s. In fact, his earliest diagnosis listed him as an Aspie.

We have never told him, concerned that it might make him feel different, or that he might use it as an excuse. “Well, I just act that way because I have Autism.”

However, since he already feels “different,” we’ve been thinking that maybe we should tell him.

A couple weeks ago, the kids and I were watching Girl Meets World, a spinoff/sequel to my childhood favorite, Boy Meets World. In this particular episode, one of the characters had testing because the adults in his life suspected he might be on the spectrum. He was agitated and concerned over the idea that he might be Autistic. I didn’t really like the way they portrayed that part because the tone made a diagnosis sound a little scary. Test results showed the young man does not have Asperger’s and he seemed relieved. However, one of his close friends was disappointed because she is an Aspie and was hoping his diagnosis would make her feel less different. The show ended as the kids assured the girl that they all love her just the way she is.

Overall, the episode does a pretty good job of showing kids how to be inclusive. The portrayal of nervous tension about the testing, both for the parents and for the child, seems fairly accurate.

I wouldn’t really know, because we didn’t tell our boy we were getting him tested (yearly psychs are run of the mill here, so he didn’t even notice) and I was ECSTATIC to receive the diagnosis.

Still, I felt they could have done a better job of portraying the diagnosis as something less scary—or even cool, because truly, Spectrum Kids are gifted.

As the show closed, our boy stared me square in the eye and asked,

What do I have?

Not quite ready to have the conversation, I hedged. “What do you think you have?”

He thought for a minute, then said, “I think I have the illness of aaaaaaaaaaaa(thought he was going to say it)aaaaawesome!”

 

 

Continued

Beautiful Monkey-Butt

Today, I opened our son’s door to find a winter wonderland.

He’s been more impulsive of late; we aren’t sure yet what’s going on.

Last night at Boy Scouts, his sometimes-nemesis-sometimes-partner-in-crime asked for water. Our boy complied with the request by dumping water on the kid’s head.

When Hubby asked him why he thought it was a good idea, he shrugged.

I didn’t think it was a good idea. I just thought of it, so I did it.

Reasons for his choices remain elusive, apparently even to him.

“I wanted to do it at the time but now I see it was a bad choice,” or “I don’t know why I did it,” are frequent answers when we question him after the fact.

His befuddlement appears legitimate.

Since Dad passed away, wild swings of his behavior have become the norm. One moment, he’s explaining detailed reasons for the failure of a World War II campaign. The next, he’s walking from the kitchen to the living room to deposit orange peels behind the couch because the trash can (in the kitchen) was too far away.

After he gets in trouble, he’s almost perfect for hours and incredibly logical about accepting consequences for his behavior. He’ll work with diligent focus on math, chores, apology notes or other remedial requirements.

If only he’d act as though he’d been in trouble BEFORE getting in trouble, he’d almost never be in trouble.

So.

Back to the beautiful snowy landscape.

In his room.

I opened the bedroom door to deposit some of his belongings and stopped, sniffing in amazement.

My young man’s bedroom actually smelled…not like his bedroom usually stinks smells.

Then I turned on the light.

20170419_141745

The pictures don’t even begin to accurately portray the amount of powder on EVERY SURFACE of his room.

VZM.IMG_20170419_144144

This summer, before Scout camp, I bought him a container of Anti Monkey Butt powder (yes, it’s really a thing) as recommended by the troop leaders. It resided in the top drawer of his dresser for almost an entire year.

And then.

This morning, it called his name. 

He said he just wanted to see what everything would look like with powder all over it.

Thought it might be pretty.

Turns out, it definitely smelled pretty.

It was EVERYwhere.

I can imagine his delight as the plastic can puffed white flakes into the air. He probably danced through the clouds as they fell (a theory supported by the powder Hubby brushed off the kid’s shirt this morning).

As usual, he attempted no argument when I handed down the sentence: vacuum and wipe every surface, shake bedding over the porch rail, put all belongings in their proper places.

He even put the sheets back on his bed without asking me for help—and I didn’t even tell him to do that.

Unbelievable.

Tomorrow, his in-home counselor will help us try to work with him through his thought process. I’m just hoping we can find a solution, because right now it feels like every time we turn around it’s “something else.”

So far, most of his urges have led to largely harmless actions, but we just never know what he’s going to do next.

It’s like he’s suddenly five. Or maybe three.

He carries chunks of concrete into the bathroom, hides yogurt wrappers and banana peels in his room (doubly odd since we reinforce that he can have healthy food any time he wants it), climbs things, wanders off, misbehaves at school hoping for a suspension (because then he can come home) and basically does whatever pops into his head.

A friend told me that when his spectrum son edged into puberty, his Autism went from minor inconvenience to a full-blown life-alteration. We’re not sure if this regression is due to the Autism, due to the grief, due to a need for a change in medication, or…

We just don’t know. And it’s frustrating. 

But, on the bright side—the side to which I cling in desperation—the pattern of the powder was very pretty

And even better: his room no longer smells like a baboon’s derriere. 

 

Nibbles and Bubbles

Love this. I’m not supermum either.

http://nibblesandbubbles.co.uk/i-am-not-supermum/

 

%d bloggers like this: