ASA Conference

Do you know this guy?  I didn’t but now I do. Bereketli will be the special guest at the upcoming Autism Society of America’s Evening of Champions at the 5th Annual Conference in Providence, RI this year. I will be in attendance, not at the Gala Dinner, but yes at the conference.

I’ve been somersaulting around the house with the phone, computer, and calendar in my hands lining up sitters and rescheduling Fluffy’s upcoming RDA so I can attend. It sounds amazing.

So does Enki, the homeschooling curriculum I will be using with Fluffy this fall.

Who knew I’d be embarking on this path the day he slipped out and stared up into my eyes? When I thought people with Aspergers were simply social bulls in the china shop of conversation, kids with autism were spinning plates in the corner all day and homeschoolers were granola crunching mustached moms with braided armpit hair who rinsed and reused natural fiber sanitary products and nursed their kids into the teenage years.

Who knew?

Corn is Out; Handwriting Without Tears is In

Corn is definitely out. Whoa baby. And how. This was test number three and I can safely say we will not be popping any more fluffy white corn for the Fluffmeister. No no.

First there was screaming. I don’t mean crying, I mean screaming. I think some of you out there know what I’m talking about. Then the throwing of rain boots, biting, licking, and during the bath just now, repeated impersonations of passengers on the Titanic.

Oh, dear! No no! I said, nervously, as I reached for his arm to pull him back up. Gurgle gurlge! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Mommy! and then more gurgles and cackles and baring of the teeth. He was playing this game that was wildly entertaining, for him. He daintily picked up the tuperwear container with his foot and held it up high (beautiful extension by the way, nice line, good point of the toe) and then he would lean all the way down onto his back, arch his neck, deposit his head underwater, open wide his mouth and take on a rush of water. And then CACKLE CACKLE GURGLE GURGLE, my swift rescue followed by peels of maniacal laughter .

Okay then! It’s time to start checking ingredients for the hidden corn. I know it’s everywhere, right?

I will say, though, Handwriting Without Tears is most definitely IN. I’ve been using it with Fluffy for the last couple of weeks and he is tearing through those letters. He’s not a drawer or writer yet, just a talker and reader. He’s been getting OT from Miss S. through the school system all year and he loves it, loves Miss S, loves his time in her special playroom. I met with her earlier this month and got confirmation that Fluffy’s difficulty with drawing and writing is almost entirely an issue of perfectionism strangling his wrist before he can even try to sputter out a line. He wants it, no, needs it to come out perfectly and when it doesn’t, he gives up and defaults to the same swirling circles and energetic scribblings he’s been doing for the last two years.

But no more! He’s making beautiful Ls, and Es and Fs and Ws (for his real name) and Ms (for mommy), with the roll-a-dough, the magnetic board, the wood pieces, the chalk, and crayons. On paper! He’s making them in shaving cream, piles of beans, peas, and mustard! He’s drawing them in sand! He’s fashioning them out of salami rolls and celery! There’s no stopping him!

It’s a brilliant program. Truly. I can’t recommend it highly enough. It’s a multi-sensory approach that’s fun, simple and designed to bring rapid success and therefore, confidence. And it’s working! Today he drew a big beautiful sun with two eyes and one smiling face. Inside the sun was a blue circle (earth) and some green land. The sun was beaming. He was beaming. I was beaming. The end.

Freedom

My luscious sexy smart friend Julie wrote this post that I read tonight after yanking the morning glory-type weeds that are choking the life out of the day lilies in my front garden bed while still in my 2-piece from the beach. My street is pretty busy and the houses are close together and despite my going 4 miles on the elliptical every morning for a month or so now, I’m not in 2-piece bathing suit wearing shape. Trust me on this. I did just get a bikini wax, opting for the regular and not the thong since heavens! I’m not up for hanging my buns out there although I wish I could because I think they would feel delicious and alive smack up against the salt air and the grainy sand.  I think I may have erred not going for the thong wax since I have the italian in my blood and the hair… I suppose I could braid it or something festive but I ended up hunching over for a hour with the tweezers.

Anyway, I was out there weeding in my bikini and Fluffy was by my side playing a superhero game with one of my panty liners, Stickyman, who warded off evil, occasionally attaching himself to the stem of the day lilies and then zooming off, panty liners wings outstretched and glorious. Cars and neighbors went by and I didn’t care what anyone thought about the whole scene. It was SO LIBERATING!

Not that I would care about Fluffy playing with my panty liner. He’s been fascinated by all feminine hygiene products for ages. I always keep a few in my purse and the car for emergencies, for both of us.

No. It was not caring about being out there in, basically, my underwear.

You see, I’ve been going to the beach every day in the afternoon, not counting the days when endless torrential rains made me slam into the slider and collapse on the floor weeping, MY GOD! MAKE IT STOP! IS THERE NO END TO THIS TORMENT?

My son loves the beach, the waves, the salt, the air, the sand, the french fries served in cardboard boats beside a sea of ketchup. I love the beach too. I’ve been feeling very lucky lately, full of gratitude as we used to say in the 12 step program, about all the gifts in my life. Maybe it’s the 5HTP talking or maybe we are finding our way over here with the Imago couple’s counseling and the RDI and the elliptical and the sitter help lined up so I have a couple hours to get to the writing.  Okay, maybe it IS the 5HTP and that, my friends, is fine. My brain needed to be nudged out of the groove the needle was dragging in. Whatever it is, the beach is a tonic.

It is also full of teenagers in tiny bikinis and dozens of saline implants. As an aside, had any of my high school classmates gotten a breast augmentation, we would have chided them mercilessly! How silly! We would have chased them down the hall with pointy pencils and thumbtacks! These beach teenagers are young, like in their teens or something. They are nimble and brown and lean and young! Even the hefty ones are lean! They are be-tattooed and be-pierced and they all have Breck hair except for the few that worship Paris Hilton in their bleached locks and white plastic be-rhinestoned sunglasses and maybe even fringe, was it fringe I saw? on one of the bathing suits? Next to the teenagers are the twenty something set who maybe don’t have as much bosom but who also don’t seem to be able to fully button the front fly of their jean skirts despite rock hard tummies. I don’t know, it doesn’t look the same when I do that at home from the gas and the bloat.

The point I’m trying to make is that I STARE at all of them! Stare! At the bodies! They’re all so lovely! All of them. Only, I bet they don’t think so. They think they’re fat or flat or too short or too gawky or too hippy, that their knees are puffy, their nose has that bump, their hip bones don’t peekaboo out far enough beneath their super low, ultra low slung, low riders. I want to expunge these misunderstandings. I want to glide toward them in my orange toga, arms benevolently outstretched.

I’m prone to like bodies, I just am. I think it’s that I like looking at people, at all types of people, at the lady with the shelf boobs that are comically, impossibly huge and jutting out straight like a bad Benny Hill skit (that’s redundant, isn’t it? because has there ever been a good Benny Hill skit?), or the woman with legs up to her armpits and then quickly a bit of body tossed in at the end. I’ve been looking at the girls though with a bit of wistful remembrance and a sure sense that I am now, clearly, in a completely different category, the category of ladies who I used to babysit for, the category of moms, of Mrs. So and So. I’m not a total shmo. I’m really not bad for my category, but, what I’m saying is, it’s a completely different category and though I may have fleeting thoughts of Could I still…? and Do I at all…? the truth is, No. Not like that. Anymore.

I think I’m finding the freedom in that. And despite those asinine bumper stickers I see, freedom IS free.

p.s. don’t forget to click on the main photo of Julie’s Bodies post to see her fabulous Mermaid Parade pics! Oh la la! How I wish I’d been there in my fish tail and pasties!

More Praise for 5HTP

I think the question on everyone’s mind tonight is, why don’t I have sex more often? It’s so darn fun! And it’s free, invigorating, a sure-tootin’ tension buster, it burns calories and helps cement the relationship, I find, even more than a careful assessment of which counter was adequately wiped down, even more than parental critique, even more than shouting, Don’t be such a fucking prick!

It’s always been fun, of course, though it got grim and full of effort when I couldn’t get pregnant, like trying to scrub out a spot. We would roll up our sleeves, sigh, and go in to tackle the job together, full of conviction. Thank god we tossed the whole business in the hands of the white coats with the injectables and follicular harvesting needles so we could get back to sex without accomplishment!

Then we became parents, and, well, I have to say, it’s true. As much as I swelled with a greater love and devotion to my husband than I had ever known after I gave birth, I also found myself swatting away his roaming hand with an alacrity and vigor that completely threw me. It was like a reflex, like one of those mechanical arms, or like a giant hairy mosquito had landed on my boob out of nowhere. AH! AWAY! SWAT! Not that Dave is like a giant hairy mosquito! Not hairy! I mean, of course, hairy in a manly way, yes, but not OVERLY hairy.

Fast forward five years and the situation has improved somewhat but sometimes the notion of having sex only sounds good in a purely theoretical way, like doing volunteer work or organizing the closets. And if you’re groovy at all with the sleeping arrangements or if you’re child has GINORMOUS sleep issues and attachment issues and spectrum issues, who has the privacy or free time? And when you do shake some time loose and your husband is standing before you with that look on his face, even going so far as to strip naked and prance about with the dishtowel á la pole dancer, I mean, one of YOUR husbands out THERE, of course, then you want to grab him by the leader hand, so to speak, and rip the bedsheets to shreds such is the heat of your passions, but for some reason, you feel conflicted because you had sort of been looking forward to a home-pedicure or a night of bad tv or a few minutes of frantic eating in front of the open refrigerator door.

What is my point? Oh yes! 5HTP! Er, I mean, sex! And it being fun! And free! And slimifying!

That is cause for celebration.

Stage 3, Here We Come!

Fluffy extending the hand of friendship; May, 2006. Taken by Dave.

My son is referencing up the wazoo! I think we are closing in on the end of Stage 2 which means we are on our way to Stage 3! Coordinating Actions! the tender beginnings of playing with others! At least, that’s what it feels like to me.

In fact, Fluffy’s been naturally coordinating here and there lately which makes sense. Development isn’t linear, clink clink clink, like beads on a string; it’s more like a weaving up, down and across, creating a length of fabric that strengthens and deepens in complexity. That said, certain things must be in place before other things can happen: You can’t coordinate with another person if you don’t look at them or can’t make sense of what you’re seeing.

We do cooking projects because, well, it’s fun and also a great way to work on RDI, especially the Master/Apprentice relationship, a key component of social development. Most ASD kids don’t ever get that the adult in their life is a trustworthy guide, someone to look to for help in understanding his world. Without this sense, they are out on their own, searching for dependable patterns and decodable systems, things they can figure out and master, places they can feel competent and successful. It’s often the world of numbers and letters, train or bus schedules, the land of sorting, amassing facts, becoming an expert on oscillating fans, etc. etc. since this is where the world is predictable; this is where they can be right, feel safe, know what to expect; this is where they can feel a sense of mastery.

That is the greatest motivator for us humans, according to Dr. Gustein, the need to master, the need to feel competent. It’s a greater motivator than fun. I believe it’s true.

We cook together because Fluffy knows he gets access to the ingredients, because he can’t wield all the cool tools and appliances without assistance and so he’s willing to be my apprentice and this is dreamy for me since most of the time the Master/Apprentice thing is very clear in his mind: HE’S the master and I’m the apprentice and I better hop to it! Do it, Mommy! More blueberries! Get Captain Underpants! Read it to me while I eat! This one is squishy! This one has a spot on it! This one has a stem on it! Get that stem off! Mommy! Why aren’t you reading?

He’s developed a bizarre visual sensitivity (which sends him gagging and demanding the offending item be immediately taken from his sight!) but so far, he doesn’t have a lot of tactile defensiveness so touching things doesn’t send him flying from the room–it sends things flying into his mouth. He LOVES to sample everything I put out on the counter, scanning for novel items, like the powder egg whites. I really have to be careful. He’ll dive into anything. And forget the sugar. He’s like a flat out junkie with the sugar. Although who isn’t?  I used to tear packet after packet at restaurants when I was a kid, stacking little white mountain peaks on my tongue.

The other day we made bread for the first time and not only did he reference beautifully for what to add and how much, once the dough was made, we did a little tandem kneading. It was so satisfying and peaceful! I silently handed him his chunk and started kneading mine. He looked over, studied my movements and then joined in. I kept it rhythmic and simple; he stayed with me the whole time. At one point, he smiled into my face and said, “I’m doing exactly what you’re doing!” Yes! I said, smiling back. Yes, you are! My boy! Kneading dough with me! Coordinating his movements! Feeling the deeply satisfying harmony of being in sync with another person!

At one point, I lifted my dough ball high in the air, hesitated, and then slammed it down on the counter. It was risky since this kind of thing can easily become a gateway for chaos. The dough could fast become a space ship, a cannon ball, a missile. But no. He lifted his in the air with me, hesitated with me, and then slammed it down at the same time! With me! We did it again and again and then went back to the kneading. No chaos. Simple synchrony. At one point I stopped and nodded to his dough, as if to say, your turn, you lead. And he did! He smiled. I smiled. He kneaded. I kneaded and got to say, “I’m doing exactly what you’re doing!”

At the end, we fashioned our dough into fat logs and plopped them in bread pans to magically rise while we went to the park where Fluffy did not yell or push or sing songs about killing kids but where he did touch a boy’s arm gently and ask what game he was playing. A spy game, the boy replied. Fluffy then raced across the field to the underside of a giant weeping willow, his secret fort, and instructed me to keep an eye on the spy in case he got into trouble. He’s in trouble! I called, not sure what game we were playing. He tore back across the field and searched and searched but the boy was gone. Where did he go? I wanted to help him!

He wanted to help him! He was playing! With the boy! He was doing it from 100 feet away but still!

Stage 3, here we come. La la!

Fuses: Long, Short, & Medium

Fluffy has gotten very conversational lately, very reciprocal. It’s so fun to have the back and forth, something that was nearly impossible a year ago. He’s doing it with other people too and I have to exercise a fair amount of restraint not to physically attack those who don’t respond. MY SON IS TALKING TO YOU! HE’S ASKING A FOLLOW UP QUESTION! A FOLLOW UP, DO YOU HEAR?

Ah well, I guess it’s one of those things that life will teach him: not everyone hangs on his every utterance, perched on tip toes, head tilted up and to the side. And not everyone will strain to decipher his story line as he rapidly talks and shovels in food simultaneously. And no one, not just me, will actually catch what he’s saying when he’s talking from inside the car while his conversational partner darts through house many many yards away, grabbing last minute essentials.

What can I say, he’s a deep thinker and a long talker. He’s got the gift of gab, as Dave says. His mind is a pair of bicycling legs, always going going going, which is why I often snort awake in his bed after putting him to sleep only to find him wide-eyed next to me, staring at the ceiling, puzzling out the area of a circle.

I will say this: The wall is down. Fluffy reported this fact during teeth brushing about a week ago. All gone. Since then, we had a very enlightening talk about bombs and fuses which I will now describe.

It was closing in on bedtime and he was short two hours sleep from the night before. At the last possible minute, he remembered some unfinished computer time and even though little warning lights were flashing across my retina, I relented. When the timer went off, he super glued himself to the keyboard. When the cool newspaper part came up at the end of the game, the part he likes us to read out loud, we put our foot down and he yanked back the inner panel of his dinosaur pjs and revealed a bomb strapped to his skinny torso with brightly colored pipe cleaners.

Dave and I, rock solid disciplinarians that we are, caved. We allowed for 3 bonus minutes to read the paper but when we turned back, the screen was blank and then Fluffy collapsed.

He threw himself all over the house, I WORKED SO HARD–SO HARD–AND IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING! FOR NOTHING! It was such a grown up lament, so odd to hear it from his small form. There was much crying and calling into the air, WHAT CAN WE DO TO MAKE IT BETTER? WHAT SPECIAL TREAT CAN I HAVE TO MAKE UP FOR IT? But all we had was our empathy and our metaphors about disappointment being like a feeling boo boo and the body is wise and knows how to heal it just like his tetanus shot. Sometimes our sounds of sympathy helped, sometimes they made it worse; he would wind down, remember and wind up again as if freshly assaulted.

We tried the old D&R, distract and redirect, which only worked for a second, then right back to metaphor, this time stressing the importance of revving down our engine at night, not up. Fluffy brightened at this and said, Another way to express it is that it’s like a bomb went off and the fuse, instead of being long like it might have been in the morning, was short because it was night! Dave and I exchanged looks since this business of having short or long fuses is something we’ve never told him.

As is his way, Fluffy went on to describe his bomb system in detail, the three modes and three types of bombs in each mode with the least bad mode holding a a big bomb and long fuse, a middle bomb and long fuse and a small bomb and long fuse. The next least bad mode had a big bomb with medium fuse, a medium bomb with medium fuse and a small bomb with medium fuse, and the worst, as you can fill in here, was the mode with the big bomb with short fuse, etc. etc.,

When he finished, he was MUCH calmer and the sun was just peering over the horizon because, have I mentioned? the gift of gab and also a little speech thingy which extends the ends of his words in a kind of echo-stutter and almost all of it comes out at top volume: "MommE-E-E-E-EEEE, the WORST mode, the WORST mode, the WORST mode-ode-ode-ode-ode is the BIG-IG-IG-IG BOMB WITH THE SHORT FUSE!!!”

We showered him with sounds of love and appreciation and told him how proud we were that through all that, he didn’t hurt himself or us not once, didn’t hit or kick or punch. He said, that only happens when there’s anger and the wall, not with bombs and fuses. Silly!

We finally climbed into bed for stories and songs and cuddles and after all the excitement, I was out like a light. My son, not as much. He looked up at the glow in the dark stars for who knows how long until I startled awake, my mouth a fizz with spittle. Mommy, he whispered, you know what I wish for? I wish that you won’t die before I’m ready.

Me too, honey. Me too.

Fuses: Long, Short, & Medium

Fluffy has gotten very conversational lately, very reciprocal. It’s so fun to have the back and forth, something that was nearly impossible a year ago. He’s doing it with other people too and I have to exercise a fair amount of restraint not to physically attack those who don’t respond. MY SON IS TALKING TO YOU! HE’S ASKING A FOLLOW UP QUESTION! A FOLLOW UP, DO YOU HEAR?

Ah well, I guess it’s one of those things that life will teach him: not everyone hangs on his every utterance, perched on tip toes, head tilted up and to the side. And not everyone will strain to decipher his story line as he rapidly talks and shovels in food simultaneously. And no one, not just me, will actually catch what he’s saying when he’s talking from inside the car while his conversational partner darts through house many many yards away, grabbing last minute essentials.

What can I say, he’s a deep thinker and a long talker. He’s got the gift of gab, as Dave says. His mind is a pair of bicycling legs, always going going going, which is why I often snort awake in his bed after putting him to sleep only to find him wide-eyed next to me, staring at the ceiling, puzzling out the area of a circle.

I will say this: The wall is down. Fluffy reported this fact during teeth brushing about a week ago. All gone. Since then, we had a very enlightening talk about bombs and fuses which I will now describe.

It was closing in on bedtime and he was short two hours sleep from the night before. At the last possible minute, he remembered some unfinished computer time and even though little warning lights were flashing across my retina, I relented. When the timer went off, he super glued himself to the keyboard. When the cool newspaper part came up at the end of the game, the part he likes us to read out loud, we put our foot down and he yanked back the inner panel of his dinosaur pjs and revealed a bomb strapped to his skinny torso with brightly colored pipe cleaners.

Dave and I, rock solid disciplinarians that we are, caved. We allowed for 3 bonus minutes to read the paper but when we turned back, the screen was blank and then Fluffy collapsed.

He threw himself all over the house, I WORKED SO HARD–SO HARD–AND IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING! FOR NOTHING! It was such a grown up lament, so odd to hear it from his small form. There was much crying and calling into the air, WHAT CAN WE DO TO MAKE IT BETTER? WHAT SPECIAL TREAT CAN I HAVE TO MAKE UP FOR IT? But all we had was our empathy and our metaphors about disappointment being like a feeling boo boo and the body is wise and knows how to heal it just like his tetanus shot. Sometimes our sounds of sympathy helped, sometimes they made it worse; he would wind down, remember and wind up again as if freshly assaulted.

We tried the old D&R, distract and redirect, which only worked for a second, then right back to metaphor, this time stressing the importance of revving down our engine at night, not up. Fluffy brightened at this and said, Another way to express it is that it’s like a bomb went off and the fuse, instead of being long like it might have been in the morning, was short because it was night! Dave and I exchanged looks since this business of having short or long fuses is something we’ve never told him.

As is his way, Fluffy went on to describe his bomb system in detail, the three modes and three types of bombs in each mode with the least bad mode holding a a big bomb and long fuse, a middle bomb and long fuse and a small bomb and long fuse. The next least bad mode had a big bomb with medium fuse, a medium bomb with medium fuse and a small bomb with medium fuse, and the worst, as you can fill in here, was the mode with the big bomb with short fuse, etc. etc.,

When he finished, he was MUCH calmer and the sun was just peering over the horizon because, have I mentioned? the gift of gab and also a little speech thingy which extends the ends of his words in a kind of echo-stutter and almost all of it comes out at top volume: "MommE-E-E-E-EEEE, the WORST mode, the WORST mode, the WORST mode-ode-ode-ode-ode is the BIG-IG-IG-IG BOMB WITH THE SHORT FUSE!!!”

We showered him with sounds of love and appreciation and told him how proud we were that through all that, he didn’t hurt himself or us not once, didn’t hit or kick or punch. He said, that only happens when there’s anger and the wall, not with bombs and fuses. Silly!

We finally climbed into bed for stories and songs and cuddles and after all the excitement, I was out like a light. My son, not as much. He looked up at the glow in the dark stars for who knows how long until I startled awake, my mouth a fizz with spittle. Mommy, he whispered, you know what I wish for? I wish that you won’t die before I’m ready.

Me too, honey. Me too.

5HTP

5HTP. That’s all I’m saying.

Someone suggested it as a natural remedy for depression; it somehow elevates brain serotonin levels. I got it at the local health food store: 100 mg per day, 30 day supply = $18.00. A deal at twice the cost.

It’s only been 4 days but la la!! Gather round, beautiful fellow human beings! Let me shower you with light and little brown capsules! 5HTP for all! 

We were stuck in traffic yesterday–a side effect of living near the beach as the number of cars swells astronomically at this time of year. While Dave banged the steering wheel, snarling our sure delay by HOURS and HOURS, I blithely turned up the AC and beamed into the cool air stream.  Fluffy was flying magnatile rockets at home with my mom. We were alone in the car. Alone! Just the two of us! Darling! Let’s revel in our extra time together! As my good cheer expanded, his irritation soared and soon he was regarding me with disgust, as if I were a junkie. Look! You’re HIGH! You’re teetering on the slippery slope of an artificially induced euphoria! You’re gonna crash, mark my words! Crash!

No, my friends. No no. It is an even keeled lift. A lovely buoyancy. An innocent optimism.

Oh look! Tiny sparkling butterflies are dancing near my rooftop! Leave me now and let me join them!

Would we always see the stars?

Fluffy asked yesterday, what would the world look like if there wasn’t any air? any atmosphere? I wasn’t sure how to answer. I know our atmosphere traps light. Would we always see the stars if we had no atmosphere?

Today he wondered how fast the earth was traveling through space, not around the sun but around its own axis. I said I didn’t know but I supposed out loud to my sister, in whose backyard we were standing, that one could figure it out if you knew the distance around the earth (I don’t, offhand) since we do know it completes a turn every 24 hours. My sister and I shook our silly heads and said we didn’t get the whole thing, why don’t we just fall off, for one, since in our cartoon imaginings, like Harold and the Purple Crayon or the boy from Le Petit Prince, some of the time we must be sticking out sideways from a big sphere or hanging upside down like bats and how does gravity do it and why don’t we fall off like like pennies in an upturned hand?

Fluffy thought for a second and said, I have an idea: gravity doesn’t really pull you down, it pulls you to the earth so if you are upside down, the gravity wouldn’t pull you away, it would pull you back up, back toward the earth. And then my sister and I said, like, wow, totally dude, and sipped our silly seltzers and splashed our silly feet in her silly pool while gravity pulled our silly boobies back back back toward the center of the earth from whence they came.

I know. Just go with it; it’s Father’s Day and I’m all out of creative juices after toiling over a card for my very own dad. It didn’t match the image in my mind, alas, but he looked positively super, fit and healthy which is excellent because I need him here, sticking to this spinning ball, for a long long time.

Thanks!

Thanks so much to Kristin over at blogging baby  for the great mention. What a lovely way to start my weekend!