She Knows.

We haven't talked about it openly yet, but she knows.

Amelia knows that her brother is a little bit different.

I was very much looking forward to summer break with the kids this year. Being six now, they are more mature and communicative and interested in the world around them. Better able to understand things and follow directions. And I was right; this has been the easiest and most entertaining summer break I've had since having children.

It's also been the hardest, emotionally-speaking.

Anderson's quirks and anxieties have been at the forefront this summer. He has developed new interests and worries and it has been sort of trying for both Amelia and me.  Part of me feels guilty about saying that; another part of me says that I'm just human and that I'm just being honest.

One of Anderson's newest fascinations is with roads, specifically with getting from one place to another. I knew he was sort of navigationally gifted from a very young age; before he could really talk in complete sentences, he knew every time we got off of New Circle road onto Nicholasville Road and he would say "No dentist! No dentist!"  When we would pass Harrodsburg Road, he would say "Bye-bye, doctor!"  He has just always kind of known where he is in relation to other things, which is a great skill. I truly believe he will never get lost.  However, now he is curious about street names, and he enjoys traveling on certain roads more than others.  This means that, if I tell them we are going to the store, he is going to ask me a series of questions about the route that we will take (example: "Hey mom! Are we going to get on New Circle Road? Are we taking Harrodsburg Road? Are we going north or south? Will we go downtown? Are we downtown yet?" and on and on....).  Then, as we are on our way, he will continue to ask questions about roadways. I have to be honest; there are only a certain number of roadway questions I can tolerate before starting to feel impatient.  I admit to saying more than once, "I'm not answering any more questions about that.." and refusing to talk about it anymore, despite the barrage of interrogatives coming from the back seat. However, I didn't realize that Amelia was also getting irritated until one day, she just came out with "ANDERSON! STOP ASKING QUESTIONS!"  I was both amused and a little bit alarmed because I just assumed she wasn't really paying attention. The constant and habitual need for him to ask questions wasn't lost on her and she, like myself, wanted a moment of quiet.

This summer, we have also been taking care of my friend's cats while she travels on her honeymoon.  Part of our routine is going to her condo in the mornings and evenings to feed the cats, take care of the litter box, etc.  Anderson, while overcoming his fear of elevators, is still skittish. He seems to have developed a fear that someone is going to get stuck in the elevator doorway, or that the elevator won't open.  Therefore, he HAS to get to the elevator door first, has to "guide" (aka push) Amelia and I onto the elevator to ensure we don't get trapped, and has to ask a specific series of questions as we ride--"Are the doors going to open? What does Diesel Ducy call it when the elevator does this (moves his hands up and down quickly; the answer is 'leveling')"  These are non-negotiables; he HAS to get to the doors first, "guides" us onto the elevator, and asks these questions EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  It doesn't fail.

In the last week, Amelia has become irritated with the routine.  She likes to run in the parking garage, and Anderson's need to control the situation means that he often grabs at her because he doesn't want her to get ahead of him, lest she arrive at the elevator doors before him.  She has pouted, pulled away from him, and yelled at him, but those things don't matter to Anderson.  Finally, tired of the battle, I made a new rule that we discuss every day as we park.  Amelia is allowed to run, but must stop at the door to the building.  Anderson allowed this, but is still clearly nervous. She enjoyed this for a few days, but I could tell she recognized that Anderson was still nervous.  Yesterday, as we were arriving for cat duty, without any prompting from me, she looked at Anderson and said, "I won't run today. Let's hold hands."  Then, I swear to God, the girl looked at me and smiled. I complimented her kindness profusely, and Anderson thanked her and said, "Thanks, Amelia.  When you run it makes me feel nervous." That moment? That was one I'll never forget.  Amelia recognized her brother's needs, and by showing him that kindness, he was able to better verbalize WHY he felt anxious.  It was beautiful.

She went on to assume my reassurance duties in the elevator, answering his questions about whether the elevator doors will open ("They always open, Anderson") and the leveling.  And as we walked back to the elevator doors, she automatically reached for his hand.

I know that there is going to come a time when she will ask questions about what is unspoken. She'll want to know why Anderson does the things he does, and I just pray that I have the knowledge and ability to answer her in the best possible way.  But she already knows. She knows, and she gets frustrated just like everyone else, but most importantly?  She is learning kindness, acceptance, and how to be empathetic to others' needs.  And for that, I am grateful.

Something To Say

Long time, no blog. Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm working on it.

I'll gladly give a little update on everything going on around here, but it has to wait. I have something to say here, and oddly enough, it's about...well...having something to say.

Specifically, it's about autism. And the indisputable fact that it IS truly a spectrum disorder.  Think about what that means for a minute--think about the color wheel. Another "spectrum", if you will.  How many distinct colors are there? Practically an infinite number there, many similar, but with slightly different tints, nuances.  Autism is the same--and more specifically, people on the spectrum are the same.  Just like ALL humans in fact, no two spectrum individuals are the same.  That means that we walk around on this earth, surrounded by people with autism, and sometimes we can spot them clearly because they "fit" the stereotype, and sometimes we can't because the characteristics that put them on the spectrum aren't as noticeable. And yet...just because these people don't stand out--because you can't see anything that you characterize as "autistic behavior" as you pass them on the street--doesn't make them any less autistic or less present on the spectrum.

Anderson is one of those people who doesn't always present as being a kid on the spectrum.  If you were to pass us on the street, chances are you might see a typical mother/child interaction.  He might ask what seems like a typical question, I may answer. He doesn't flap his hands; he makes eye contact. He doesn't run, or vocalize. He doesn't often melt down and he generally follows directions without too many requests. He can appear to be neurotypical.

What you may not see if you pass us on the street is what characterizes the vast majority of our interactions. Repetitive speech. Echolalia. Anderson asking the same questions over, and over, and over. Anderson asking questions that he wants you to answer in a very specific way, and Anderson asking you that same question over and over UNTIL you respond the way he needs. Anderson talking using all of the words that he has heard and knows but not having a clue about their definitions and context, meaning that what he says can be complete and utter jibberish. No, the words aren't "jargon", meaning not made-up words, but if you listen to his sentences, they aren't right! There's often no subject/verb agreement.

Does the fact that he can walk down the street, engage in appropriate conversation, and follow directions for the amount of time it takes to pass you, the average passerby, make him any less autistic? NO. Does that mean that our lives are easier than those of people with "classical autism"? Probably in some ways, yes. I do believe that.  But does that mean that our lives are a piece of cake? Absolutely not. To those people who believe that it is, I invite you to live with us for 24 hours. Check out the accommodations that we make to function. Try interpreting what he's really asking of you when the words come out all wrong. And God forbid he get upset about something. Figuring out what upset him will be, let's just say, a challenge.

I'm not complaining here. I absolutely love him--just as he is--with all of my heart. Many of the things that make him autistic are the things that I love most about him. His quirks are endearing and part of what makes him Anderson.  Yes, it can be difficult, almost impossible on the worst days, and we DO have bad days. But I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Anderson's autism has made me a more understanding parent and a better educator. I'm not complaining.

What I AM doing is begging you to please...PLEASE stop saying that you question whether he's on the spectrum. Please stop telling me things like "all boys have a hard time communicating", or "he's just a little quirky", or "well if that makes him autistic then my kid is on the spectrum, too". Just stop. Go and read the DSM-V.  Being diagnosed as autistic isn't easy and they don't throw the label around willy-nilly, despite what some people may believe. The disorder is a spectrum but the criteria are distinct. Trust me on this. Just because Anderson has words--and trust me when I say he has a lot of them and he isn't afraid to use them--doesn't mean he's any less autistic.

It is hurtful to me, as his mother, to hear you tell me that you doubt his diagnosis. It makes me feel that you think I have unfairly had a label placed on him, a label that you obviously feel is negative (which is a separate issue for another time).  It makes me feel that you're minimizing his challenges, that you believe I'm over-exaggerating the struggles that we have both at home and with him at school. It makes me feel like you believe that the entire context of my family's life is wrong.

I know I joke a lot about Anderson. He's a seriously funny kid with an amazing sense of humor.  Our family tends to deal with stressful situations with humor--you either laugh or cry, and we most often choose laughter as our way to deal with unpleasantries.  But just because we laugh doesn't mean that it isn't hard, or that we don't have strong emotions about all that he has to go through, both now and in the future.

Please. Before you tell me that "he doesn't look like he's autistic", or that your "kid must be autistic, too, if Anderson is", please stop and think. If you have questions about what makes Anderson a spectrum kid, by all means, ask! I'm happy to share! But please, don't say it. Just don't.

End of the School Year Update

It has been...well, it's just been too long.  No excuse other than being busy and just feeling hesitant to write, for some reason. But here we are, at the end of my work year and the kids' school year, so it's definitely time for an update.

The kids are finishing Kindergarten like champs.  In terms of academics, they're both pretty much where they need to be, maybe even a bit ahead in some areas. Of course, looking at Anderson's district test scores, you'd never know it, but taking a multiple choice test on a computer is probably never going to be his thing. He's more of a "show what you know verbally" kind of kid.  Anyway, they can fluently read and write their "essential 25 sight words", they can write sentences to express their thoughts, they have a solid knowledge of numbers through 10.  Here's a little sample of Anderson's writing:

Trust me. That's impressive.We added some writing resource minutes to his IEP (time in a special ed room to work on writing, versus just doing writing in his regular classroom) and it seems to have made all the difference.

More importantly, the kids have come a long way socially this year. Amelia has made friends in her class, which is kind of a first for her. She often tells me that so-and-so is her BFF and that BFF means best friends forever, which is comical. Her class this year had many special needs students, so she's learned a lot about having empathy for others and not judging children as being "bad" just by their actions, which is wonderful to see. She works hard and has become more vocal, which has always been an issue for her. She has developed very good manners, always being sure to say please and thank you, especially when she is given a compliment. She's working on her sense of self-confidence, and we're doing all we can to encourage that at home.

Anderson has come a long way socially as well. With him, it's less about playing with and getting along with others--that's just not on his agenda at this point.  However, his ability to express himself clearly has just really taken off.  I have the Time Hop app on my phone, and it's so interesting to read about big moments with him, where he was able to express himself, or say something "normal". Those things are common now, which is of course fantastic, but I like the reminder of where we were, and how far we've come. It helps me to take nothing for granted.

As for me, I'm still just chugging along. I'm ready for a break from work, to spend more time with the kids. I'm still on the workout train, swimming 2-3 times a week, doing a few classes each week, and trying to squeeze in some running.  I timed my 400m swim tonight and it was about 50 seconds faster than the last time I timed myself, which is good. Running is still...challenging. I'm thinking I'm not spending enough time on it, but I'm also not ready to give up my classes because I really, really enjoy them. It's not quite triathlon crunch time yet, so I'm going to keep up what I'm doing for a bit longer.

Next week marks the end of the year and we are all looking forward to a summer of outdoor fun, which will hopefully include many days at the pool. I'm feeling as though this could be our best summer yet--they're at a really fun age. Remind me that I said that in about 6-8 weeks when I'm begging for the return of school.

That's about it! Now that things are slowing down, I hope to spend more time writing. I've got some pretty good stories just begging to be shared...

The Waiting Room

When I was 12 years old, my mother died of breast cancer.

It was the 80s, treatment wasn't as immediate or thorough as it is today.  She got sick, then she got better, then she got very sick and died.  I was a mama's girl, and it was exactly as difficult and tragic as it sounds.

Since that time, we've learned so much about cancer in general and specifically breast cancer. We know that when it is diagnosed early and treated aggressively, it is very curable. We know that there are multiple forms of breast cancer that grow in different ways.  And we know that it can be very, very hereditary.

My mother was young to be diagnosed with breast cancer, relatively speaking, which can (but not always) indicate one of the hereditary forms of cancer.  About 10 years ago, her sister was diagnosed.  Having a mother and a maternal aunt that have had breast cancer ups the odds pretty significantly that my sister or I could eventually be diagnosed.

Two years ago, on a trip to a conference for work, I found a lump.

When I felt it, the blood in my veins literally ran cold. I started sweating; my heart started beating crazily. I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and thought and worried.  I got up the next day and went on about life. I didn't tell anyone or do anything about it for about three months. I was paralyzed with fear.  When I finally got up the nerve to go to the doctor, I half-expected her to not even be able to feel it--to tell me I was worrying about nothing, that nothing was there.  I'll never forget the look on her face as she, too, felt what I had felt. How she quietly asked the nurse to bring her the ruler, to measure its size.  How they immediately left the room to get me in for a diagnostic mammogram as quickly as possible.  The way she wished me luck as I left.

My mammogram a few days later revealed a very thick, dense area of normal breast tissue. I was relieved in a way I'd never really experienced before. I left with orders to return for yearly scans, despite not being the usual 40 years old (and I am NOT 40 years old...just for the record.).

Fast-forward to this week, when I found myself back in the office, waiting for a diagnostic mammogram (which is different than a screening mammogram; there are extra scans and an ultrasound).  Being spring break, the waiting room was packed with women--literally packed.  I was one of the first in the room, sitting there wrapping my pink gown around me tighter as every seat filled in.

The women around me were a unique group; they immediately began chatting amongst themselves. I'm not unfriendly; I can make small talk as well as anyone. In this particular waiting room, though, I can't relax enough to be chatty. I'm nervous, twitchy.  I can't help it; all I can think about is my mother, and how she must have had a moment in a waiting room just like this one 25+ years ago, where she waited to hear the news.  She probably knew something was wrong, and she sat there, among other women who might have been making small talk, and worried. She waited nervously, I wait nervously.

The women chat on, talking about how "if men had to go through mammograms, they would've invented a machine that doesn't require smashing their boobs". Laughing at their joke, commiserating. I watch the nurses and radiologist take a woman into a consultation room. I wonder if she is getting bad news. My mind is racing tumultuously from all of it, the women and their jokes in stark contrast to the patient in the consultation room. It's almost too much for me to bear. Fortunately, I get called back for my first set of scans.

When I return, one of the women, who works for a doctor in the same building, is talking about cancer. The stages of cancer, specifically.  She tells her neighbor that you want a stage one or two cancer, that a stage four cancer means you might as well say good-bye, it's practically a death sentence. I shudder at her naive words, the insensitivity of the very public comment she made in a waiting room where people are often scared and awaiting news, or even returning for a scan after being treated for cancer. A cancer that, at one time, was one of the stages she is so nonchalantly describing. The cancer that quickly and unnaturally--painfully--took my mother's life when I was young and impressionable. At the age when a girl needs a mother.  I can tell that her words are going to stay with me for a long time, that they'll be a cautionary tale that I will share here, in my own tiny public forum, so that maybe I can spread the word to speak sensitively in places like this. Think carefully before you speak in places like waiting rooms. Use common sense. Be empathetic human beings.

One by one, the ladies are called back for scans, are sent to change into their clothes to go home, with nothing but good news.  They are sad to leave each other, talking about how they can't believe they bonded in a place like a mammogram waiting room. They hug and leave, and my mind reels, trying to understand how they can be jovial and happy in a place like this. I'm alone again, with nothing but my own worry and the echo of their words.

For the first time, a radiologist comes in to do my ultrasound. This worries me; usually a tech does the final scan and sends the images to the radiologist, and then the tech sends me home with a clean bill of health. She scans for quite awhile, but declares that, while the area has grown, it's still just dense normal tissue. She warns me to be vigilant, though, because I have a significant family history and she feels that if I were going to get cancer, it might be in this very spot. She recommends genetic testing/counseling and I leave with the brochure in my hand. Orders to return in twelve months.

This is what the waiting room is like for some of us. Be mindful. Be aware.

Take screening seriously--if you have a family history, you should begin being screened 10 years prior to your family member's diagnosis. Feel your boobies, ladies.

Social Caterpillar

I can't speak for all parents of children with a disability, but raising a child who struggles comes with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. When Anderson meets a milestone or accomplishes something, the pride that I feel is indescribable. As in here, where he is starting to swim.

Someone asked me if I cried, and the truth is that I didn't--but my face literally hurt from smiling.  I'm telling you--he had a legitimate phobia of water, one that left him shaking--literally shaking--with fear in the pool. And that was with me holding him. To go from that, to this...well, it's miraculous. Look at his face. He's so proud. We high-fived and hugged and celebrated for two days.

However, for each exhilarating success, there's an equally disheartening obstacle to overcome.  And right now, that's Anderson's speech and communication.

Anderson is very verbal. If you know him at all, you know what I mean.  The boy talks from the moment he wakes up until the minute he falls asleep at night.  He talks...but it often makes no sense.  That's not to say that he is just saying words...he is formulating sentences that have subjects and predicates. It's just that they don't go together to form a coherent thought. It could sound something like "When I turn 38 (he's obsessed with ages, and someone around here but I don't know who will be 38 on their next birthday) I am going to UK and the blue doors and trees and I drive a car and walk." That was kind of a poor example, but you get the idea.  There are words thrown in there that don't go, and of course the whole going to college at 38 thing is unique. 

Here's the catch. Anderson WANTS to be part of other people's conversations. He absolutely craves being a part of adult discussions. However, he has no clue how to go about it, mostly because he's a small details guy in a big picture world.  You see, he doesn't understand that when we talk, all of the words coming out of our mouths form sentences that are small parts of a bigger conversation that focuses on one topic. He's not listening to the meaning behind what is being said; he just knows that words are coming out, and that sometimes people who are talking laugh. And he LOVES to make you laugh. So...he tries to be a part of the conversation. This can look two ways. He mumbles non-words that increase in volume until all parties are looking at him, OR he says random things, like described above. Things that make no sense in general, much less as a part of the conversation at hand.

This is particularly difficult in public. Take, for instance, the elevator at Macy's.  If someone gets on with us and starts a conversation with me, it's a total crap-shoot what will come out of his mouth.  When it's nonsense, they kind of peer at him with a half-smile. He, in turn, takes this as his cue to kick it up a notch because in his mind, he's become part of the conversation.  He continues on, and the unwitting participant starts to get that squinty-eyed look that only pure confusion can elicit. At this point I usually jump in and say something like "oh, he just likes to talk" or something like that, and they look at me gratefully as if to say "thank you because I certainly wasn't following that"  and smile and we all get off as soon as the doors open and that's the end of it. Except it happens over and over.

Now...I know that in the grand scheme of life, this isn't the worst problem to have. It's not like he's getting overly frustrated to the point of  melting down, and it's certainly not hurting the other people involved in the "conversations". But, it's hard to watch him want something so bad and try for something and not have any clue how to make it happen. He knows that his conversations don't last but he doesn't understand why. His inability to "get it" frustrates him and others, and it leads to an even bigger problem--trouble at school.  Since he doesn't understand that the words we say relate to make stories or conversations, he doesn't understand that when his teachers are reading or talking, he should be listening to all of it and putting it together to formulate a bigger thought or concept. Again--small details guy, big picture world. Thus, he's having difficulty with comprehension and writing.  We just amended his IEP so that he's getting a little bit of extra help in these areas, and I'm grateful for all of my training/experience as a teacher so that I can stay on top of it, but it's going to be a challenge. One that I have no idea how to overcome. I mean, think about it. How do you explain the art of conversation to someone? Try it. It ain't easy.

So far, I've tried talking to him BEFORE he has conversations with people, trying to prep him for staying on a topic. I gave that a shot last week before his swim lesson. In swim lessons, he's notorious for giving the teacher an earful of...nothing. He talks the entire time about everything under the sun not related to swimming. I figured, hey, swimming. That's a topic in and of itself. So, on our way, I suggested that maybe when he talked to the teacher, he focus on talking about swimming. We chatted about it for a few minutes and I even gave him some leads and I thought maybe, just maybe...and then, as soon as he had been in the water for five minutes, I heard him reciting the days of the week. So yeah. That didn't work.

The other unfortunate communication issue is that he doesn't really get the idea that some conversational topics aren't for the general public.  I will spare you the details of some of our more recent conversations that have taken place in a variety of public bathrooms, but let me just assure you that a) they are highly embarrassing and b) the more embarrassing, the higher the volume of his voice.  He's not saying bad words or the typical "potty talk" that five-year-olds enjoy; he's stating what he sees as fact and doesn't see the need for modesty or privacy. Explaining that is equally difficult.

So, that's where we are at.  I predict that this gets worse before it gets better. In the meantime, we just grin and bear it and know that it's just one of those things, one more obstacle to overcome. We'll get there.

Six

I hate that I've neglected this blog for so long. No real reason for it, except generally being busy, but that's a poor excuse. Hoping to be better.

Last week, A and A turned six. Six...it just seems so much bigger than five! This year, they really seemed to grasp the concept of getting older and that aging means growing both physically and intellectually.  Every time they've been able to do something in the past week, they attribute it to being six now, which is adorable.  In fact, the first thing Amelia did when she woke up on her birthday was to feel her teeth; she thinks that now that she's six, she will start losing her baby teeth.  She was a bit dismayed to find that they were still snug in their places.  In time, darling girl...in time.

So..without further ado...the kids at six.

Amelia:
At six, Amelia loves ALL THINGS related to big cats.  Lions, tigers, cheetahs, panthers, panthers, pumas...you name it, she loves it.  She has a memory that doesn't quit and knows many various facts about each cat.  She loves pretending to be a lion and watching all of the Lion King movies, and then reenacting them with her brother.  She received a lion tail for her birthday (made by Nana), and that has become her prized possession this week.

Clearly I was just as excited to see the tail as she was. I knew my girl would love it. 

She's not sad. this is her "I'm about to pounce" face.

Post-pounce. She hasn't mastered being lady-like when she wears a dress. Ignore Weird Al back there.

At six, Amelia is excelling in school.  She is a reader, a strategic reader, which means a lot to her Literacy Specialist mama. She loves learning, and pleasing her teacher. She struggles with handwriting still, but we put a 504 plan in place to ensure that she has access to all resources needed to help her tiny hands be successful in school. These include shortened writing utensils, a smaller computer mouse and keyboard, modified writing paper, extended time for writing, etc.  She is obedient and completes her homework independently and willingly. She loves her teacher and her classmates. She has no problem telling bigger kids in the after-school program NOT to pick her up and that she is a big kid just like them.  She's stubborn, and independent, and confident.

At six, Amelia understands that her brother is different.  She doesn't know the term "autism", per se, but she recognizes that his social needs are different than her own.  She recognizes, when he's asking her to 'say something', like a line from a movie or an answer to a question, that he needs it to complete whatever is happening in his mind, and she can respond to his requests without missing a beat in her own play activities. She understands the need to sometimes ignore him, especially if he's melting down (because at times ignoring is the only way to bring him out of it), and recently during an episode of homework-induced frustration on both Anderson's and my part, Amelia looked at me quite sincerely and said, "Just 'nore him, mom. Just 'nore him."  She's patient, and kind.

At six, Amelia is sweet, and smart, and funny. She laughs maniacally at commercials like this one and has a belly laugh that won't quit. She's shy but outspoken, laid back but indignant. She's amazing and miraculous and so much more than I could ever hope for in a daughter.

Anderson:
At six, Anderson is funny, quizzical, and unpredictable.  He is verbal, and his main interests are driving on the interstate and listening to the different sounds that the tires on the road can make, and whatever his sister is interested in at the time.  At six, Anderson is obsessive and stubborn, expressive and very real, in terms of his feelings. What you see is what you get, all the time.  He has a very advanced sense of humor; his ability to understand what is funny and what makes people laugh is so refined that it's even noted in his IEP minutes. He's the funniest kid I've ever met.

At six, Anderson's most typical form of play, or communication, remains echolalia.  He can most often be found playing school, pretending to be any one of the teachers he interacts with on a daily basis.  He seems to fixate on reprimanding students, giving them "oops notes", which is what his teacher sends home when a student has been in trouble.  He can be a sharp-tongued teacher at the drop of a hat, and will give you the "teacher look" with such voracity that you actually believe, for a moment, that you are in fact in school and in trouble. Quite honestly, it is a bit heartbreaking that he seems to focus on only negative school situations, instead of the many positive ones that happen every day.

At six, Anderson has made more academic progress that I expected, which isn't to say that I underestimated him, but I am well-aware of his attention span.  He is also a reader, and he excels in math, able to count well past 100 and understands the concepts of numbers.  He struggles to function in a learning manner in a large group setting, prompting me to ask for an ARC meeting to add resource minutes (pull out to special education room) to his IEP.  Anderson struggles with comprehension, and written expression, and will start receiving one-on-one instruction in both this week.

At six, Anderson is unpredictable, in that taking him in public is dicey. Sometimes, I want to put him in a shirt that says, "Hey, I have autism!", so that his comments which can seem highly inappropriate are more likely understood by the general public. He's also kind-hearted, and conscientious, and he doesn't like the thought of doing something that would be perceived as bad, or wrong.  He's loving and adorable, and he keeps life interesting.

So, they are six.  They keep me busy, and tired a lot of the time, but they're the best things that have ever happened to me.  They keep me humble, they keep me broke. I wouldn't change one thing about them--not one thing. They're perfect.

The Art of Imitation

If imitation is both art and the highest form of flattery, Anderson's teachers should feel incredibly flattered and impressed by his amazing artistic ability. He is, quite possibly, the best mimic I've ever had the opportunity to watch.  He imitates the teachers in his school for a good part of his free time each day. He's so good that, at this point, I can tell which teacher he's choosing to be in that particular moment. Today, for instance, he had on some lovely pink sunglasses and was walking around, carrying his cup of milk in a little tub. I knew immediately that he was Mrs. D, his special ed teacher. I can tell by his facial expressions when he's doing his regular classroom teacher or the kindergarten assistant in his room. He's very precise, and he stays in character amazingly well for a child who struggles to focus on ANYTHING for longer than about 30 seconds.

This is both awe-inducing and maddening--and when I say maddening, I mean that in the most extreme sense of the word.  The issue is that he clearly doesn't understand the difference between what is literally occurring in the classroom, and his purpose for actually being there. He's always watching and taking it all in, but he's not an active participant.  At night when he comes home, he can do a read-aloud with the precision of an experienced teacher--complete with comprehension questions and reminders to his students that they should not be talking while he is talking.  But read a story to him, and he has no clue how to listen to it, much less to listen for specific things like setting, characters.  Instead, when I read to him, he's imitating the other people in the room. The assistant who is quietly calling students over to sit with her. The teacher who comes in the room to pull an intervention student.  He's doing what he sees, but he doesn't understand that what he should be doing is listening and learning. MADDENING.

He's learned a lot this year, and he is making progress. I can't stop thinking about the struggles he's going to face as school gets metacognitively more difficult. with the new standards, this happens in 1st grade instead of 2nd or 3rd. I guess it's just something we will have to deal with as the time comes.

Catching Up

I just logged into Blogger for the first time in awhile, and realized it's been a month since I've written anything. It's both disappointing and also indicative of where we are right now.The last month has been so busy, it feels like we're just barely staying afloat sometimes.

The highlights:

School is still going well for the dynamic duo. They're both readers now, although we are still working on the whole comprehension thing with the boy. He *JUST* got the concept of setting, so we are making baby steps. Amelia, on the other hand, has mastered somewhere between 50-75 sight words and is really coming along. Anderson is absolutely FASCINATED by numbers right now. He loves to count things, loves to talk about different ways to make certain numbers. He can count well past 100 and can complete a hundreds chart. He's still working on the whole independent work thing.

Amelia got tubes in her ears last week. It was no big deal at all--I guess because we've dealt with hernia surgeries and heart surgery; this just didn't seem major. She was a trouper, and the ENT was pretty awesome. At her pre-op appointment, he talked to her about Frozen and told her she could wear her Ana costume to the procedure. Naturally, she was more than happy to oblige. She didn't even cry when they took her back, and about ten minutes later, they were calling us back for consultation.  She had pretty significant fluid in her tiny ears--no ear infections, but just standing fluid. The doctor told us that she should regain 15-20 decibels of hearing over the next few weeks and months. Crazy that it had gotten that bad.  She woke up angry as hell, which was no surprise to me, and we were on our way in about 20 minutes.  An hour later, it was like nothing had happened.  The ENT made a slightly surprising/shocking suggestion--he wanted us to take her to a pediatric pulmonologist and have her tested for Cystic Fibrosis.  I talked to our regular pediatrician about it, and he was as skeptical as I was, but we both agreed that since it was out there now, we should follow through and have it done.  She's scheduled for the CF sweat test on December 18th.

Anderson and I continue with swimming lessons...yes, you read that right. I'm taking lessons, too. Every time I take Anderson to lessons, I find myself staring at the people who are swimming laps, jealous. I've had back issues for years and all of my doctors recommend swimming. I'm a decent swimmer, but I have one huge problem--I can't (or I should say I couldn't) breathe while swimming. A few lessons later and I'm getting  better at that, but I still have issues. Actually, quite comically, one of my phobias is coming into play in terms of me being able to actually swim the length of the pool. I kind of have a version of megalophobia, which is the fear of large objects. Especially large transportation vehicles. I don't like being next to cruise ships, airplanes, etc.  I absolutely cannot STAND propellers--the ship-sinking scene in Titanic is horrible.  I know--totally irrational. Anyway, as part of that whole issue, I cannot STAND to look at empty swimming pools. Seriously. Like I just googled "fear of empty swimming pools", and images came up--and I had to turn my head. So...when I start off on the shallow end, I do fine. But, because I'm wearing goggles and can see under water clearly, I see when that steep drop-off is coming up and I freeze up. I put my feet down immediately. I know--so weird. I am absolutely not afraid of deep water. As a kid, I had no problem jumping off the diving board and touching the bottom, and I would gladly do it now, without goggles. But if I can see what the pool looks like, that steep hill that leads to the deep part and looks like an empty swimming pool...creeps. me. out.  So, I've got some work to do. :-) I'm quietly working towards a fitness goal that I refuse to make public until I commit, but so far, so good. Lots of working out going on, and it feels really, really great.

That's all around here. Passing time until winter break, when we can all breathe a little. More to come...as soon as I can work up the nerve to click the box next to the "fear of empty swimming pools" so I can log off. :-)

Letting Go

When your child is initially diagnosed with ASD, one of the most difficult issues that you deal with is letting go of expectations. Expectations of parenting through the "typical" childhood experiences and issues. Dads who dream of future athletes, moms who dream of dancers and make-up and shopping...the fantasies that enchant and bewitch us when we find that we are about to become parents.

When Anderson was about two years old--when I knew that he was on the spectrum and nobody else did--I started the process of grieving these expectations. Anyone will tell you that the first part of this experience is the denial. For me, it wasn't so much denial as trying to force Anderson to be "normal". This included pleading with him to stop flapping his hands, endless modeling of how to correctly play with toy cars, begging him to pay attention to things that typical kids notice and enjoy. I remember taking the kids to a birthday party at an inflatables playspace and fighting back tears as he cried, screamed, kicked, and eventually settled into a routine of pacing around the bounce houses over and over.  The noise of the fans and the size of the inflatables was just too much for him. I watched Amelia and the rest of the party-goers enjoying themselves and the hole that had just begun to form in my heart--way down deep in the most tender space that is reserved for your children--grew larger. More painful. My boy wasn't going to enjoy the typical childhood activities. It hurt.

Since that time, we've experienced similar issues with places like swimming pools, concert halls, and (of course) elevators.  Over time, the feeling of hurt and, unfortunately but admittedly, disappointment have faded. But not only have they disappeared, they've been replaced with something different. A realization that is so powerful and important that I wish all parents could experience it.  When we go through something like an ASD diagnosis, we feel that because our children don't enjoy typical childhood things, they won't experience the true, unadulterated joy that comes with being a kid. That carefree uninhibited feeling that dissipates as we near adulthood and never returns.  The reality is (at least in my case), Anderson probably experiences the world in a MORE carefree and uninhibited way than most children.  He is completely unaware of others' expectations of him and therefore their opinions of him. He experiences TRUE joy in things like just being outside, pretending to do yard work, or hiking, or watching elevators. He wears his heart and emotions on his sleeve, and therefore his excitement over things that he loves is literally almost tangible. In a nutshell, he is who he is. What you see is what you get. And what you get is pretty damn awesome.

On Tuesday, I decided to take the kids on a spur-of-the-moment trip to the zoo. Just us three. We went to the Louisville Zoo because the drive is shorter and the zoo is smaller and manageable.  We got there right as the gates opened, and the day couldn't have been more perfect. Cool temperatures and overcast skies kept crowds away, and we experienced the zoo without having to wait or deal with herds of people.  Amelia is an animal-lover in the truest sense of the word--she can't stand babies or Barbies or princesses, but show her a Florida Panther and she gets all googly-eyed. She and I spent hours that day staring at lions and giraffes, elephants and gorillas and tigers.  Anderson spent hours that day walking the grounds of the zoo. He maybe actually looked at three animals the entire day, and spent the rest of his time climbing and walking rock walls, pacing back and forth in front of fences. He had free rein of the area because without a crowd, he could get a good distance away from me and I could still see him and not worry about someone trying to grab him.  I couldn't help but think back to my earlier self--the one who worried and dreaded and panicked in the earliest days of his development. That Wendy would've spent the entire day trying to force him to LOOK at the animals, persuading him to not pace in front of the fences and begging him to pay attention. I would've been so incredibly disappointed that he wasn't enjoying the animals that I would've missed how happy he was just to be outside, to be in a new environment full of fun obstacles for climbing.  On this zoo day, I felt nothing but peace and happiness, and honestly? I was proud. Proud of how far I have come, how far we have come.

The boy continues to make progress every single day. He's actually READING now with freakish accuracy. He can count past 100 and loves school. He's learning more and more how to tell us what is bothering him when he's unhappy, to use language appropriately.  In five weeks' time, he has gone from crying at the thought of getting into the pool with a swim teacher to begging him to take him out into the deeper part of the pool on a float and smiling throughout the entire lesson. The boy conquers his fears and issues on a daily basis. He's pretty amazing. I can't wait to see what the next year brings.

Conundrum

I need advice. Preferably not theoretical advice, but legitimate, "what would you do" kind of advice.

I feel like up until this point, I've done pretty decent with this whole parenting thing. My kids are good people; they're respectful and well-behaved and follow directions pretty well in public. They eat a wide variety of vegetables and other foods, they don't ask for much in the way of toys. I figure that combination kind of means I'm doing something right, at least some of the time.

But as with all kids, as they get older, they go through phases and things change.  Right now, Anderson is going through some...social changes.  He's done a complete 180; he's gone from not really wanting to engage strangers in conversations to talking their ears off. Now...please don't misunderstand. I'm glad he wants to talk to people, and that he's able to talk to communicate and all of that. But, it can be a bit...awkward. And I don't know what to do about it.

Case in point: our weekly mall excursion.  Yesterday, we went to the mall to do our chickensticks/elevator/escalator/Hollister combo. I've posted about it before, but Anderson loves to watch elevator videos. He has a favorite guy that we watch--interestingly enough, he's also on the spectrum. Like a lot of ASD kids, he watches the same videos over and over and he "echoes" them when he's playing elevators. Including when we are in public. At the mall. On busy weekends.  Saturday, we were waiting to ride the Macy's elevator.  Of course, as soon as we get there, five other people get in line to ride, too. We all get on what is one of the world's slowest elevators, and Anderson starts being Dieselducy.  He's saying all kinds of what can only be described as jibberish to the non-elevator educated.  Talking about fixtures and indicators and Dovers, pointing to things. The kids on the elevator look at Anderson, then at their mom, who is smiling but clearly befuddled. I let the family off first, and we follow--and I see the oldest girl in the family ask her mom what Anderson was doing. She wasn't rude; she was completely curious, and I don't blame her. It's definitely not something you see every day.

So this is where my question comes in. What would do you do? I am COMPLETELY comfortable with Anderson and his quirks, but I want everyone around us to be comfortable, too. In instances like those, do I tell people that he's on the spectrum--do I explain that he's imitating his favorite elevator videographer? Do I do what I've done up until this point and say nothing? Like I said, it doesn't bother ME, but I kind of feel this need for other people to "get it"--get what he's doing. I don't know...just something I've been thinking about. What would you do?

Do I?

Anderson has been in speech therapy for four years now.  During that time, he has made tremendous progress with communication. We went from goals like "using multi-word phrases", to "speaking in sentences of five or more words", to "initiating conversation" to "answering w questions".  You mention the word "autism", and most people's first thought is non-verbal, or slightly verbal.  They're taken aback by Anderson, because he is definitely very, very verbal.  In fact he doesn't really stop talking, which is problematic during things like, oh, SCHOOL.  Or homework. Or trying to get to sleep. Or when you have a raging headache. Or after you've listened to it non-stop for two hours. You get the idea.

There are times, however, when his delay is evident. If you spend more than a few hours with him, it definitely rears its head. When he is frustrated, or when he needs something that requires more explanation than a simple sentence, it becomes obvious.  He is still echoing times when he has been in trouble--or now when someone else has been in trouble--if he feels like he has done something "bad", whether he has actually been naughty or not.  He echoes his current teacher, who says things like "I am very disappointed that you made a bad choice", or "You are disobeying me". Although I'm glad that he has an outlet for his feelings and emotions, it still hurts my mama heart that he can't just say "my feelings are really hurt", or, as Amelia loves to tell me, "I'm super angry right now!" (but that's another post altogether). I just wish things were easier for him sometimes.

Another area where he still has some work to do is his tendency to talk in questions.  He doesn't do it all of the time, but it still happens. I have to confess this...it's really endearing. It's one of those little things I know that I'll miss, when he stops.  One of my favorite ways that he does this is that he asks you the question that he wants YOU to ask HIM. So, instead of saying "I'm hungry!", he might say "Mom, am I hungry?"  I'll of course ask him if he's hungry, and he says yes. Another popular one is "Do I want to play outside?"  Again--the answer is yes.

A few weeks ago, the kids were in a wedding.  It was a very long day for them, and they did an AMAZING job (and it didn't hurt that the bride thought of everything in terms of thinking of how to keep the kids entertained, and I mean everything!!).  Anderson has really come out of his shell in terms of warming up to people he doesn't know, and he loved the attention he got that day--and believe me, he commanded attention in many ways.  During the reception, after rocking the dance floor, eating cake and cookies and all kinds of other goodies, and running around opening and closing doors for the wait-staff (yes, that happened), he sat at the table, long after his bedtime, with sleepy eyes. He was in the kind of daze that can only be caused by hard play and sugar. He looked right at me and said, with the most contented smile, "Mom? Did I have so much fun at the wedding?" I kissed his sweet, sweaty head and told him yes, he'd had a very good time at the wedding.

This afternoon, as we were riding home from school, he was telling me that he plans to play "Meadowthorpe" (the name of his school) when he goes to Nana and Papaw's this weekend.  Then, he thought for a minute and said, "Do I like elementary school?" Yes--the boy is in love with school. Something I most definitely did not expect, but I'm thrilled with, of course.  And then, after we got home and I was helping him out of the van, he looked at me and said "Mommy? Do I miss you?" And then, he hugged me.  He hugged me and put his head on my shoulder for a good five seconds. All without me begging, or grabbing him and forcing it. He hugged me, and he loves me, and he misses me when he is not with me. Sure, he can't say those things, but he said it all today. It's something I will remember forever.


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My Public Service Announcement
I can't say enough about early intervention--if you're a new mama/mama to a toddler and you suspect your child may have a speech delay or any other kind of delay, I urge you to seek an evaluation through your area's early intervention service provider. Early intervention is KEY.

Getting Schooled

So the kids have been in school for between five and six weeks, but technically less with days off, holidays, etc. I am telling you...I am in AWE of the academic progress they have made in that short amount of time. Blown away.

Anderson...he knows all of his letters and their sounds, as well as how to write them correctly. His memory is a gift; he can remember most anything for an unlimited amount of time.  His teachers use a verbal path for letter-writing, meaning that they say the exact same thing every time they write a letter. For example, when they write a capital M, they say " straight down, slant down, slant up, straight down".  He has them ALL memorized. His handwriting isn't half bad, either.  He can write letters on command, meaning if I tell him how to spell them, he can write words. He loves practicing his writing and pretending to be his teacher. He does read-alouds at home, which consist of him questioning his "class" and reprimanding them when they talk while he is talking. He loves to talk about "disrespect" and "disobeying", and getting "oops notes" when someone is bad. He can also write and identify his numbers through 10 (something he could NOT do before school, for sure), and knows how to put two single-digit quantities together to make a bigger number, like two and three make five. He knows words like characters and illustrator, and states on a daily basis that "Mr. Katte's office is no place for me!" (the principal...). All in all, it's fair to say that he is really, really enjoying school. I am absolutely amazed at how he has handled the transition, and how much he is enjoying learning.  I do have to say, though, that as I anticipated, anything that requires work beyond literal or memorized skills is difficult for him.  Part of their homework each night is that we have to read together, and log our books on their reading logs.  Being the teacher mom that I am, I of course am not just going to read; I am going to ask all of the many types of comprehension questions.  Here is a snippet of my questioning of Anderson two nights ago:

Me (reading aloud): "The big boat said, 'Thanks, Joe!'  Anderson, what did the big boat say?"
Anderson:  "Uhhhhh...he said he wanted to float?"
Me (reading aloud again): "Listen...The big boat said, 'Thanks, Joe!'  What did the big boat say?"
Anderson:  Uhhh...he said he wanted to go home?"
Me (reading louder): "LISTEN...The big boat SAID,'THANKS, JOE!' WHAT did the big boat say?"
Anderson: "Thanks???"

Shew. We have some work to do, there.  Good thing I'm professionally trained. :-)

Amelia has also learned so much.  She already knew letters and sounds and numbers and all that jazz, but she's learned quite a few sight words and lots of content information. The other day, I asked her if she did reading groups. You know, because I'm nosy about what other schools do in kindergarten.  Her response surprised me; she said, "Yep! Sure do! I go to journal, then Mrs. Smith, then phonics, then ABCs, then Ms. Lundgren!"  She has her group/center rotation memorized already!  So, I asked her what she wrote in her journal. She proudly said, "My opinion!" I was totally blown away. As stupid as it is, because I work with the standards pretty much every single day and have most of them at least partially memorized, I never thought about MY kids learning the standards.  You Fayette County people following the pacing guides for ELA standards know that the first writing piece is an opinion piece. I couldn't believe it. Not only did she know what an opinion was, she was able to tell me about what she wrote. I cannot believe my daughter is WRITING.

So, all in all, school has just gone so much better than expected.  I'm thrilled.  Coming up next in our lives: Anderson starts private swim lessons. That's going to be interesting.

Next post will be all about the wedding that the kids were in this past weekend. It was a whirlwind of a few days, but it was unbelieveable. They did great and we all had a truly fabulous time. Can't wait to share.

Kindergarten Comedy

I've known for years that kindergartners are funny little people. I love going into our K classrooms and just talking to the kids because they say some hilarious stuff (sidenote: I love kindergartners. I could never teach kindergarten.  I do not have the patience, and those teachers are saints). My own K babies are no exception to this rule. We've had some pretty funny conversations around here since the dynamic duo started their educational career.  A few highlights:

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The kids are supposed to listen to reading every night as part of homework.  I don't know about you all, but we honestly don't have time for me to read two different stories to two kindergartners. So, while they have their bedtime snack after showers, I read out loud to them.  They weren't keen on this at first, but it's grown on them. Amelia has always been a good listener and can answer questions, make predictions, all of that good stuff.  Anderson...well...he has the attention span of a flea, and that's putting it mildly.  That first night, he kept trying to talk to me about all things non-related to the book.  As often happens with teacher moms, I was getting very frustrated. We had the following exchange:

Anderson:  Mom, I played outside today...
Me:  Anderson--I'm reading. Listen to the book.
Anderson:  Can I have a sandwich for lunch?
Me:  LISTEN to the story!
Anderson:  You know what mom? I can't take showers when my nose is runny....
Me:  ANDERSON!!! STOP TALKING!!
Anderson:  Mom...
Me (loudly and with the correct hand gesture--and you know what I mean): ZIP IT!!!!!!  ZIP!!!! IT!!!!!!
I continue reading.  Anderson doesn't talk, but I can see him gesturing wildly out of the corner of my eye, trying to get my attention. I ignore. He continues. I finally look at him.
Me: WHAT??????
Anderson (whispering and pointing to his mouth): But I don't have a zipper....

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Upon getting in the van each day, Amelia doesn't want to talk about what she learned at school that day. She wants to tell me all about who got in trouble. As a nosy concerned parent, I'm all for this kind of dishing.  It may not be a stretch to even say that maybe I ask her about it now. Anyway, last week she got in the van and here was our conversation:

Amelia:  I'm sad...my friend Hannah just got in trouble.
Me:  What did she get in trouble for?
Amelia: She hit my brother...she had to sit in time out.
Me (foolishly thinking she might be upset for this injustice thrust upon her brother):  Ohhh...are you sad that your brother was hit, or are you sad because she got in trouble??
Amelia:  I'm sad she got in trouble!
Me:  Well, why did she hit Anderson?
Amelia:  Well...I said to her, "Get him!!!", and she did.
Me:  Ummm....well...did you play with her after she got out of time out?
Amelia;  No. She didn't want to play with me after that.

Can't say I blame Hannah. My girl is already hiring hitmen.

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Anderson, naturally, has speech.  His speech pathologist is wonderful and was kind enough to email me something Anderson said during his first official speech session. He attends speech with another student, and apparently this little guy is quite...loquacious.  He tends to try to dominate the conversation.  Anyway, here's what happened:

Anderson (to Speech Pathologist, hereby known as SP):  I want to tell you about showers...
Other kid:  Blah blah blah blahblahblahblah....
Anderson: HEY! I was trying to tell...(he looks at the SP)...um, what's your name?
SP:  Mrs. H...
Anderson:  I was trying to tell Mrs. H about something!!!!!

She was impressed with his speech that day, I can tell you. He's already cracking everyone up.

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I know there are more funnies that I can't even remember in my overtired state.  We've already had our first funk-of-the-year; Anderson threw up at school yesterday and ran a fever all night.  His teacher texted to ask about him and let me know he was the first to "christen" her classroom this year (aka puke all over the place). Proud mom here, I'll tell ya. He also managed to puke all over my couch, something I had been able to avoid for FIVE YEARS. That was a hell of a streak. Anyway, I'm tired and staring at Amelia like the ticking time bomb that she is. Yay, kindergarten germs!

Happy 2nd ARDSiversary

This week marks the two year anniversary of Marty's near-death ARDS experience.  In some ways it seems like a lifetime ago, and in others it feels like it was just yesterday. I've been both dreading and anticipating it this year because I have the TimeHop app on my phone, and I knew it would bring up my Facebook updates from that time in our history. I'm sure it sounds a little bit crazy, but it's something I never want to forget. The raw emotions of the whole experience are an important fingerprint on my life. It changed me forever, helped me not to take things for granted, so as painful as it is, I need to remember it.

TimeHop is not disappointing me:

That particular day was the absolute worst of my whole life. It's a blur of sitting in the ICU waiting room, doctors and nurses updating me periodically with numbers I didn't understand.  The part of the day I remember most vividly is actually that night. Marty was too unstable for me to comfortably go home.  I slept at the hospital that night, my mother-in-law and sister with me in the waiting room with the lights that wouldn't turn off, much less dim. Everyone finally fell into restless sleep around midnight--everyone except me. I lay there in that uncomfortable chair covered in hospital linens that have that bleached-out, sterile smell that you only find in hospitals. I laid there and I cried. I cried more than I've ever cried in my entire life. Every single time I closed my eyes, all I could picture was my children without their father. Me telling them that he was gone.  Their reactions. It absolutely shattered me. It was the kind of grief that you only experience a few times in your life. The kind that changes you.

These days, things are pretty good.  During Marty's last hospitalization, we discovered that he has significant sleep apnea, most likely caused by the brain tumor he had in his 20s. Since then, he has used a C-PAP machine, which has both helped his apnea issues and his drainage/aspiration issues. Having the constant blast of air has really kept his lungs drier, for lack of a better word.  He had a cold this past week, and for the first time in YEARS--and I mean YEARS--he didn't wake up one morning with lung crackles and rattling. His chest stayed completely clear. Between sleeping in a recliner that keeps him at an upright angle and using the C-PAP, we are figuring out how to keep him healthier.

So, in a time when things are completely hectic--both kids are getting used to school and the boy is still struggling with PE, work is busy for both of us and some days are just plain hard--those are the things that make me grateful.  Grateful that things worked out, despite how grim they seemed on the date of the picture posted above. Even on the craziest days, I'll never take our insane lives for granted.

(If you're interested in reading more about ARDS, including stories of people just like Marty, visit the ARDS Foundation here. )

Why having your kids go to school is hardest for teachers.

The As have two weeks of kindergarten under their belts.  They've pretty well rocked it, if I do say so myself. Aside from an unfortunate whistle-blowing incident in PE, during which Anderson freaked out, things have gone fairly smoothly--from what I can tell.

I've decided that being a teacher and having your kids go to school is just incredibly hard. I'm not taking anything away from you non-teacher mothers out there, but I think it's even harder for us. Especially if our kids aren't in our school. See, I know too much. I've spent the last seven years as a K-3 Curriculum Coach. That means I go into K-3 classrooms and work with teachers to create engaging units and lesson plans that meet curriculum standards. Sometimes I model-teach, which is one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes I work with kids in intervention groups. Sometimes I just hang out, because I miss being with the students.  But another part of my job is to attend professional development sessions, so that I can stay informed about all that is up-and-coming in education. Over the past seven years, I bet I've had well over 400 hours of PD on topics ranging from behavior management to very specific literacy strategy instruction. I've been fortunate enough to attend many national conferences. All this to say--obviously I have very specific ideas of what I believe instruction should look like in classrooms. How teachers should teach. What they teach and when they should teach it. At my own school I collaborate with our leadership team and our teachers to be sure that we are providing the best instruction possible. I KNOW what happens in OUR classrooms. But my kids are going to our neighborhood school. I have absolutely no idea what happens all day every day. And that's hard for me.

Don't misunderstand; their homeroom teachers have been nothing short of amazing. I've had many interactions with them already, and I know that they are good teachers. They're kind, warm, and just right for my kids. But I have no clue what they do all day! Sure, they bring home a newsletter and the odd worksheet here and there. That doesn't tell me what their literacy block looks like. Do they do a combination of whole group and small group instruction? What does it look like when they're teaching phonics? Are they teaching them correct letter formation? Do they have an assessment that they use to drive instruction? Are they monitoring the class to be sure that my little crazies are actually paying attention?

If you have kids in school, you know what kinds of responses you get when you ask them what they did at school that day. Anderson immediately talks about the whistle in gym (we are working hard to get over that...), even if he didn't go to gym that day. Amelia pretty much just gives me the run-down on who got in trouble that day in her room. Sometimes, if I ask just the right question, I get something out of them. Amelia read the "David" books her first week and told me that she learned that "mothers and teachers still love their kids if they get into trouble".  Anderson can recite his class rules, and apparently they have some kind of class motto: "Be kind, be honest, be your BEST!"  The "best" in the motto is said with a nice fist pump. I know there are good things going on.  But not knowing the instructional part of it is, well, hard.

I don't know. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it'll help me let go of some of my controlling tendencies. Or maybe I'll just continue to hound the teachers and be "that mom". I'm just playing it by ear. :-)

Lucky

The kids spent last week with Marty's parents (aka Nana and Papaw). I had three days of professional development for work, followed by a full workday this past Monday, and Marty couldn't take off four days in a row. Since we have no local family, this was the best option--especially since the kids absolutely LOVE going to stay with them. I missed them terribly, but was so busy with work that I didn't have time to focus on them being gone. 

They came home Monday afternoon. I don't think I've ever been happier to see anyone in my life. They were happy, full of stories and excitement over both their trip and the fact that they were home to their toys, their dog, and most exciting of all--their new bunk beds. After hugs and kisses all around, we jumped right back into our routine, spending time playing outside together before getting ready for bed. After showers and pajamas, I asked Anderson if we were going to "snuggle", which is code for getting into my bed and watching his favorite elevator videos. I was shocked to realize that I couldn't WAIT to "snuggle". In the hectic whirlwind that is our everyday lives, "snuggling" is just another thing to check off the list before I can finally drag myself to bed, and I admit it; sometimes, I wish I could just skip it. Sometimes, I wish he was just one of those kids who says goodnight and crawls into bed, kind of like his sister. And most of the time, I would rather watch anything than elevator videos (linked in case you want to check out Anderson's current favorite). Watching grown men, albeit also on the ASD spectrum, ride and talk about elevators is not the most...entertaining thing to watch. It is admittedly oftentimes like listening to fingernails down a chalkboard.

On this day, though, I swear it was as if I had taken off the blinders of our regular busy routine. I was seeing our routine through new eyes. As we crawled into my bed and he pulled the comforter up to his chin, I watched him. I looked at his little profile in the light of the phone; his slightly pudgy cheeks and nose that are still holding onto toddlerhood.  His long blonde eyelashes and perfect pouty lips. His slightly out-turned ears and fuzzy hair. His eyes, intent on the videos. His genuine smile as he looked at me and said, "see those indicators?" I watched it all and soaked it in, stored it in a locked treasure box in my heart that I can unlock on those days when I literally would rather do anything than the bedtime routine. In those moments, I was purely and completely grateful. Thankful for all of it--for the gorgeous blonde boy that I created and love so fiercely. For the fact that he is on the spectrum, because he has taught me so damn much about acceptance and quirkiness, that different and unique aren't qualities to be embarrassed of but real actual gifts. Gifts that are so rare in this conformist world! In that moment, I was overwhelmed with gratitude, gratitude that I was chosen to be his mother.

Life isn't always so sugar-sweet and perfect. I know that there will be days, probably sooner rather than later, where I will once again dread the bedtime routine. I'll be so tired and stressed that I just want to get into bed without having to hear Dieselducy talk about original, glass-back cabbed elevators. But I'll remember that particular night and know in the back of my mind that it's all a gift I was lucky enough to receive.

Our Orbit

He wakes up, and I know. I know immediately. Breakfast is a battle, the granola bars he has eaten a million times, including yesterday, are "yucky". They are "bad", they "will make you throw up".  He glances out the window and sees an overcast sky and cries. It's going to rain today, he says. We can't play outside. Oh no, we can't play outside anymore ever again. We are fifteen minutes into the day, and I know.

His orbit is at its farthest point from me. He's on that outer arc, pushing against the gravity that threatens to bring him back, closer to me, to his family.  It's a struggle; he wants to come back and he doesn't want to come back, and it's a familiar, painful struggle.

I know what the day will be like, and I'm right. Every simple decision is hard, none of the toys cooperate and there are many tears, lots of yelling and hurt feelings. Amelia understands the cycle, but she's five.  On these days, we go above and beyond to find creative things to do, things that are novel and new but not outside the comfort zone. On this particular day, we make Eclair cake, which requires the use of a mixer--one of his favorite things. He settles in, gets his toy mixer out and just like that, calm settles over the house. We breathe, and enjoy a solid hour of quiet play.

These orbital shifts are hard. There are a few rough days, days where he swings, almost out of control, through that farthest point. In the beginning, his anxiety spread through our house and caused everyone to be on edge. But that's the thing about orbits. They're routine, and predictable. So while my wild satellite inevitably pushes his way to that distant part of his path, the part that is most distant from me, I hunker down to ride it out, knowing that almost as quickly as he swings away, he will always, always come back around to me.

I Wonder

In two weeks and two days, Amelia and Anderson will go to Kindergarten.

As a teacher, I've always claimed that I am not going to be emotional when they go to their first day of school. Instead of being dramatic, I'm going to be happy; happy that they're going to start their independent life, that they're going to be learning, legitimately learning things like addition and subtraction and comprehension. And a happy bonus--no more insane cost of simultaneously putting two kids through private preschool . Let's just say it has been...costly.

As the time gets closer, though, I see why parents get emotional.  It's not that they're sad that their babies are going to school for a whole day every day. It's that going to school means leaving behind a certain part of childhood. It's a definite step up on the staircase of life. It's both exciting--seriously, I'm so excited for them--but so sad that they're at this age. It has passed in the blink of an eye.

I've been watching them lately through this new lens, the lens of a burgeoning educational career. I've been listening to their words, watching their interactions with others and thinking about how who they have become over the last five years is going to translate into becoming a part of the classroom community. Classrooms truly are little mini communities--they are a child's first taste of the real world outside of their home. There is an economy, and laws complete with punishments for infractions.  And most importantly, their is a social system that EXACTLY mimics the outside grown-up world.  There are first friends, and first enemies, and the realization that despite not always liking every request or every peer, being respectful and responsible leads to a happy life. So, I've been watching, and thinking, taking it all in. Wondering how they will do.

I've watched them go from wordlessly ignoring each other, to parallel play, to playing together. I've watched them navigate disagreements with one another, and I'm proud to say that on a daily basis, I hear one or the other say, "When you are finished with _________, then it will be my turn." There is rarely a need for parental intervention. They love and respect each other.

I've watched this little guy struggle with words. I've watched him develop words, but struggle to use them to describe what he needs. I've watched him begin to ask for certain things and ask questions about his surroundings. And I've watched him become more flexible in his thinking (sometimes) and conquer some huge sources of anxiety. I think he is so brave. And so smart.

And this one. I've watched her struggle to sit independently well after turning a year old. I've seen her balance on her tiny bird legs, taking that first step at almost two years old. I've seen her struggle physically to keep up with her brother and friends. I've watched her deal with heartache over others not taking her seriously because despite being five years old, most people we encounter think she is much younger. And yet, she is so confident, and strong, and determined. She's gone from calling me Mommy to "Mom", and has even developed that little indignant tone that only girls use with their mothers. Lately, she's become so much more empathetic. She understands her brother's needs on a different level and is very protective of him. She is all about fairness. And she is so, SO smart. I worry about her in school, and I'm so excited all at the same time. She's ready.

Their legs have lengthened, as have their sentences.  They've lost the baby fat from their cheeks and the baby words from their vocabularies.  Amelia says things like "I was COMPLETELY scared of that thunderstorm!" and Anderson hedges the rules we have about saying the words 'stupid' and 'dumb' by saying 'cupid' and 'drum'. They're quick to let me know that they are feeling "mad" when I've denied them some request or asked them to do something that they don't like. They think logically and rarely lash out in anger, especially with one another.

So lately, I've wondered about how they'll function at school. How they'll fit in. And the answer: who knows? Just like the adult world, nothing is really predictable. You can prepare for anything and be thrown a curveball at any time. But you know what? My little humans are as ready as anyone else. I think they're more than ready. And I am so, SO incredibly proud of them and how far they have come. So proud.