The Snowball Effect

Following a typical meltdown over who had a certain toy first this morning, I overheard my husband trying to explain the "snowball effect" to the boys.

He told them that like a snowball rolling down a hill gathers snow and gets bigger and bigger, choosing to be unhappy in the morning would only lead to further unhappiness throughout the day. By evening, he warned, they would be truly miserable.

While the boys were intrigued by the idea of a snowball, I doubted that they really grasped the concept.

The boys were loaded in the car, waiting for me to lock the front door. I could see them having a heated conversation as I walked to the car. The moment I opened the door, my eldest exclaimed, "Henry made the snowball roll!"

"What?" I asked, baffled.

"Well, he was saying naughty things and spitting at me," he declared indignantly, "He made the snowball roll!"

Peering in the rearview mirrow, I could see his brother grinning. Well, I guess they sort of got the concept. Too bad they enjoy the snowball.

The Gift of Sleep

If there is one thing I can be grateful for as a parent, it is that I am blessed with two boys who are both good sleepers. The eldest would have gladly slept through the night from the moment he was born, but I was forced to wake him to make him eat. It was a horrible endeavor that usually left me in tears and him...sound asleep. Our second dutifully woke up for his feedings, but transitioned nicely to sleeping through the night right on schedule. Trust me, I don't take this blessing for granted. I do, however, sometimes take advantage of it.

For Christmas this year, my husband and I were able to acquire some used bunkbeds -- Thanks, Jani! -- with which we planned to surprise the boys. After hiding them for a time at my parents' home, we locked the beds in the office/storage/oversized junk drawer/extra bedroom upstairs to await Christmas Eve.

Driving home Christmas Eve, the youngest fell asleep in the car. Not a problem, we transferred him to his crib upon arrival. The eldest, worn out from too much sugar and spoiling by grandparents, fell asleep moments after being put to bed.

After cleaning the living room for the eighth time that day, it was time to get to work. The playpen had been set up in our bedroom and we easily transferred the youngest there. Now that his crib mattress was available, we put it in our bedroom as well. Our other son, who could sleep through a jackhammer, was to be put on there. Halfway to the room, my husband lost his grip and our son hovered just above the ground, looking much like a bag of cement being heaved from one place to another. Moments later, however, he was plopped down on the mattress without a twitch of the eye.

Hubby and I returned to their bedroom, moved out the old furniture and moved in the metal bunkbed pieces and mattresses. We banged and clanged that hollow-metal bunkbed together, sounding like a number out of Stomp. 45 minutes later, we climbed over the boys and into bed.

The following morning, not as early as one might expect on Christmas, our eldest son sat up and declared, "Hey, these aren't my sheets!" then announced he was ready to go downstairs.

It was only after stockings and all presents were opened that I prodded, "Don't you guys want to know why you woke up in mommy and daddy's room? Maybe you should go check to make sure your beds haven't been stolen!" This gave them pause, then both boys ran upstairs to discover the bunkbeds, complete with sheets for each boy in their current interest -- space for one and cowboys for the other.

I think the only gift that is better than their new sleeping spot, is knowing that they will indeed be sleeping in that sleeping spot. Phew.

Author's note: It is not my intention to cause ill feelings in those who do not have it so good as far as the sleep habits of children go...I mean only to share one joy that we do have as a family. Trust me, we have plenty of other issues to contend with.

Ah, Sovereign Lord

My dear friend and I have been studying the book of Jeremiah together for nearly a year now. Week after week my heart is blessed by the sovereignty of God in the lives of His people...including myself. More than once Jeremiah cries out to the Lord in confusion. Why these events? Why this suffering? Why now?

It was two years ago at Christmastime that my husband and I made the decision to adopt. Even at the time, it was not a decision we made lightly. Apart from the obvious implications of adding another child, we knew the process would be long and heart-wrenching. But we really had no idea how much so.

When it became obvious that my son's difficult behaviors were something a little more serious, we made the incredibly difficult decision to put the adoption on hold. Before we threw our hearts -- and resources -- into an adopted child, we first had the responsibility to help the child we had. It had reached the point where I could barely cope with our life at home, how could I possibly take on more? Though I had begun to dread each step of the process that moved me closer to more chaos, we were so close to the end and part of me believed that we had to see it through. Surely God would provide the grace we needed to carry on. The other part of me realized that like He did with Abraham, the Lord was asking me to be willing to sacrifice my dream, something that I truly believed to be of His guiding, to His Sovereignty.

Now, as adoption notices and updates arrive, I sadly throw them out, feeling as I do so a profound sense of lost. I am in a confusing position of accepting the road down which He has directed me, one that not only required placing on hold my desire for another child -- my little girl for whom I had already waited nearly two years -- but that also requires me to come to terms with my son's autism and all the implications that such a diagnosis brings.

It is my hope that although our journey with autism will not be altered, perhaps this current detour is just that, a detour. My prayer is that someday we will still bring home our little girl.

Tonight, as another Christmas passes, I am grateful...but I do mourn. I hope...but my heart hurts. I remember the blessings He has bestowed upon my family and me...and leave the rest to His Sovereignty.

Jeremiah 30-31

All I Want for Christmas

"That's Michael*. He's waiting for his mom," he tells me matter-of-factly, as he climbs into the van and unloads his backpack and coat. My heart leaps into my throat. Tears sting my eyes.

"Oh really?" I say, hiding my excitement and suppressing the desire to call his father, grandmothers, several close friends, and maybe a few strangers.

At five years of age, such a statement normally wouldn't be that big of a deal. My two year-old already says things of a similar nature. No, it wouldn't be that big of a deal...if not for the autism.

He is very verbal, meaning he uses many words -- big words, often -- and speaks in a manner far advanced for his age. It would not be unusual to have a discussion about white blood cells, the Ring of Fire -- think volcanoes, not Johnny Cash -- or the eating habits of bats. But noticing another child, being aware of what that child is doing, AND knowing and using that child's name? This is a first.

It is one of many firsts we have been experiencing lately. The big influence, we believe, is his new school program. Just over a month ago we enrolled him in a specialized preschool program designed solely for children with autism. The results have simply been amazing for me to watch. He bounds out the door each day, with stuffed animal in hand, and bounds right back in again 5 hours later, full of random, though often delayed, statements that I never would have dreamed possible two months ago. He is learning his letters and numbers, slowly but with determination. He follows instructions at school -- relative to before. He sings songs at school. And he shares the songs with me, suddenly, on a whim as we drive around town.

Like every normal parent, I took advantage of every opportunity to teach him all of these things, with essentially no success. After five years of feeling like a failure, I am learning that I really don't care anymore. As long as he is progressing, I don't care if it takes five more years for him to learn to write his name forwards instead of backwards. These simple, little steps, these moments that just happen out of the blue when you thought they would never happen, they have taught me that all I want -- for Christmas and otherwise -- is for my son to be whole. In whatever form that may be. I don't mean "cured" -- that's a post for another day -- I just mean growing and learning. And while he does that, I will too.

*Name changed

Hey, Jealousy

"You can make the choice to be happy, " my husband says as I grab the car keys.

"Its hard to be happy when each day is hell," I growl back, stuffing my hat on my head. "Besides, that's easy for you to say. You don't even have to make that choice!" I slam the door behind me.

Is it the curse of every stay-at-home mom to envy her husband? I justify my jealousy with the irony that my husband is currently living out a dream of sorts, writing and illustrating children's books, while I quickly lose my mind at home with an autistic child and a two year-old.

On this particular day, I drive around for over an hour, feeling sorry for myself and pleading with God for rescue. Ironically, it is my sons' constant bickering over who should get what toy that put me over the edge. My eldest son suffers from a particularly extreme and bizarre case of sibling jealousy. He must always be in possession of the exact number of toys as his brother. If his little brother has five stuffed animals downstairs, then by golly, he better have five animals downstairs. Does his brother have a toy car? He simply must have a toy car, even if sits next to him unplayed with. Every object down to the cup they drink from has to be labeled with an initial, lest one child have something that the other does not. It is obsessive and constant, and it is the root of nearly every conflict we have throughout the day.

"Does he have the same number of animals in his bed as I do?" he asks before bed.

"What is he playing with?" he queries hundreds of times each day. Usually followed by pouting and a declaration that he had wanted to play with that item, or that said item is bigger than his item.

"How many cars does he have?" he asks as we all play together. Whatever my answer, there will be a meltdown until the portions are equal.

And Lord help us if its an object of which we only have one!

I return home and head upstairs to take a shower. Down below I hear my husband trying to navigate the impossible waters of yet another declaration of outrage on the part of my son.

"You are only making yourself miserable, " he tells my whining child, "You have so many things to be thankful for! Many children don't have anything and you make yourself so unhappy obsessing over the things that you think you must have. Please just find joy in what you do have!"

Of course, our stubborn son doesn't see the truth in his father's words. But I do. Now, that isn't to say that I roll from bed each morning or welcome my husband home brimming with happiness. I do, however, find that I can face the battle with a slightly different attitude. And God has been gracious to rescue me...even if it is simply from myself.

-------

Very few are born to riches, very few

Very few of cherished wishes ever come true

But that won't matter much at all

On the day your name is called

When this earthbound life is through

And your Father says of you

This one was born in Zion

Make no mistake

This one is Mine

This one was born in Zion

This one will never, this one will never

This one will never die

Very few are ever famous, very few

Very few will ever live the dream that they choose

But that won't matter much at all

On the day your name is called

When this earthbound life is through

And your Father says of you

This one was born in Zion

Make no mistake

This one is Mine

This one was born in Zion

This one will never, this one will never

This one will never die

And every dream left unfulfilled

And every worthy goal

Is just a shadow of the joy that waits

Forever to unfold

-"Born in Zion", Wayne Watson

Tuesday-isms

It is Saturday night and I'm not in the mood to delve deeply, so following a conversation my husband and I had today, I decided to post a few quotes from my darling boys.

(By the way, it would seem my pal Amy over at God Made Playdough was on the same wavelength!)

From my eldest:

-Regarding the man who ran the red light in front of us: "He doesn't love God!"

-After falling and skinning his knee: "Its okay, Mama. Even as we speak, the platelets are coming to make it all better."

-Frequently prefacing a new fact he has learned: "Some scientists say....."

-After passing a roadside memorial: "What?! Somebody left a big bunch of garbage on the side of the road!"

-Often when seeing something new: "Well, you don't see that every day!"

-During the time when we were trying the GFCF diet: "Dad, I'm not sure this diet thing is really working out."

-"I could really go for some cheese right about now."

-Regarding new food: "Mmm. I like it. Here, you can have it."

From the youngest:

-Regarding the children singing a Christmas song on the radio: "This Charlie Brownie?"

-Mama: "Here, let's take a shortcut." He (after a pause): "I get haircut?"

-Stopped at a light on our way to Ikea: "This Quesadilla?"

Moments to treasure.

Memory, all Alone in the Moonlight

About nine months ago I started noticing a pattern in my son's imaginary play scenarios. Besides the fact that such scenarios were few and far between, I noticed that when I tried to engage with him we frequently began experiencing an odd disconnect. Consider the following conversation, which I noted in my journal at the time:

He: (playing with cars) Ahhh! They just crashed into a wall!

Me: (from nearby) Oh no! Is everyone okay?

He: (puzzled) Why?

Me: Because they just crashed into a wall.

He: (still puzzled) What wall?

Or, the time we were playing on a playground shaped like a train:

He: (from his bench on the train) Yikes! The train is turning to ice!

Me: (from my bench) Ah, so that's why my seat was getting cold!

He: Why?

Me: Because the train is turning to ice.

He: What ice?

(Note: the train/ice is a reference to the animated Anastasia movie, in which the train cars become "frozen" together. Many of his play scenarios relate to something he has read or seen.)

What struck me as bizarre about these conversations is not so much the failure to reference back to what we were talking about, but that in both cases it was something that HE had originally brought into the scenario that he failed to recall.

Nine months later, I still have no explanation for why such disconnect occurs. I typically find that my son cannot recall at bedtime what we did during the day, yet he can remember hiding behind a specific bush at a park the year before. I'm learning that it has something to do with the way children with autism process a memory. Unless the memory has a very strong personal emotion tied to it, chances are it will be lost.

It seems to me it would be a very lonely world to have to live in. I know my son is often quite frustrated with me, sometimes to the point of major meltdown, when I am unable to follow the leaps his mind has to make. I frequently have to fight irritation when he cannot recall something he was instructed to do only moments before or, two minutes after the incident, literally having no idea why it is that he is being disciplined. (Discipline, by the way, has completely taken on a new meaning around here. But I'll save that for a different day!) Is it any wonder he is so often driven to angry tears at what must seem to be completely irrational responses on our part?

Nine months later and we're still in the dark.

Inaugural Wordless Wednesday

Lest We Forget

In rereading my postings over the last two days, I was struck by their sense of brooding. While events of late have certainly weighed heavy on my heart, one of my purposes in maintaining this blog is to share the joys that also can be found in having a quirky son like mine. I also do not wish to neglect my younger son who, being a feisty 2 1/2 year-old, certainly brings his own interesting elements to our family life. To better display what I mean, I would like to present the following two images:
Now, which boy is which?? And, yes, he is in his socks.

Thru a Glass Darkly

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Baffled, the young nurse looks to me for direction.
"All you need to do is let us know when you hear a beep, " I prod him soothingly.
"Don't like it!" he squeals, batting away the instrument that would test his hearing. He is using what I call his whimpery "baby voice". Its a sort of mock baby talk he employs at times, for reasons we have yet to figure out. It is extremely confusing to witness by those who have heard him speak "normally." How can a child with that vocabulary revert to such strange behavior?
The nurse tries again, assuring my son that the test will be over quickly.
More strange squeaks emit from his mouth. He again protests his dislike for the noise. Well, at least we know he can hear it.
However, the nurse isn't satisfied. She again repeats the request for the approved responses of either raising the hand or saying, "Beep!" when the sound is heard.
At this point, I am faced with my new conundrum of when is it a good time to "tell." That is, is this a situation where I ought to helpfully mention that my son has autism? As the battle between 5 year-old and nurse continues, I think about what a weird position I am in.
Here is a child who appears physically normal. When he speaks, people are often amazed at his verbal skills or his desire for more complicated knowledge. And so it is during his times of meltdown or anxiety, strangers have felt compelled to scold him -- or me -- for his unruly behavior. I am well-acquainted with The Look. There are times when I feel helpless, times when I cry and apologize, and times when I angrily gather the boys and our belongings and leave. However, I have yet to offer up his diagnosis as excuse or explanation. I have no idea why. But this doctor's appointment was not going to be the first of such occasions.
Gathering my resolve, I put myself within his line of sight and say, "How about when you hear the beep, you just say, 'I heard the beep' ?"
The nurse begins again.
This time he looks me straight in the eye and says ever so softly, "Mama, I heard the beep!"
_____________
Moments later as I stand clutching the child-sized gown he refuses to put on, as he cowers in the corner, whimpering again, I shake my head in wonder at my predicament. Only this battle isn't as daunting, because the doctor we are waiting for understands. His own son has autism. I don't have to apologize for the odd behavior of a seemingly normal child. While my son crawls beneath the exam table, extracting nearly the entire roll of paper covering, we discuss the dark glass that is autism. And I relax, knowing that for the next ten minutes at least, I won't have to explain.

(Dedicated to Dr O -- a true blessing to our family!)

Dawn of the Tuesday Machine

"What was Scooby Doo about this morning?" I ask him as he bounces around my bedroom.

There is no immediate answer, as usual, and I wait before posing the question again.

"Hey, bud, what was Scooby Doo about this morning?" I repeat from my bed. It is Saturday morning, which means cartoon time with Daddy. Daddy and both boys have just arrived to beckon me from my weekly -- when I'm lucky -- Mommy Morning.

He stops bouncing long enough to announce matter-of-factly, "Dr Fives (the arch-nemesis of the 2007 version of Scooby Doo) built a Tuesday Machine. He was using it to drill under the ocean."

Here I must, like most mothers of small children, think very hard. Translating the language of a young child is no easy task, I assure you. And he is very impatient when I don't catch on fast enough.

"Oh..." I say slowly, though my brain is frantically trying to track with him. And then...

"Do you mean a "doomsday machine?" I ask.

"Yeah, a doomsday machine, " he says simply, before launching into a slightly disjointed retelling of the rest of the plot.

I sigh with relief and watch him bounce.

While this incident was so very mild compared to others like it, these moments of struggling to comprehend really symbolize what it is like to live with an autistic child. Certainly all parents must learn to interpret their children's unique words and descriptions, but a child with autism speaks a language it seems that only he can understand.

I think of missionaries who live among people groups who have no written language. Such intrepid folks must learn from experience only what these native peoples are saying, what their behavior implies. It is much the same with my son. Through trial and error -- mostly error! --and much studying, I am finally getting a glimpse of the world through my son's eyes.

God blessed me with my son five years ago, and oh, it has been a rough road! I have gone from believing that I was failing as a parent to thinking that he had some sort of attachment disorder to the horrible realization that my son would never be "normal". With the diagnosis four months ago came answers: its not my fault, I'm not crazy, and there is some hope. The diagnosis gave me a name for his language and a starting point for learning to understand.

Each day brings with it its own Tuesday Machine -- usually several -- but now I know why.