She's screaming again, it must be Monday

Autism. It inhabits my house, every part of it. Sometimes, I can't think. And if I can't think, I can't write. Part of the problem is that it's Monday. But it's also just...life. Every time I sit down to put my thoughts on paper, some crisis hits and I have to break out the proverbial fire hose or do recon. I have so much to say, but I cannot get my thoughts in order. Chaos reigns supreme in my house. As I write this, my youngest child is sitting here alternating between, "I don't care what you say!" over and over again, and "EVIL!" and just screaming. There is only so much that you can listen to this before you start to tune it out. And don't tell me to try to make it better, nothing does. It is Monday, after a particularly busy weekend, and this is par for the course. Albeit, a little louder than usual. Such is autism in my house.

As I write this, my son is in his room egging his sister's behavior on, and trying to see how far he can push me. He is supposed to be writing an essay, but unless I stand on his neck, figuratively speaking, that's not going to happen today. He just slithered past behind the couch thinking I didn't know he was there. Now, he is making faces at his sister. Again, he thinks I don't know. I am about ready to pounce on him so we can work on his double-digit multiplication, so he is trying to maintain a low profile.

I had to resume this post after I dealt with JBean. She was out of control. Hitting me and throwing Legos, not enough to hurt, but enough to be really annoying. I finally picked her up and deposited her in her bed, with her screaming, "You're hurting me! I really wasn't she was just overly sensitive. I tucked her into bed, with her weighted blanket, including her arms. Think: swaddling a baby to calm them. I sat next to her with my legs over her, not my weight, just my legs. She was screaming, but I know her well enough to know what calms her.

After a bit, she was quiet, and I could see the comprehension shine in her eyes once again. I picked up the closest stuffed animal, which happened to be a multi-colored patchwork elephant, and told her to hold him. Then I asked her what color she was feeling. She pointed to red. "So you are angry?" She nodded her head. I told her it was good that she could tell me how she was feeling. Then I pointed to white. "This is peace. It's a good feeling, and if you add it to the red, you can end up with pink. Do you think you could be pink?" She nodded, her eyes wide. "I could try, " she said.

Then she pointed at purple. "What's that, " I asked. "it's 'I'm Sorry," she said.

And she was.

Crisis averted, peace restored. At least until lunchtime, anyway.

But this? Is why I can't write.

Tina writes on her own blog, Send Chocolate Now! and is a featured blogger at OC Family,and Orange County Moms Blog. Autism Sucks is her brainchild, because, well, face it, sometimes it does.

Mom, Sorry I Was Such a Gark

There is a cupboard in my kitchen that houses all of my office supplies like staplers, tape, envelopes, and the like. I can always tell when my son gets in there because I hear things fall and clatter to the floor. I can hear the tape being ripped off the roll like it's being strangled, and the cupboard door slams open and shut probably three times. Very hard. Not in anger, but for lack of finesse. I know I will walk down to a royal mess like pens missing caps, papers spilled all over the floor, and paper clips dumped from the box.

Today, though, I don't mind.

My son is making me a card for Mother's Day and I don't care about that mess. Other messes demand more attention, care, and love.

You see, we've had a tough week together. Every conversation was tense and strained, each outing turned into an argument, and every action got slapped with dash of impatience, a pinch of anger, and cups of frustration.

By the weekend, the pain eased and we said our apologies to one another. I admitted the autism was kicking my ass and he readily said the autism was kicking his ass. We were in loving agreement. However, he said he wanted to tell me more in his card.

So, he slid the card under the bedroom door. It was simple and sweet, but one part was rather odd. It read, "Mom, sorry I was such a gark. Huh?

I tried re-reading it and sure enough, it was written clearly: gark. So, when I quietly strode into my son's room to thank him and hug him, I had to ask what a gark was (while praying it wasn't some new-fangled slang that was dirty or vulgar).

He looked at me funny and said, "I dunno, what's a gark?"

"Well, it's what you wrote," I said and I showed him the card.

He laughed and said, "No, no, no. That's the word jerk. So much for spelling!"

It was one of those small moments, that a Gritty mother warrior and her Gritty warrior son, had a feeling of brevity and lightness.

My dear boy, sorry I was such a gark, too.

Onward and upward to those Gritty Tacomans and all the other Grittys out there! Kim Thompson likes to get gritty HERE on her blog!

Happy Mother's Day To Some Amazing Women!

As they kick and scream, we hold them.

As they face adversity, we fight for them.

As they get older, we hope for them.

As they are, we love them.

We are mothers.

We are fantastic, wonderful, incredibly strong women who are as flawed as the next human, but are as resilient as rock and as rebounding as rubber. We may fall but we always get up and will be by our children's sides as long as we can draw breath.

is also found randomly rambling at her other blogs.

Happiness???

I know this blog's general theme is to express how hard it all is.  All of it.  I do get that.  But can I just take a minute and say that I think we are actually....happy.  This is what I am so incredibly grateful for:

medications---for him and ME (especially for me)

Each member of our family.  They are all great, but so different.

Faith, God, support from church

our house, and my car.

home school activities, groups, families, classes, curriculum and flexibility

friends and extended family

prayer

my gift of organization (which I also hate at times)

my aspie-friendly community

my netbook and cell phone

maturity and age, time

Apparently I wasn't as okay as I said I was

Last week, over on my personal blog, I wrote a post about assessments. About how I'm not going to let it get to me this time. About how I know that assessments only matter to the ones who are doing them, and that I'm going to be all zen, and barely even look at the results. They are a necessary part of getting access to services and that I know what my son is capable of, no matter what some standardized test says. Heck - I should want him test even further behind so we'll qualify for more! Okay, I didn't actually say that last part, but I'm pretty sure I was thinking it when I wrote that post. Then Friday happened.

Moe is aging out of our Early Start services, so he's been having exit assessments from the Regional Center and entrance assessments by the school district who will take over. On Friday, one of the psychologists from the RC came to observe him during one of his therapy sessions. Our ABA program director accompanied her. So the poor kid is going about his business with four adults staring at him. And of course he doesn't want to do much of anything. At one point, the psychologist - we'll call her Jennifer because that was her name - looks at me and says "Does he have any words?" Like she's never seen an autistic kid before. So she watches for a few more minutes, makes some comment along the lines of "Well, I've seen enough" and leaves. I felt like he, and I, had just failed some test.

Then, our program director pulls me aside and wants to warn me before our upcoming exit meeting that Moe's scores on the social/cognitive part of his assessment have gone down. I probably could have handled that, except I had just heard the same thing from his speech therapist the day before. We had our explanations: we started with a different baseline, understand more of where he really is right now, blah blah blah. But what I was really thinking was, "So what have we been doing the last year?" What has all the struggling and crying (mostly me), hiding in the closet (mostly Moe), 6 hours a day of people in and out of my house, putting my dog on Prozac, and me never getting out of the house been for? According to the tests, nothing. Less than nothing.

After lunch, I brought Moe to his school district entrance assessment. They had already met with my husband and I and asked us all the same questions we've answered 17 times but I still never really know the answers to. (Does he understand it is dangerous to run in the street? I don't know, I've never let him try. It this is a trick question?) This time, I just dropped him off for an hour. When I picked him up the school psychologist told me that they couldn't get through the whole thing and that I would have to bring him back again this week. And I'm not sure why, but that was the last straw. I lost it. Not right there in front of the school secretary and the six year old looking for a band-aid, but later, once the kids were finally in bed and I could get in the shower and safely hide from anyone who might suggest I need an assessment myself.

Jen also writes at her personal blog, Anybody Want a Peanut, and at the Silicon Valley Moms Blog.

Whiplash!

Break out the neck brace, I’ve suffered whiplash, autism style.

Autism whiplash is a phenomenon in my household where my 11 year old PDD son has a “good streak” and then it turns bad on a dime. What constitutes a “good streak?” This is when there are LESS issues than normal and/or the issues that are experienced have a QUICK resolution. I mean, really, with autism, I’ve never had an issue free day with my son. However, if it’s a soft day, with less, that’s terrific. A good streak can last a day or two, maybe a week or two! Once I got the royal treatment with nearly a month! Wow! So, this is a good thing so far, right?

Yep, and this is where the autism gives me a gut punch. We are rolling along well and BAM! It’s like getting rear-ended in a car without warning.

Case in point. My son has a great deal of difficulty setting foot in the school’s threshold to start his day. Between the anxiety and quick anger, it is an ordeal. But sometimes, school CAN go smoothly. So, recently, my son had a good streak with getting to school and he was doing pretty well staying there. This had been for a week. My husband and I also noticed that he was having really good behavior at home (more cooperative, helpful, kind). We were feeling pretty good and hopeful. So, one day my husband took my son to school. This is a big treat for my son (because usual my husband is at work and can’t take him). My son adores his father and tends to behave a lot better for him, than me. So, hubby takes our boy over to school. Things are going well and the conversation is upbeat. Dad delivers son to teacher and notices that son has an odd look on his face. Without warning, our son attacks his father in front of school staff, starts hitting, and calls his father dirty names and was viciously verbally abusive. My husband was horrified (this rarely happens to him) and removed our son from school. Bad streak ensues. Exhaustion sets in. Hope sinks.

Whiplash.

The autism has pulled this trick on my son and our family on and off this week. Good streak and then snap, it’s broken. Usually it comes on quick and strong.

Let’s discuss. How do you fellow warriors cope with whiplash? How do you swim in the muck of a let-down?

Kim Thompson's blog, Gritty City Woman, is dedicated to bring out the grittiness in all of us!

School Blues

This is so very hard. I sit here at just after 3 am in the morning unable to sleep for worry. He is unravelling before my eyes. Two horrific days at school, and Monday was a holiday. I bumped into his teacher yesterday at the local shops, but knew it had been a bad one. Any day when his friend meets you at the gate in tears because she fears he will run away as he threatened is a bad one. The workload is horrific. Three major assignments this week, and the usual homework on top of that. This is Grade 6, for hell's sake... not high school. Others are suffering too, but they do not place the enormous amount of pressure to achieve on themselves he does. The perfectionist, always craving the A's, never accepting less.
His teacher told me a parent has complained about him, and the disruption he is causing. I can understand their concerns, but what the hell are we meant to do? He loves his school and is terrified he may be asked to leave, and yet he cannot seem to control this upsurge of emotion. I think it is time we asked about medication to help with the anxiety, for none of the tools he has are of any use.

I am being tough on him, hard on him, pushing him to use all he has learned over the years to help himself, but am I making it worse? Should now be the time to tread lightly, or will he use that to let go off the little grip he has left?

I do not know how to help my child. I think we are all going to break. God help us.

A , lost and bewildered in the wee hours.