Whitterer on Autism

More magic, than marker

Hosted by “Tracy” at “Mother May I,” but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

During the course of the holidays, my children discover how to parachute, or more accurately, test which toys can fly and those which cannot.

This is scientifically tested from the top of the stairs where the toys are hurled into the air, bounce off the ceiling and crash down on innocent victims below. It proves to be thoroughly hilarious entertainment for a good half hour. On conclusion of the half hour, they realize a serious flaw in the game plan, namely, the ten foot Christmas tree in the flight path. After a quick check, several items appear to be adrift, including a highly prized DS game, a one inch, thin, grey, plastic square. The meltdown that ensures is more or less inevitable. Whilst it would be perfectly possible to disassemble a 10 foot Christmas tree to hunt for the treasure, with my current responsibilities I am both unable and unwilling to compromise in this manner.

This more or less guarantees an hour of perseverating angst every day, first thing in the morning. The daily dose of angst almost persuades me to comply, but the time simply isn’t available. Arguably, an hour spent sequencing my son through the series of events that led up to this disaster would be better spent hunting through the needles, with hindsight, but I lack the energy.

Sadly, my efficiency levels are so low that we fail to take down the Christmas tree and other decorations on Twelfth Night. However, we are prompted into action with the dawning of the recycling visitation, which promises to arrive on Tuesday. With the children back at school on Monday, my elder daughter, Nonna and I take on the task in shifts. We each work independently in different parts of the house in an attempt to remove every trace prior to the end of the school day. Although the boys are generally oblivious to the décor, for some reason the strip down phase causes no end of grief and anxiety. Far better to remove all evidence in one fell swoop, the swift, slight of hand of magicians.

As I lift, roll and stash each decoration, my mind is free to reflect. Thatcher’s arrival has made several significant impacts upon my children. Thatcher is at the chewing stage of puppy-hood, which means that just about everything is fair game. It’s a daily game. Anything on the ground becomes fodder. Anything on the sofa or other surfaces above ground, is off limits. We have a mounting pile of evidence or our mistakes:- shoes, books and toys. None of these things are of value or worth protecting. A few prized items are worth the effort:- Webkinz, Pokemons and electronics paraphanalia. I foresee that before too long, the whole household itinerary will have been culled in this manner.

After lunch I haul out the tree into the roadway ready for collection, leaving a trail of green, prickly needles. The needle sweep up is also time consuming, several sack loads end up stacked next to the other debris and recycling materials. This leaves me just enough time to walk Thatcher before the school run.

Thatcher is keen to mark the dead tree. I am equally as keen that his offering should be elsewhere. Tree collection is hazardous enough an occupation without the added contributions of every household pet in the street. I distract and entertain as we lollop along the road with each house displaying still further green temptations.

As we reach the end of our circuit I see the huge recycling trucks approach the house. Thatcher is not keen on large noisy things. I hover, uncertain whether to continue his exposure or let him off the hook after 69 minutes of traffic? He cowers at my ankles, tail between his legs as we near the house. Suddenly, he makes a mad dash for the tree, his muzzle buried deep in the pines. I wonder if he has found a stray Christmas decoration, a choking hazard. On the command to drop, he does so without a qualm. There on the black rough tarmac is a small, thin, grey plastic square.

I wonder if plastic smells? I wonder if the plastic smells of my son?

I wait until completion of the school run, and the shock waves of despair at our denuded home to subside. I wait until the ebb tide, when spirits are low but even.
“Hey guys?” No-one has any interested in any more words, their daily allowance fully expended after a strenuous first day back at school.
“Guess what I found today?”
Floppy people display disinterest, their body language says it all.
“Guess what…..Thatcher found today?”
Bleary eyes blink with just the tiniest hint of something approximating interest.
“Look!” I hold up the tiny, grey, one inch square between thumb and forefinger with a white contrast wall behind. Gasps of genuine delight, amazement and joy chorus from every corner of the room.
“Did he really find it Mom? Where did he find it?”
“Fatcher found it?”
“Fatcher is being dah….………twuly……….. awesome one!”

We walk as a family, together with our dog, Thatcher. We meet and greet neighbours, old ones and new unfamiliar ones. People are friendly and make complimentary remarks about our puppy.

My children offer pertinent pieces of information in return:- that he has fur, even between his toes, that the end of his tail looks like a teasel, that his poop is bigger than cat poop because he is much bigger than most cats, that the tough pads on his feet mean that he doesn’t need to wear shoes, that he smells really bad, but not as bad as the first day he arrived.

Each little nugget of information is of equal worth.

People seem both amused and bemused in return.

By the time we dawdle back home, these cumulative exchanges appear to have percolated their psyche.

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I like Fatcher.”
“Oh good. I’m glad you told me that dear.”
“Yes…………now we have a dog…….….people think we are more entertainment value.”
“?”

I drop off my son and daughter to their respective play dates and then drive the little one home after school. The child is a picture of misery. One on one time with mum, is a poor consolation prize. Although I have planned a bumperful of entertainment for him, I know that I have a hard sell ahead of me.

Once inside he collapses like a damp squib on the sofa. Feelings of self worth, anxiety and depression are all closely related deamons. As he slips his fingers into his mouth I can tell that we’re on the edge of the precipice. I sidle up to him and park myself on the carpet so that we’re eye to eye. “I know!” I beam to a listless, glistening eyeball.
“How about we take Thatcher for a walk?” He is horror struck at the thought, rigid as a stick and speechless. More usually he would pogo at high speed in the same spot, fists clenched to his side, spittled with teeth breathing. It’s quite amusing to watch him behave the same way horizontally. “But……but…..but……. I cant be walk a dog.”
“Why?”
“Because……….” It’s an unfair question because we both could probably list several thousand reasons why this is a non starter.
“Let me help you with your shoes and jacket, it’s cold outside.” The reference to the temperature evokes a noise similar to a firecracker. It’s a like a feral cat in a sausage casing when you stick the tail in an outlet. “Come on! It’ll be fun!”
“Fun! Fun? What is dis ting called fun anyways?” It’s one of those things that he still says, although he doesn’t necessarily mean it. It’s more of a habit of protest. If in doubt, say no. It’s a trait common to many.

The transition of dog and child is smoother than I could have hoped. He holds the lead firmly and with a little encouragement has no difficulty ordering Thatcher around. His ambient level of shout, is a perfect match, authoritative, clear, one word commands. Thatcher is obedient when he understands. He appears to understand perfectly.

We make two circuits around the block.

Back inside the garage he pauses whilst I dry off Thatcher’s paws and muzzle. Unusually, he continues to pause, to wait a while instead of diving back into the house and safety.
“Mom!” he shouts.
“Yes dear?”
“He………….Fatcher……..…he is a good dog.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

Autism comes in many forms and affects everyone differently. One aspect is the volume of speech, if and when “speech” is available.

My younger son is loud when he speaks words and loud when he stims. The only time he is not loud is when echolalia takes over, in which case his volume matches what he has heard and repeats. Recently, he has learned the concept of whispering, the concept only, while he practices the practice. The effort involved is quite extraordinary and takes a great deal of heavy breathing and body contortions, but as yet, to very little effect.

My older son is generally inaudible, sotto voce. Sometimes he starts off well but the end of his sentence withers, until it peters out.

The arrival of our new pet makes for some very interesting developments. Everyone is keen to communicate with Thatcher, the dog, mainly by barking. This logic is lost on the dog. To date, Thatcher has not uttered a single note, barring the odd whimper, a dose of severe hic-cups and a squeal of surprise when he crossed paths with a cat.

Most of the commands for dog training are simple, sometimes with accompanying hand gestures. In principle, all of us should use the same words and gestures. Remarkably, everyone is willing to try, and try, and try again, many, many times without so much as a minor meltdown in the face of continued failure and frustration.

The squeaks, screams and squeals from my son frighten Thatcher. Suddenly my son begins to learn consequences for behaviour that has been unable to control. He doesn’t want to frighten Thatcher. He sees him cower and shiver. He now appreciates the causal affect. Previously he has been oblivious or possibly merely unmotivated.

Meanwhile the sainted Thatcher puts up with us, his new family. I suspect that some time soon the Humane Society will come to call. Since neither child is able to “pronounce” the digraph “th,” Thatcher is the only dog in America to be repeatedly spat upon, as the boys struggle with uncooperative tongues. Fortunately, Thatcher is not similarly limited. His tongue just laps it all up.

Echolalia is a common feature of autism. Quite often it can also be a stim, a self stimulatory behaviour. Some people find this very irritating. I am one of them. However, just as I begin to feel my ire rise, I remind myself of a few pertinent facts. [*]…………..

“And now a word from our sponsors,” he beams as he pirouettes across the carpet on tippy toes.
It’s a heavy burden indeed. Was that a Kansas accent?
“Only $19.99 plus shipping and handling!” he pipes as he careens from trampolene to sofa without missing a beat.
Whatever shall we do? That must be a New York accent.
“Call now while stocks last,” he chortles as he completes a perfect backwards roll.
It’s such a heavy price to pay. That fast talker can’t be Canadian?
“Don’t change the channel coz we’ll be righttttt back,” he hollers as he goosesteps Mario style, rigid as a stick. My fuse seems shorter than usual. I have no idea what accent that is, his range is far too great.
He has more zip and zing than the Energizer Bunny.
This is the true cost my friend. The true cost of a new dog, who seeks out new excitements, no matter how well hidden, a power surging searcher, a sniffer hound that eats the remote control, so we are unable to skip the advertisements.

[*] And to the person who searched ‘methods to stop echolalia,’ I would add……..echolalia has it’s place, especially when someone emerges from the realms of the non-verbal, especially if there is poor or weak muscalature. It’s all great practice. Most of the time it is harmless. Phrases you might prefer not to hear will pass given time. They enjoy it and if you can tune in to their phraseology you may well be able to use this skill to your advantage. This mimicry is also a gift as it can help them pick up on current phrases of their peers…….I could go on………but some people are unlikely to be convinced.

So don’t worry if you’re running a bit short in the patience department, as an overly developed sense of humour, may get just as far.

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to“DJ Kirkby” over at “Chez Aspie” and test your brain power.

With the festive season over, you may find like me, that your home has been transformed into Santa’s Grotto, toys strewn over every available surface. If that is the case, then it might see a little odd to create yet more mayhem, but occasionally it is sometimes best to admit defeat and go with the flow.

You will need:-
Felt squares
Glue
Sharpie Permanent pens
A picture from your offspring
The temporary loan of your offspring’s finger

Examine the creature that your child has drawn to determine which, if any, are the most important features.

Match the colours as best you may.

Draw around your child’s finger tip splayed on a firm surface to ensure a good fit.

Allow space for 3-D and seam.

Once completed and the glue has dried your child now has a custom made introduction to the Thumb Wrestling Federation.

I kid you not.

This project was for one of my sons, that one who does not suffer from tactile defensiveness. Generally speaking, crafts of any kind do not interest either of them. In this particular instance, he was motivated by the “Thumb Wrestling Federation.” He came up with this idea all by himself. He was so motivated that after a few initial outburst of frustration he understood that his describing words were not up to the task, hence, oh wonder of wonders, he was persuaded to draw and colour the image rattling around in his head. This project required several gallons of patience because I knew that his drawing wasn’t an exact match to what he envisioned. Perfection is king around here and hence he was able to verbally correct my errors, bigger, smaller, longer and so on.

All in all, he was satisfied with the results.

On completion he was ready, willing and able to commence “thumb wrestling.” Whilst this might seem a little aggressive, for people with poor hand strength, weak finger isolation and poor motor control, I suspect we need not be overly worried. More importantly, this is a perfectly pleasant way of personal and intimate interaction. Who would have thought that he’d come up with his own social skills exercise. Yippee!

We all begin to adjust to our “new arrival” in our own individual ways. In the aftermath of the festive season there is a more than usual amount of messiness around. I warn everyone that things left about are likely to be chewed, or if they’re very unlucky, eaten. As usual, no-one pays any heed. I list a lengthy record of similar occurrences that they have each directly experienced with other people’s dogs in the recent and not so recent past. My list and the repeats of my list, sound like my own silent solo. A scratched record.

I prepare mentally for the first casualty. Which child victim? Which precious toy? I don’t need to wait long.

I gallop at the first scream of agony.

In the family room I find my son knelt on the floor before the dog with his hands under his muzzle, “dwop it “Fatcher!”
“Use a firm voice dear,” I encourage.
“Dwop it Fatcher!”
“Maybe he doesn’t recognise his name? You could try the ‘th‘ sound?”
“Dwop it f f th thatcher!”

Thatcher reluctantly drops the package of sharp plastic corners, part of a prized Christmas present. He slips the packet into the back of his pyjama bottoms, out of sight, so that both hands are free to pet and praise the dog for his amazing feat of obedience. Perfectly sequenced steps. Seamless ideation. We chorus good dog. My son chortles deliciously as Thatcher licks his ears and neck. He expresses no concern or anger at the ruined toy.

Lesson learned.

“He dun bin choke on dat bad fing!”

His sole concern is the welfare of the dog.

Several lessons learned.

Below is a picture of yet more advanced social skills. My son and Thatcher curl up for a cat nap, which may not be of any great significance. Only the real baby sleeps. However, if I also consider the fact that this is 15 minutes into the sacred ‘electronics’ time, half way through his precious half an hour, then this would seem infinitely preferable and maybe a teeny tiny bit admirable, but there, I’m letting my bias show.

As his little brother said:-

“Finally! Someone who likes fire hydrants as much as me.”

It’s probably a Garfield quote.

Don’t forget to nip along and say ‘hi de ho’ to “Michelle’s” family over at “Full Soul Ahead,” and see if you might be able to “help out” with her post called “A Service Dog For Riley.”

A very long time ago I gave my little brother a cheap and nasty teddy bear. It was very small and constructed in what I can only describe as squares and rectangles.

It might have just passed muster if it had been biscuit coloured but unfortunately it was a pure shade of dun. Fortunately I gave it with love and from the very few pennies in my possession. For some unaccountable reason, he and the bear bonded. He being a youthful kind of a little brother, he concocted a lengthy, convoluted name for a bear no larger than his pudgy little hand. Jumbo Jet Teabags, as he was affectionately known for short, and my brother, were quite inseparable for many a long year. Jumbo Jet Teabags full name, is lost on my weakened memory card, but I believe he had a great number of them, one for each letter of the alphabet.

Currently we own, or rather, we adopted as family members, two cats named Unis and Rascal. They are both boys. They are both brothers. These were the only two names that my children could agree upon. Any pet I have ever owned has always been called either Fred or George. I’m not good at names. I’m great at faces.

I think these things as I sit on the floor with the experiment. The experiment is hairy rather than furry. The colour of champagne, smallish and exuberant. Like most new-borns, he is currently nameless, but responds well to everything from ‘pot of tea?’ to ‘puppy.’

The naming ceremony shall commence shortly.

I hereby declare that I am going to fudge the results. We do have a short list but if you think for one moment that I am going to be running around the neighbourhood park calling Geckcelia / Daddidiogasaurus / Minch Pin/Curly / Darky/ Fluffy Queen / Gorgeous One / Licky /Surprise /Death Wish the First/Killer Junior / Inappropriate Species, then you’ve got another thing coming my fine friend. As head poop collector, feeder, companion and mistress, that hound shall henceforward be named George. And that’s final.

Addendum.

I lied. Puppy will be called Thatcher. I bet you a farthing that you cannot guess why?

Here are a couple of unhelpful hints, “here” and “here.”

Now other people are also in need of such companions such as “Michelle’s” family over at “Full Soul Ahead,” so you may wish to pop on over and see if you might be able to “help out” with her post called “A Service Dog For Riley.”

I find him at three in the morning in the downstairs bathroom, sodden, in the dark with a torch. As I snap on the light I find the source of the water as the bidet spurts a fifteen foot fountain to the ceiling.
“What are you doing!”
“Er……I’m try to be a make my own rainbow.”

Sorry I didn’t have the camera handy, but I’m sure you get the picture.