Whitterer on Autism

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.”
“?”

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!

Generally speaking, I use ‘electronics time’ to be productive. However, the new Wii game, guitar hero, proves to be quite a challenge. There’s the issue of finger isolation, co-ordination and any number of different skills that prove insurmountable but tantalizingly tempting for the junior members of the household. Personally, I’d rather watch paint dry, but it takes all sorts I suppose.

Although the persevere to master these new skills, the ratio of grief to joy is not favourable. I need ear plugs for the wailing let alone the actual music itself. I expect a plastic guitar to be hurled with every passing missed note. As a result my own productivity reaches at all time low as they cannot be left unsupervised unless I wish to risk yet another trip to the ER. I have no choice but to be pro-active in the learning department. There will be no 30 minute cooking session, more of an un-jamming lesson.

Negative talk in the self hatred category, swirls around the room. For myself, I merely loathe the new toy which has provoked so much angst. Two thirds off the original retail price, still means ‘no sale’ in my ledger. The general opinion is that bed-time and or sleep, is cancelled until further notice, or rather, until someone manages to conquer the hero. This is the worst possible outcome, regardless of perspective.

Fury caused by frustration, quickly provokes incoherence. We are now tuneless, toneless and teetering on the edge. I snatch it away rudely before mayhem ensues, “my turn I think!” I yell just loud enough to make myself heard. Teary eyes blink in bewilderment. Swathes of snot adorn biceps as they visibly brighten. My daughter unwraps her head from her arms. For the moment I lack both purpose and practice. My working theory is that there is nothing like watching your mother fail miserably, to make everything seem a whole lot better.

Much to my surprise, everyone is remarkably helpful. Without words they put my hands in the right position, push button, select different programmes and generally get me organized in my role as novice. Whilst they are agreed that I am useless, there is some dissent as to whether I am a ‘beginner’ or ‘easy?’ The consensus of opinion is that I am now ready for my debut. Fortunately I can count and my fingers work. They watch in awe and clap and make complimentary and appropriate statements of praise. On completion they fiddle around with baffling statistics to declare that I am 98% something or other.

“Right! So now we shall let the guitar rest over night whilst we all go to bed,” I announce, turning to place the instrument out of reach on the top of the armoire. When I turn back, I see my sons on the floor at my feet before me, whispering something incomprehensible. As they kneel, their bodies rise and fall, eyes closed, palms clasped together. My daughter giggles on the couch, a silent observer. “What are they doing? What are they saying?” I demand, with hands on hips, weary, so weary. She beams as she stands, ready to retire, “we worship you……..got it from a cartoon I think.”

A blatant, but nonetheless welcome lie.

Timing is crucial.

I wait until two people stand on the roof to chop down the Christmas tree, one person plays ‘electronics’ and one spins his wheels. I grab the spinner to explain our schedule and specifically, how we shall occupy the next hour. We shall spend the next hour making candy as a gift for other members of the family, “a gift,” our first.

I say a silent prayer that no-one falls off the roof during the next hour, or that if they do fall off the roof, that they won’t fall past the kitchen window, as that kind of distraction would be very off-putting.

My son is unconvinced that the project is doable, or preferable, or possible to complete in under 60 minutes. I share his dubious approach on the inside. I project optimism on the outside. I have selected a recipe for each child, what I hope is a good fit. Whilst it would be preferable for them to each to make their own choice, the ‘choice’ step could fill the entire hour and still not reach a conclusion. So I have chosen for them, a step that I view as dictatorship, although hopefully benign.

“Whada we doin again?” he enquires with huge dark eyes of confusion.
“We’re going to make chocolate fudge. It’s going to be delicious.”
“Er…….whya we doing it again?”
“It will make presents that you can wrap up and give to everyone in the family.”
“But why?”
“To make them happy. To show that you love them by giving them something they will like.”
“Er…..will dey like em?”
“Absolutely guaranteed. You like chocolate fudge don’t you? Everyone like’s chocolate fudge and they’ll like it all the more because you made if for them. Now…….how about we start by reading the recipe together?” He pauses, again. At this rate it will be a miracle if we ever manage task completion within the next 56 minutes. He rests his head on the kitchen counter as I list what I hope are mouth watering ingredients, but he’s off with the fairies and pays no heed to my words.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?” Please lets make a start. Please don’t let us get off track again? Where is the track anyway?
“You are be tell a lie.”
“I am? I did? What did I lie about?”
“You said…….everyone is be liking my present.”
“That’s right. Absolutely right. They’re going to just love it.”
“But…..”
But me no buts! I hear the tick tock time slipping away.
“But what dear?”
“You……..”
“What about me?”
“You……..hate chocolate.”

They always get me on the details.

I have a small confession to make about autism. When it comes to birthdays and holidays my children do not exchange gifts.

My daughters often make cards and fashion presents at such times, unprompted and generally unappreciated, but even persuading the boys write their own names on a shop bought card, has proved a challenge. This fact dawns upon me one morning. I realize that we have spent our time concentrating on receiving a gift graciously, because this is a social issue with dire consequences. Whilst there can me many humiliating experiences in life, when a gift is firstly ignored, later rejected and later still, destroyed, we are aware of the hurt this causes to the giver. It effectively doubles the pain. The receiver fails to behave appropriately, the giver is mystified.

In some American homes, the present opening section of a party is almost a formal ritual. Even quite young children patiently open each gift, express pleasure and delight and then verbally thank the giver. It is quite a feat to witness.

Last year as children gathered for my own daughter’s birthday party, I was there to see her joy and grace in this ritual. She had learned this from a peers, a lesson she should have learned at home.

Even now, we are careful to ensure that opening presents is a private affair with the boys, direct family only, so that no-one can witness the fall out. I recall previous attempts to overcome this deficit by any manner of means, but all with equal measure of failure. I know that they are now older, we need to pick up the gauntlet again.

I appreciate that I have failed to address this matter. I find it hard to fathom why this should be? I suspect that in part, it is because it is quite an advanced social skill, although I would not have said that a decade ago. A decade ago I would have said it was simply ‘good manners,’ a pre-requisite for every body on the planet. These days, I understand that some bodies have more fundamental hurdles to overcome, like dressing, eating with or without cutlery, toileting and speaking.

I need to think of something ‘doable.’

In an ideal situation, they would spend their pocket money or allowance on presents, but money is a poor motivator for the boys. Homemade would always be my first choice for any gift, as it demonstrates the love and effort which make a gift a true gift, but my children’s hands are not gifted.

I pull out an old book, one that I’m very fond of, a gift from my Granny, the one that my daughter refers to as ‘the man in drag cookbook.’ I have never seen it that way: the child looks like I did once. The woman next to her is the epitome of everyone’s granny, kindly, friendly and familiar, although I wish she’d put that sieve over the bowl.

Now all I need to do is engineer or carve out an hour with each child, one on one, so that they can create candy to give to the other 6 members of our direct family, when the day finally comes.

I’ll keep you posted.

Pin pricks of panic tweak my brain stem as the minutes pass, more birthday party guests arrive and there is no sign of his dad. Two hours of merriment seems more and more unlikely as friends gather to celebrate his 8th birthday at a local venue.

Parents depart one by one leaving me with an assortment of 14 children, three of my own, nine special needs children and two extra siblings, just to make it that little bit more fun. I am the only adult person present and not particularly responsible.

I make a dash for the back door to check it is locked and then to the front entrance where there is a youthful chap behind the till, “don’t let any of them leave!” I squeak and skuttle back to the smalls. I know for a fact that I have at least three bolters in my charge and two of them are mine!

I spend one hundred and twenty minutes in a state of high alert, encouraging climbers to remain earthbound, persuading picky eaters to shrug it off, negotiating disputes and opening those tricky juice pouches.

There are no meltdowns, no escapes and very little ill will.

As the last child is collected, I am ready with my sigh of relief. I am about to give myself a hearty pat on the back for my outstanding service to a successful social scene when light dawns. The success has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with the children. Each and every one of them is bigger, brighter and possibly happier than a few years ago.

Congratulations not so little people!

My son has never used the phone willingly. During the last few years we have made strenuous efforts to help him talk to familiar relatives on the phone, but to date our success has been limited. During this same period we have tried to de-sensitize both of them to the horror of headphones, but with similarly disappointing results. We have tried any number of strategies such as using the 'speaker' function, but all to no avail. Overall there appears to be general disinterest in talking to an invisible person somewhere out in the ether.

It is an irksome overhang of past deamons to me, as during their initial evaluations neither was able to name or identify a telephone, a microscope nor any number of everyday household items. It was a sharp pang of reality injected into my cotton wool world.

When the phone rings I find myself instantly deluged in words from a very fast speaking young woman. It's a monologue of reasons why she must speak to my son. She talks as if she has already made a list of reasons why I might refuse and has come up with her own counter arguments in advance. As she rattles them off, I wander through the house to seek him out, since I am unable to get a word in edgeways. When I find him I shield the voice piece, attract his attention, wait for his attention and explain, “your friend Felicity is on the phone, she wants to speak to you,” and hold out the receiver to him near his right hand. He takes the phone in a limp hand, slithers off the bed to perch like a three legged stool on the carpet, “hi Felicity, it's me,” he says with a casual air that matches his liquefied body as he rolls over, a cat in the sunshine. I hover for a few minutes but it seems impolite to remain and ear wig. As I leave, I note that she uses a great many words and he uses one or two in response, at lengthy intervals.

I check on his progress every five minutes or so, mainly to prevent the telephone being abandoned in some random place never to see the light of day again. He wanders from room to room, loose limbed and all a gangle.

We crash in the corridor but his hands are empty. “Where's the phone dear?” There is no response as I canter after him on the alert for lonely phones. “Did you have a nice chat with Felicity?” He keeps moving either deep in other thoughts or determined to maintain a new privacy. As I bob and weave in his wake we collide with his father who is equally interest in this new development, as well as concerned for the welfare of all electronic devices in the house. He nabs him by the shoulders, even though his legs keep moving, a cartoon caricature of a fully wound toy “so……..how was Felicity?”
“I dunno.”
“Well you've been talking to her for nearly half an hour, what did you have to talk about?”
“Nuffink.”
I am suddenly aware that we appear to be putting the poor child through the third degree, or what appears to be the third degree but is really only the first degree of a new form of communication.

We smile, wise adults and release him. The innocence of youth, loves young dream, the shadow of the future…….. As usual we are off radar. He calls after him, the retreating speed walker, “maybe you should wine and dine her?” he sniggers. I beam with fondness as my son replies over his shoulder, without missing a beat, “Felicity's not a whiner.”

They all have some version of it, the twiddle syndrome. It is of course extremely annoying. However, I thought I should better detail this particular twiddle because whist it is terribly irritating, one day it may not be there any more. Elimination or extinguishing the behaviour, would be designated as progress, but I will also miss it in some strange way that I don't really understand.

In his book “Look me in the Eye,” “John Elder Robinson” details many skills, talents and abilities that he experienced as a child, which were later displaced by other skills, such that the former intuitive capabilities were no longer available to him. It makes me hopeful, but also cautious.

In our house, like many houses with children, many objects are on the floor. Not just furniture and toys but other things. Within minutes of their wakefulness a whole slew of things hit the floor such as cushions, sofa cushions, anything that happened to be on either. This means that the floor space becomes an obstacle course in seconds. This wouldn't be a problem per se, but my children also have difficulty navigating their space and frequently trip over things that aren't even there. The obstacle course makes the task of moving from A to B even more hazardous.

My eldest son, speech delay aside, is now far more willing to communicate with us verbally and voluntarily. It is at first light that he is most willing to talk. He talks primarily about Pokemon. Through the haze of dawn he chats. As he chats his feet propel him over a radius of approximately three yards in constant movement. As he moves, his feet come into contact with an object. The object sticks to his feet like a magnet, even if it is made of plastic or cloth or paper. The object moves similarly to a ball that is being dribbled by an expert soccer player, but in slow motion. As the object tumbles between his feet, clenched by toes and glued from one ankle to another, the words flow from his mouth with a sweet breathy expression. It is very hard to concentrate on the words, as my eyes are distracted by the object. It is quite mesmerizing.

I already know how to correct this. I need to take him by the shoulders to orientate him towards me, his audience, and remove the distracter. Experience tells me that if I ground him; 'stand still while your talking!' and remove the object, his words will dry up, the smiling expression faulter, so I refrain, and just listen. People are unlikely to listen to a spinning speaker but somehow I suspect that given time, he will adjust himself, as he grows older and more things fall into place.

These days it's also reciprocal, not just a monologue as he asks me pertinent questions about my own preferences, questions that I am supposed to answer. As I stumble for an answer, whilst the object tumbles, he is patient with me, as my brain searches for the right words. I'm sure my annoyance and confusion is well disguised. As I gape like a fish, my mind struggles with word retrieval. He steps across to me to pause and place an index finger on my chin, fix me with soft brown eyes, “it's o.k. mom, I know that “you are being tired,” he beams, “dere you go!” he puts the two foot, Halloween spider from his feet into my hands and scampers off.

Now is the time to practice, practice, practice!
9 days to wear those costumes and find all their faults.
9 days to model and role play.
9 days to practice that phrase, ‘trick or treat?’
9 days to accept that all candy is not equal.
9 days to practice coping skills for disappointments such as trading.
9 days to practice holding a torch in one hand, a bucket in the other, walking as a group, managing your costume, negotiating steps, pathways, traffic and other revelers.

Can we do this?

Yes we can!

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.

Just a wee little tackle, just in time for the holiday. Which holiday?
Why Halloween of course?

As with most things American, when this first happened to our family, I wondered what on earth was happening? But over the years I have learned not to psycho-analyze these things and instead join in the fun.

What you will need:-
Copy the text and picture from the bottom of the post, and print out two copies
Two little bags
treats that will fit inside the little bags
Embellishments and decorations to meet your little people’s needs

Assemble

Now you and your offspring decide who your victims shall be. Wait until dark. Dash up to the victim’s front door, ring the bell as if the bats are on the way, drop the bag and leg it behind the nearest, largest bush to hide. Spy on your victims through the branches and watch their state of confusion. Leave safely when the coast it clear.

Is that clear?

Need any additional information or do you get it?

I got it, once I ignored the psychobabble.

It should bring a great deal of childish glee to your household and someone else’s.

Here are the sheets to copy:-

They are available from this site “here.”

So any lingering doubts, queries, questions or confusions?

Good, I’m glad it’s all perfectly clear to you.

Enjoy.

Backstory-

First of all I should like to point out that this year, finally, we did manage to complete this activity.

Secondly, I would stress that on balance, I would have to admit that it involved a greater degree of hilarity and a lesser degree of angst and confusion.

How can this be?

Well they’re bigger of course.

Why would such a simple activity be anything less than delightful?

Ah, well, that’s the real question isn’t it.

One of the cardinal rules of child rearing, any child, is consistency.

If we gloss over the standard difficulties of completing anything which vaguely resembles ‘a craft,’ then there are a whole slew of illogical inconsistencies to address. It is a social skills nightmare. For instance, generally speaking, ringing people’s doorbells and running away, is a habit that we would choose to discourage in our children as responsible parents, yet for some reason, the Boo reason, this is suddenly o.k.? How bizarre is that?

Additionally, it is an additional purposeless trip in the car. Ideally we would have walked but time constraints, darkness and walking, are never a good combination mid-school week, so I had to cheat and keep some variables at bay.

Normally I drag my children with me into the store or the post office muttering, “no you can’t stay in the car, it’s illegal to leave you unsupervised.” But for this exercise one child accompanies me to Boo, the other two wait in the car, in the dark, alone and unsupervised so that they can watch the fun. How come the cardinal rule changed?

Fun. Well of course that it something that is almost impossible to explain, because as we watch the parents and children come out of their houses to collect their Boo, they have the nerve to look confused. Confused is an expression that we now recognise. Why would we wish to wantonly cause confusion to complete strangers? Why have the rules changed.

Talking of which, how come it’s suddenly ok. to commune with strangers? Who changed the rules?

If it is ok to commune with strangers, why don’t we have to use our nice words and say hello to them? Who changed the rules?

Fall out

What has been the result of this activity, overall, now that the dust has settled? Any long term effects?

Well the short term effect is that my son is now mesmerized by the ‘confused’ expression. He can mimic it exactly and copies the little boy on the doorstep, chin to chest looking at the floor with the accompaniment of ‘he looked like dis!’

The long term effect?

“Faster dan dah kids in Narnia! My mum is run like lightening!”

Bear in mind that the ‘kids in Narnia’ movie, run in slow motion.