G started that whole business with us from the backseat for the first time ever. It went like this.
G: Knock knock
Mama: Who's there?
G: Car
Mama: Car who?
G: Car fell down
Mama: Oh, car fell down! Ha ha hahaha!
G & L's Dad: snort
L: Knock knock...
G: No, L. G's turn. Knock knock
(As you can probably imagine, this was far from the end of the knock knock fun.)
Obviously, G still has some things to learn about jokes, but I am excited he want to be a part of it! I bet it won't take him long before he has an arsenal of fully memorized knock knock knockouts.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
if toys aren't available
Here's a helpful idea from my son G on what you can do if toys aren't available:
1. Use balled fists as two crash-test puppets (especially great if it's bedtime, or you are riding in the car) and slam your fists into each other while making explosion or detonation style sound effects.
2. Drop both fists to lap (or blankets if lying in bed) and begin flailing one about while making a crying noise (this can be fairly realistic sobbing or more of an half-hearted whining)
3. Have the other fist ask the crying/whining fist "Are you okay?"
4. Answer happily with formerly crying fist "I'm okay." in a sing song way.
5. Have concerned fist reply "Oh, good, glad you're okay."
6. Repeat step one with louder explosion noises.
This activity is good for at least twenty minutes worth of otherwise wasted naptime or quiet car-rides. Enjoy!
1. Use balled fists as two crash-test puppets (especially great if it's bedtime, or you are riding in the car) and slam your fists into each other while making explosion or detonation style sound effects.
2. Drop both fists to lap (or blankets if lying in bed) and begin flailing one about while making a crying noise (this can be fairly realistic sobbing or more of an half-hearted whining)
3. Have the other fist ask the crying/whining fist "Are you okay?"
4. Answer happily with formerly crying fist "I'm okay." in a sing song way.
5. Have concerned fist reply "Oh, good, glad you're okay."
6. Repeat step one with louder explosion noises.
This activity is good for at least twenty minutes worth of otherwise wasted naptime or quiet car-rides. Enjoy!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
orange socks, red shoes
Every time G gets new shoes (and I throw away his oldest most beaten up pair) the new shoes are not nearly so exciting as the ones that he had virtually no interest in previously. I'm not entirely sure why, but this has happened three times in succession now. Currently we have orange shoes and red shoes. We used to have red shoes and blue shoes. The blue ones were his favorites, but now the formerly shunned red shoes are way out in front.
Other clothing quirks of late involve socks. G has been throwing huge, collapse on the floor fits when we announce it's time to put socks on. Because of this he has been mostly barefoot even though it's cooold, unless we leave the house. So we tell him it's time to wear socks and get a pair from the dresser. He cries and screams and throws the socks across the room. I finally figure out that he wants to choose his socks. And he doesn't want to choose white socks. Or gray socks. Or beige socks. No, he wants the very elusive green socks and black socks and red socks. He tells me one afternoon he wants orange socks. We put on the orange socks. Five minutes later orange is no longer in style. Blue is the new orange. We change. (I somewhat sneakily and a little bit guiltily put the orange pair away in the drawer again.) Sometimes he goes to school in a blue shirt, blue pants, orange socks and red shoes. If he's happy and clean, it's okay with me (this doesn't apply to weddings or funerals).
I need to buy more orange socks. Soon.
Likewise, L has her own ways of dealing with clothes. These mostly involve getting her clothes dirty within five minutes of being dressed, taking her shoes off compulsively and then crying to have them put back on again, and trying to steal her brothers clothes and figure out how to wear them instead of her own.
Sometimes I get annoyed by all this, but usually I just laugh and bring out seven pairs of socks to choose from.
Other clothing quirks of late involve socks. G has been throwing huge, collapse on the floor fits when we announce it's time to put socks on. Because of this he has been mostly barefoot even though it's cooold, unless we leave the house. So we tell him it's time to wear socks and get a pair from the dresser. He cries and screams and throws the socks across the room. I finally figure out that he wants to choose his socks. And he doesn't want to choose white socks. Or gray socks. Or beige socks. No, he wants the very elusive green socks and black socks and red socks. He tells me one afternoon he wants orange socks. We put on the orange socks. Five minutes later orange is no longer in style. Blue is the new orange. We change. (I somewhat sneakily and a little bit guiltily put the orange pair away in the drawer again.) Sometimes he goes to school in a blue shirt, blue pants, orange socks and red shoes. If he's happy and clean, it's okay with me (this doesn't apply to weddings or funerals).
I need to buy more orange socks. Soon.
Likewise, L has her own ways of dealing with clothes. These mostly involve getting her clothes dirty within five minutes of being dressed, taking her shoes off compulsively and then crying to have them put back on again, and trying to steal her brothers clothes and figure out how to wear them instead of her own.
Sometimes I get annoyed by all this, but usually I just laugh and bring out seven pairs of socks to choose from.
Monday, November 23, 2009
twinkle twinkle robot
Not only is G surprising me by singing all the words to Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star all on his own and on his own agenda, he is also surprising me by carrying a tune and improvising to create new and more 4 year old boy friendly versions of the song. I am such a proud Mama! First- that he can sing all the words. That's huge for this little boy with APD who was only able to mimic the "to you!" part of the Happy Birthday song for years. Second- that he knows the melody and can actually sing quite nicely! I never knew that before. He often did monotone versions of songs we sing together or broke the words apart and overemphasized syllables to make a sort of rap version. Third- he's got a great imagination and he knows how to put it to use!
The latest version of he song tonight went like this: Twinkle, twinkle Robot. Twinkle twinkle Roooobot. How I wonder what you aaaare. Twinkle twinkle robot in the sky; how I wonder what you are. I thought it was quite charming, including, the "Good job, robot song." at the end.
The latest version of he song tonight went like this: Twinkle, twinkle Robot. Twinkle twinkle Roooobot. How I wonder what you aaaare. Twinkle twinkle robot in the sky; how I wonder what you are. I thought it was quite charming, including, the "Good job, robot song." at the end.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
rabbit hole of words
It used to be, a long, long nine months ago that G didn't make "good" eye contact during conversations, especially in new situations and with strangers. (He did great when playing with toys or when we were using our fairly vast non-verbal communication means we had built up together over his 3 years.) He often wouldn't respond when I talked to him or he would look at me with a blank expression telling me something was wrong. I wasn't sure whether the blank expression meant that he didn't hear me, or he didn't care to listen, or he couldn't understand me, or he had just given up on verbal communication. Whichever option or options it was, it was painful to see and caused me quite a few hours of worry. We trudged along, getting confused and sidelined and not really sure which path to take.
I tried harder to reach him. I talked with more animation, louder. I signed (We had learned ASL together from when he was an infant and he understood quite a few signs). I got down on my knees and look into his eyes. Sometimes he reciprocated, sometimes he responded. Sometimes I saw the amazingly beautiful sparkle in his eye and realignment of his features meaning he understood me. And it was obvious how happy that made him, as well as me when it happened. He looked so proud, so pleased. He would shout and yell and wave his arms in celebration of successful exchange. I could tell the opposite was true when we weren't understanding each other. He would throw tantrums and cling to me. He didn't want to be apart from his Mama, who understood more than anybody else. He would glare in anger, frustration, and sometimes he would give up. There would be silence on his part, except his one word requests for simple things he needed like juice, hugs, cheese, and "No!" "No" was a big part of our mini conversations. It meant any of fifty different things, probably more. And it told me he wanted to be able to tell me more. So we kept trying, whatever, whenever, anything.
I read book after book after blog after blog about Autism, what the experts kept bringing up when they met G. My gut disagreed with this suggestion and most things I read pushed me to disagree more, as G just didn't seem to fit. But nobody could tell me what was going on, making me unable to dismiss the possibility of Autism. I searched and looked and asked questions and annoyed the school district. I'm positive they thought I was in denial of G's condition. Finally I happened upon a brief description of auditory processing disorder and it struck me that it seemed to fit with what I observed of G's language struggles at home. I emailed the speech therapist who wrote the article that very evening and we set up an appointment. She confirmed with no doubt he was having trouble processing auditory information. I was heartbroken (to hear that your child has a diagnoseable problem is hard) and thrilled at the same time. Finally! A direction to move in and a name for our struggles and a professional who could actually understand what was going on in G's little head. Ever since then our family has been making incredible progress.
Now, after speech therapy, patience, a lot of Time (this seems to be the most important factor in our journey through APD... G taking his time to process and us giving him that opportunity without interruption), lots of simplified conversations with picture and signing support at home, it's the other way around. I see the spark of understanding in his eyes more often than not. When he's tired, sick, when I have overdone the "exercises", when he's angry, the blank expression still shows up. He is temporarily unreachable except by hugs, like we've always done when nothing else works. He works so hard! So much effort all day every day for something that comes naturally to most of us. He tries again. He wants to "show me". G eagerly signs songs, tells stories, listens to me, teaches his little sister what the colors of the traffic lights mean. I am getting to know him more every day, even the parts I could only glimpse and guess at before. And I am so incredibly proud and grateful when I see comprehension break across his face like the sun coming up. Every time.
I tried harder to reach him. I talked with more animation, louder. I signed (We had learned ASL together from when he was an infant and he understood quite a few signs). I got down on my knees and look into his eyes. Sometimes he reciprocated, sometimes he responded. Sometimes I saw the amazingly beautiful sparkle in his eye and realignment of his features meaning he understood me. And it was obvious how happy that made him, as well as me when it happened. He looked so proud, so pleased. He would shout and yell and wave his arms in celebration of successful exchange. I could tell the opposite was true when we weren't understanding each other. He would throw tantrums and cling to me. He didn't want to be apart from his Mama, who understood more than anybody else. He would glare in anger, frustration, and sometimes he would give up. There would be silence on his part, except his one word requests for simple things he needed like juice, hugs, cheese, and "No!" "No" was a big part of our mini conversations. It meant any of fifty different things, probably more. And it told me he wanted to be able to tell me more. So we kept trying, whatever, whenever, anything.
I read book after book after blog after blog about Autism, what the experts kept bringing up when they met G. My gut disagreed with this suggestion and most things I read pushed me to disagree more, as G just didn't seem to fit. But nobody could tell me what was going on, making me unable to dismiss the possibility of Autism. I searched and looked and asked questions and annoyed the school district. I'm positive they thought I was in denial of G's condition. Finally I happened upon a brief description of auditory processing disorder and it struck me that it seemed to fit with what I observed of G's language struggles at home. I emailed the speech therapist who wrote the article that very evening and we set up an appointment. She confirmed with no doubt he was having trouble processing auditory information. I was heartbroken (to hear that your child has a diagnoseable problem is hard) and thrilled at the same time. Finally! A direction to move in and a name for our struggles and a professional who could actually understand what was going on in G's little head. Ever since then our family has been making incredible progress.
Now, after speech therapy, patience, a lot of Time (this seems to be the most important factor in our journey through APD... G taking his time to process and us giving him that opportunity without interruption), lots of simplified conversations with picture and signing support at home, it's the other way around. I see the spark of understanding in his eyes more often than not. When he's tired, sick, when I have overdone the "exercises", when he's angry, the blank expression still shows up. He is temporarily unreachable except by hugs, like we've always done when nothing else works. He works so hard! So much effort all day every day for something that comes naturally to most of us. He tries again. He wants to "show me". G eagerly signs songs, tells stories, listens to me, teaches his little sister what the colors of the traffic lights mean. I am getting to know him more every day, even the parts I could only glimpse and guess at before. And I am so incredibly proud and grateful when I see comprehension break across his face like the sun coming up. Every time.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
special ed. 16 ring circus
Yesterday I got to spend the afternoon in G's classroom. I was thrilled to have the opportunity, having spent many hours wondering what he does at school, if he has friends in his class, how the other kids behave, why he comes home wanting to push people, if he ever actually tries to write his name before giving up with a sullen frown like he does at home. (The whole list is actually quite a bit longer, but I think I'd better stop here.)
The teacher was home sick so the two aides and the speech therapist were trying valiantly to tame the herd of wild things teach the class. So I offered to stay and they seemed quite happy to accept. I was eager for a view of what goes on there and to get to know the kids a tiny bit, since up to this point the No Parents In the Classroom rule has been quite unwavering. There are sixteen kids in the class and it's just too many for three adults to handle. Especially because there are a good four or five with behavioral issues like intentional disruption, intimidating other kids, horribly foul language by choice (an imitation of what goes on at home, I'm guessing). In my opinion two of the kids should have a full time aide assigned just to them to keep them on track and give them the positive attention and redirection/supervision they need to participate, learn and not disrupt the class by yelling, jumping, screaming, running, throwing things and bullying the rest of the kids. I came home and told my husband that there was circle time, playdough time, general mayhem free play time, throwing fruit loops and dumping water on others and the floor snack time and finally wrestling and tackle tag playing outside. During the general mayhem half hour, there was jumping on tables and chasing and hitting games going on as well as a whole lot of screaming. It was happy screaming, but brought to mind an eagle dying. Also, general mayhem time was when the speech therapist worked with individual kids. No wonder they have trouble understanding where G is at. I don't know how they hear anything he says.
No wonder he comes home and punches his sister, pushes her, hits me, makes angry intimidating faces to try and get his way. I'm just baffled he hasn't started saying several four-letter words I heard at least 20 times from the other boys yesterday.
I wish my boy could be in a place more suited to him, his needs, his abilities. I wish every one of those kids had enough attention and care at school and at home. I guess that is what those teachers and aides deal with every day. The quiet kids don't get enough attention to succeed and the loud and badly behaved kids don't get enough attention to figure out how to settle down and direct their feelings and energy in better ways. There was one little girl there who is having trouble at home and had a frown plastered across her little face for the entire three hours, except the twenty minutes she was playing with the plastic food and kitchen, happily serving up donuts and green peppers with ketchup. It made me sad for her, and happy for my G. Happy that he comes home to a completely human but loving and interested mom and dad and sister.
I am appalled by what those teachers and aides aren't able to do for the kids. Not by their own fault but through lack of support from the school. It's crazy that we don't take better care of resources, for everyone's sake. I will make suggestions, and offer to help and ask questions and whatever else I can do. And I will offer to bring a big donation of clothes that we've outgrown for those poor kids who dirty themselves at school and don't have any clean clothes from home in their cubby. But I won't fight the school. It's not worth it, fighting for what my kid needs and making those who make decisions even less inclined to help the teachers and the kids. I will find another place where they want to and can work with me to make things better, to make things work. I want to find a place where providing what my kid and other kids need is not a fight, but a happy partnership with available resources. I will look for the right place instead of fighting the wrong one. But if (I hope it's when) G does leave the school he's at this year, I know I will think of the other kids and the teachers, who are trying their best and dream of better places for them too.
The teacher was home sick so the two aides and the speech therapist were trying valiantly to tame the herd of wild things teach the class. So I offered to stay and they seemed quite happy to accept. I was eager for a view of what goes on there and to get to know the kids a tiny bit, since up to this point the No Parents In the Classroom rule has been quite unwavering. There are sixteen kids in the class and it's just too many for three adults to handle. Especially because there are a good four or five with behavioral issues like intentional disruption, intimidating other kids, horribly foul language by choice (an imitation of what goes on at home, I'm guessing). In my opinion two of the kids should have a full time aide assigned just to them to keep them on track and give them the positive attention and redirection/supervision they need to participate, learn and not disrupt the class by yelling, jumping, screaming, running, throwing things and bullying the rest of the kids. I came home and told my husband that there was circle time, playdough time, general mayhem free play time, throwing fruit loops and dumping water on others and the floor snack time and finally wrestling and tackle tag playing outside. During the general mayhem half hour, there was jumping on tables and chasing and hitting games going on as well as a whole lot of screaming. It was happy screaming, but brought to mind an eagle dying. Also, general mayhem time was when the speech therapist worked with individual kids. No wonder they have trouble understanding where G is at. I don't know how they hear anything he says.
No wonder he comes home and punches his sister, pushes her, hits me, makes angry intimidating faces to try and get his way. I'm just baffled he hasn't started saying several four-letter words I heard at least 20 times from the other boys yesterday.
I wish my boy could be in a place more suited to him, his needs, his abilities. I wish every one of those kids had enough attention and care at school and at home. I guess that is what those teachers and aides deal with every day. The quiet kids don't get enough attention to succeed and the loud and badly behaved kids don't get enough attention to figure out how to settle down and direct their feelings and energy in better ways. There was one little girl there who is having trouble at home and had a frown plastered across her little face for the entire three hours, except the twenty minutes she was playing with the plastic food and kitchen, happily serving up donuts and green peppers with ketchup. It made me sad for her, and happy for my G. Happy that he comes home to a completely human but loving and interested mom and dad and sister.
I am appalled by what those teachers and aides aren't able to do for the kids. Not by their own fault but through lack of support from the school. It's crazy that we don't take better care of resources, for everyone's sake. I will make suggestions, and offer to help and ask questions and whatever else I can do. And I will offer to bring a big donation of clothes that we've outgrown for those poor kids who dirty themselves at school and don't have any clean clothes from home in their cubby. But I won't fight the school. It's not worth it, fighting for what my kid needs and making those who make decisions even less inclined to help the teachers and the kids. I will find another place where they want to and can work with me to make things better, to make things work. I want to find a place where providing what my kid and other kids need is not a fight, but a happy partnership with available resources. I will look for the right place instead of fighting the wrong one. But if (I hope it's when) G does leave the school he's at this year, I know I will think of the other kids and the teachers, who are trying their best and dream of better places for them too.
Friday, November 13, 2009
choosing our battles
This is something I think about all day every day with a very stubborn (entirely my fault, I'm positive) 4 year old and an opinionated and teething (read: very very very cranky) 2 year old. I used to have all these expectations. Crazy things, really, like wearing pajamas to bed, not eating chicken nuggets before 10 a.m., and regular toenail clipping.
Before I was a mom, things usually went according to plan and I realize now, my life and state of mind were severely lacking in spontaneity. Now, I am flexible by necessity. I've learned that it is much easier to make deals, to bargain, to compromise with my 4 year old if it's not a matter of life and death or severe spoiling. He needs a part in decision making in his life and in our family. It makes him happier, more confident, and more willing to listen when I say no and it's important. So, some nights he wears pants and t-shirts to bed. Some mornings my 2 year old has chicken nuggets (well, veggie chicken nuggets) and peas for breakfast and there is a set of very long toenails in the house.
The 4 year old is working on a mean set of negotiation tactics for future use. A few weeks ago he tried to bargain with me... he offered that he would eat a cookie and then I would play cars with him. Last night he tried to make a deal with me that he would put on his shoes (which he didn't want to do) in return for playdough. Soon he'll be negotiating for computer games and talking politics with me. And I'm thrilled by all this because my kids feel listened to in our house, which makes us all happier.
Before I was a mom, things usually went according to plan and I realize now, my life and state of mind were severely lacking in spontaneity. Now, I am flexible by necessity. I've learned that it is much easier to make deals, to bargain, to compromise with my 4 year old if it's not a matter of life and death or severe spoiling. He needs a part in decision making in his life and in our family. It makes him happier, more confident, and more willing to listen when I say no and it's important. So, some nights he wears pants and t-shirts to bed. Some mornings my 2 year old has chicken nuggets (well, veggie chicken nuggets) and peas for breakfast and there is a set of very long toenails in the house.
The 4 year old is working on a mean set of negotiation tactics for future use. A few weeks ago he tried to bargain with me... he offered that he would eat a cookie and then I would play cars with him. Last night he tried to make a deal with me that he would put on his shoes (which he didn't want to do) in return for playdough. Soon he'll be negotiating for computer games and talking politics with me. And I'm thrilled by all this because my kids feel listened to in our house, which makes us all happier.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
feeling goofy
When we arrived at school today, G was unhappy. He didn't want to let go of me and he did not want to wash his hands. He whined, he asked me to pick him up, he collapsed on the floor in misery. Since it's important to wash his hands I kept asking and steering him toward the sink but he didn't want to even after the rest of the class had clean hands and was reading books. So his teacher came over and asked if he was ready. He didn't respond so as I was walking out the door she picked him up and asked him if he was feeling goofy today. Say what?! This is the same teacher I have noticed calling some of her students sweetheart during school. I understand that she cares about these kids and I'm so glad she does. And some of them need a lot of help and patience, but each one of these kids who have been labeled Special Needs is a person deserving of the same respect as anyone else. Sugaring things up with cutesy nicknames and watered down language for their emotional states isn't going to help these boys and girls. It's going to make it harder for them to interact with people, to take themselves seriously, to be taken seriously.
I call my own, my husbands, my friends and relatives and my kids' feelings by the most honest terminology I can come up with. I believe kids' emotions are as strong as mine and that they should understand those emotions as much as possible. When G is whining and frowning and lying on the floor crying I call it sad, or angry or unhappy or frustrated. When he is grinning and singing and prancing around the house I call it happy or proud. I wish other people would treat kids the way they would like to be treated (My mom said that so many times to me as a kid... it's stamped onto my thoughts). If I'm in a bad mood, I would be offended if someone said to me "Hey, are you feeling goofy today?" In fact I'm pretty sure I'd shoot them one of my best glares. If I'm in a bad mood, I call it a bad mood. I want my kids to be able to call what they're feeling by it's best name and not a pet name, a sugared-up name that doesn't make a whole lot of sense but sounds less scary. I'm not scared of my kid's unhappiness, or my own. It took G three years to tell me he was sad, and I celebrated his ability to recognize his feelings and put them into words (while I gave him a hug and asked why he was sad).
There's a lot of power in knowing what you feel and being able to call it by it's name. It makes it easier to figure out where sadness or anger came from and maybe how to start getting it out and letting it go so you can feel happy. I wish that Special needs kids, neurotypical kids, every human being was able to and comfortable with talking honestly about emotions, their own and others. Emotions are not something to be afraid of, but instead something to embrace and learn from. Now please excuse me to go prepare further for our extended course in Emotional Honesty as applied to How to Share Mama's Lap, Legos and Plates of Potato Chips.
I call my own, my husbands, my friends and relatives and my kids' feelings by the most honest terminology I can come up with. I believe kids' emotions are as strong as mine and that they should understand those emotions as much as possible. When G is whining and frowning and lying on the floor crying I call it sad, or angry or unhappy or frustrated. When he is grinning and singing and prancing around the house I call it happy or proud. I wish other people would treat kids the way they would like to be treated (My mom said that so many times to me as a kid... it's stamped onto my thoughts). If I'm in a bad mood, I would be offended if someone said to me "Hey, are you feeling goofy today?" In fact I'm pretty sure I'd shoot them one of my best glares. If I'm in a bad mood, I call it a bad mood. I want my kids to be able to call what they're feeling by it's best name and not a pet name, a sugared-up name that doesn't make a whole lot of sense but sounds less scary. I'm not scared of my kid's unhappiness, or my own. It took G three years to tell me he was sad, and I celebrated his ability to recognize his feelings and put them into words (while I gave him a hug and asked why he was sad).
There's a lot of power in knowing what you feel and being able to call it by it's name. It makes it easier to figure out where sadness or anger came from and maybe how to start getting it out and letting it go so you can feel happy. I wish that Special needs kids, neurotypical kids, every human being was able to and comfortable with talking honestly about emotions, their own and others. Emotions are not something to be afraid of, but instead something to embrace and learn from. Now please excuse me to go prepare further for our extended course in Emotional Honesty as applied to How to Share Mama's Lap, Legos and Plates of Potato Chips.
Monday, November 9, 2009
hallway thunder
A few days ago, G and L decided it would be a completely and totally awesome idea to roll all of their marbles down the hall. At once. So they collected the marbles, two dump trucks and headed to the end of the hall and proceeded to spend the next hour bowling with handfuls of marbles at a time, pushing them with blocks and filling up the trucks and then dumping loads of marbles to careen down the linoleum. It was loud... very very loud. Wishing we had a supply of earplugs in the house loud. I cringed a few times, but mostly I was thrilled because they were happily playing together, taking turns, working together. They have found a special world together, where they can share and play and imagine with each other and have even more fun than with mom and dad.
There is not much I like better than to watch them enjoy one another, even if it is the cause of a few headaches. I believe that as time goes on, the best person to help G with his social skills, his language and APD in general may be his little sister. She understands him better than I do sometimes and there's nothing in the world she wants more than to follow his every move and ask him lots of questions! I can't wait to see (and hear) what they come up with next.
There is not much I like better than to watch them enjoy one another, even if it is the cause of a few headaches. I believe that as time goes on, the best person to help G with his social skills, his language and APD in general may be his little sister. She understands him better than I do sometimes and there's nothing in the world she wants more than to follow his every move and ask him lots of questions! I can't wait to see (and hear) what they come up with next.
Friday, November 6, 2009
to school, or to another school?
Today I put in an application for G to go to an alternative program within the local school district, one that is about community and individualized learning and family involvement in education. This program (I hear music in my head every time I think of it) is an amazing place for children, considering each person's needs and taking the idea of learning can be fun seriously. It has many similarities to the alternative (okay, maybe a little bit hippie) college where my husband and I met. I really hope we can get in since I don't believe that a typical class would have enough support and individual awareness and care for him to succeed. As his Auditory Processing disorder causes him to need more repetition and extra eye contact and a whole lot of patience and understanding, a lone teacher with thirty loud kids just isn't going to be able to meet his needs, and probably not even really understand where he's at, what he can and can't do.
He's in a Special Education preschool now and I'm not very happy with it. I mean, they are very patient and he loves being part of a class and being with other kids (besides his sister) but. But it's not the right fit for him. Their expectations are so low. The other kids need a lot more attention and help, so he gets less. The other kids have the same or lesser verbal skills and so they aren't helping him develop his communications. Parents aren't welcome in the classroom. It's just not right for him, for us.
If we can't get into the alternative program it will mean homeschool next year, taught by moi. Which I'm terrified of doing, as I feel very underqualified and which I am also loathe to do because he needs social interactions in a classroom. It's so important for his communication development and for his self esteem and so many other aspects of his development.
In the meantime, we are waiting to see if we get in. We are waiting, as always, to learn where the next leg of this journey will take us. It felt good to decide to try to get in the program now. My personal experience in most things has been that safe is sorry and I think it applies. I want to school dangerously, and parent wherever and however G takes me. Like the story of The Runaway Bunny, I am determined to find a place to fit into each day of his, each mood of his, each new challenge. To love him in whatever way he needs.
He's in a Special Education preschool now and I'm not very happy with it. I mean, they are very patient and he loves being part of a class and being with other kids (besides his sister) but. But it's not the right fit for him. Their expectations are so low. The other kids need a lot more attention and help, so he gets less. The other kids have the same or lesser verbal skills and so they aren't helping him develop his communications. Parents aren't welcome in the classroom. It's just not right for him, for us.
If we can't get into the alternative program it will mean homeschool next year, taught by moi. Which I'm terrified of doing, as I feel very underqualified and which I am also loathe to do because he needs social interactions in a classroom. It's so important for his communication development and for his self esteem and so many other aspects of his development.
We spoke with our speech therapist about transferring G from his current Special Education preschool class to the alternative (but not Special with a capital "S") program and she said to go for it. It made my eyes tear up to hear that she thinks he's ready. And tear up again when she said that when she first met G, it would have been out of the question, but now she thinks he can be part of a classroom with "normal" kids.
In the meantime, we are waiting to see if we get in. We are waiting, as always, to learn where the next leg of this journey will take us. It felt good to decide to try to get in the program now. My personal experience in most things has been that safe is sorry and I think it applies. I want to school dangerously, and parent wherever and however G takes me. Like the story of The Runaway Bunny, I am determined to find a place to fit into each day of his, each mood of his, each new challenge. To love him in whatever way he needs.
Friday, October 30, 2009
non-toys... the best toys
The kids are showing me again just how crazy I am to buy expensive toys. Today the item of the day is a large stainless steel mixing bowl, which they are spinning like a top, rolling across large expanses of living room and wearing on their backs as a "turtle shell". The best part (in my opinion) is when the bowl stops and makes a sort of gong-like sound and both kids shout "Too loud!" The dog is unsure what to make of this.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
fish
Because of Red Lobster we went to the pet store. I'll explain.
G and I were out running errands this afternoon and drove past the Red Lobster restaurant. He saw the big lobster and said "Mama, look, a crab." I said "That's a lobster but it does look a bit like a crab, you're right. Do you see the fish?" (pointing to the large painted fish on the side of the building) G looks for the fish and then asks to see the fish. He decided that the fish paintings meant it was an aquarium, which he loves and thought I was asking him if he'd like to see the fish. I try feebly to explain that no, it's not a place to look at fish, but he doesn't understand. It doesn't matter what I say now, he wants to see fish and thinks that I am denying him for some unknowable reason. We have come to an impasse.
This happens often, less than it used to, but still too often. It breaks my heart to know that from his perspective I offered something and then took it back, refused him. Sometimes I imagine the whole world seems that way to G. Our miscommunications make it hard for him to trust... hard for him to know that we care about his opinions and desires. And so, whenever we can, we show him that we hear him, understand him and aren't going back on our word.
So we went to the pet store and saw the fish. And we had a wonderful half hour watching fish and frogs, cats and birds and gerbils, and we picked up the dog bags we needed.
G and I were out running errands this afternoon and drove past the Red Lobster restaurant. He saw the big lobster and said "Mama, look, a crab." I said "That's a lobster but it does look a bit like a crab, you're right. Do you see the fish?" (pointing to the large painted fish on the side of the building) G looks for the fish and then asks to see the fish. He decided that the fish paintings meant it was an aquarium, which he loves and thought I was asking him if he'd like to see the fish. I try feebly to explain that no, it's not a place to look at fish, but he doesn't understand. It doesn't matter what I say now, he wants to see fish and thinks that I am denying him for some unknowable reason. We have come to an impasse.
This happens often, less than it used to, but still too often. It breaks my heart to know that from his perspective I offered something and then took it back, refused him. Sometimes I imagine the whole world seems that way to G. Our miscommunications make it hard for him to trust... hard for him to know that we care about his opinions and desires. And so, whenever we can, we show him that we hear him, understand him and aren't going back on our word.
So we went to the pet store and saw the fish. And we had a wonderful half hour watching fish and frogs, cats and birds and gerbils, and we picked up the dog bags we needed.
to draw and not to draw
G doesn't draw at home. He tells me what to draw. Occasionally he will color big messes and we tape them up on the wall to admire. And admire them I do, but I also long to see his awkward and misproportioned self portraits, houses with no doors and mile-high pink roofs and cowboys riding spaceships. So how excited was I when his teacher showed us a lovely circle, an "X" and a square that he drew all by himself at school? Very! Now I am left to wonder how to get him to draw shapes at home...
Maybe I need to go on a drawing strike myself. Do it wrong or don't do it at all. He says "Right here, cat, Mama" and I shake my head or draw a football instead. Probably he's too clever for these tricks. I'll have to find out.
Maybe I need to go on a drawing strike myself. Do it wrong or don't do it at all. He says "Right here, cat, Mama" and I shake my head or draw a football instead. Probably he's too clever for these tricks. I'll have to find out.
Monday, October 12, 2009
doctor yay!
No, that's not our pediatrician's name, though we love him. That's what G said on the way to the office this morning. "To the doctor. Doctor.... Yay!"
This was our very first doctor's visit without tantrums from G. What made it different? We told him what to expect and he was able to hear us... to understand, and therefore to feel it wasn't scary. Last year's visit involved dragging him onto the scale and unsuccessfully trying to convince him it was alright for several minutes while the nurse added to the problem by giving him instructions he couldn't understand in a forceful tone, making him scared of her as well as the scale. This time, he actually thought it was pretty cool to see how the scale works and the nurse wasn't upsetting even if she did look a little surprised by my enthusiastic response to G's success on the scale. And there was a big fish tank, with a toy car that blew bubbles from under its hood... definitely cool.
It was such a relief to see him happily being weighed and measured, answering the Dr's questions happily, understanding. I know it was a relief to him too. L carefully watched to see what her big brother thought of the office, and then grudgingly let the doctor listen to her heart and poke her tummy. After all, if G enjoyed it, it must be safe. A big brother is a wonderful thing!
This was our very first doctor's visit without tantrums from G. What made it different? We told him what to expect and he was able to hear us... to understand, and therefore to feel it wasn't scary. Last year's visit involved dragging him onto the scale and unsuccessfully trying to convince him it was alright for several minutes while the nurse added to the problem by giving him instructions he couldn't understand in a forceful tone, making him scared of her as well as the scale. This time, he actually thought it was pretty cool to see how the scale works and the nurse wasn't upsetting even if she did look a little surprised by my enthusiastic response to G's success on the scale. And there was a big fish tank, with a toy car that blew bubbles from under its hood... definitely cool.
It was such a relief to see him happily being weighed and measured, answering the Dr's questions happily, understanding. I know it was a relief to him too. L carefully watched to see what her big brother thought of the office, and then grudgingly let the doctor listen to her heart and poke her tummy. After all, if G enjoyed it, it must be safe. A big brother is a wonderful thing!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
fun at school
When I picked G up from preschool today, he looked happy. He even said "bye" to his class. So I thought I'd ask him that question I've asked so many times before with no luck. "Did you have fun at school?" And this time, he answered. "I had fun at school." Yay! It wasn't unique, and it was definitely modeled after my question, but he answered in the first person and said every word of the sentence and the little smile on his face told me that he understood what he was telling me. I am so proud of his progress!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
parent-teacher
Today was our first parent teacher conference. I wasn't sure what we were in for. It went easily and the teacher and speech therapist were pleased with Gavin's "progress", by which they meant many things he has been able to do since before school started, like counting to 10, shape recognition, colors, etc. I was thrilled to hear that he is drawing things in class. He requires me to do all the drawing at home. I saw a little circle, a line, and an "x" that he made. Amazing! He likes the kids. He attends well. They alluded to him being one of the most adept kids in the class. That's good, but bad too. I know he is smart and eager to learn and knows quite a bit of the early school concepts. I also know his language is very limited and hard for him. The fact that he is probably more skilled in language than most of his classmates isn't going to help him learn. And I really want him to be challenged so he can improve his listening, processing, speech. On the other hand, he's getting great experience in being part of a group, scheduled learning and activities, and interacting with kids his age.
I'm very happy that he is meeting their academic and social goals for the class, but am a bit concerned (okay, terrified!) at the mention of "regular" kindergarten next year. Now, absolutely, positively, certainly I am thrilled that they think he's ready, and that they aren't telling me that they see him repeating special ed preschool next fall. Awesome! Yes! Woohoo! I'm just scared that he might fall apart in a classroom with 30 kids and one teacher instead of 15 kids and 4 adults. I'm scared that he might not be able to focus on listening well enough to function well and therefore be seen as disruptive or just plain bad-mannered. I'm scared that the teacher won't take his needs seriously enough and he will fall by the wayside. He would need support. And a spot close to the teacher, so he can pay attention more easily. He will also need to accept that he needs to pull up his pants after visiting the bathroom on his own. Would he make it through without tantrums and tears?
And one of those kindergarten teachers down the hall is mean! All I hear from her when I'm waiting for G is "You've got a green right now, buddy, but you're well on your way to a red! Do you hear me?!" and "Ferdinand, I don't think your mom would like to hear about how you're acting. Do you want me to call her and tell her?" Eeeeek! No way am I placing my sensitive little guy who has trouble processing what he hears in her classroom. I think I really need to check out all our options thoroughly, especially since it's looking like G will not be in a specifically special ed class next year. I wish I knew someone who had a kid just like G but two years older....
I'm very happy that he is meeting their academic and social goals for the class, but am a bit concerned (okay, terrified!) at the mention of "regular" kindergarten next year. Now, absolutely, positively, certainly I am thrilled that they think he's ready, and that they aren't telling me that they see him repeating special ed preschool next fall. Awesome! Yes! Woohoo! I'm just scared that he might fall apart in a classroom with 30 kids and one teacher instead of 15 kids and 4 adults. I'm scared that he might not be able to focus on listening well enough to function well and therefore be seen as disruptive or just plain bad-mannered. I'm scared that the teacher won't take his needs seriously enough and he will fall by the wayside. He would need support. And a spot close to the teacher, so he can pay attention more easily. He will also need to accept that he needs to pull up his pants after visiting the bathroom on his own. Would he make it through without tantrums and tears?
And one of those kindergarten teachers down the hall is mean! All I hear from her when I'm waiting for G is "You've got a green right now, buddy, but you're well on your way to a red! Do you hear me?!" and "Ferdinand, I don't think your mom would like to hear about how you're acting. Do you want me to call her and tell her?" Eeeeek! No way am I placing my sensitive little guy who has trouble processing what he hears in her classroom. I think I really need to check out all our options thoroughly, especially since it's looking like G will not be in a specifically special ed class next year. I wish I knew someone who had a kid just like G but two years older....
Thursday, September 24, 2009
at the store
Today I went out to get the kids new winter jackets. I came home successful, with a new jacket for each kid that will fit them and won't make them look like the muffler man.
I found the only jacket for little girls without fake fur. It was tough, but with some perseverance I found it. It's pink and has embroidered flowers but no sequins and no fake shock of animal hair. I know L will appreciate that this year. Maybe next year she will be appalled by a hood without fur. Last year she got a silver vest with fake fur lining and sparkles. I've never seen her hate any piece of clothing so much!
For G, the choices were also limited. Sporty. That's it. Good thing I think my little guy looks adorable in sporty styles!
Sometimes I am baffled by the narrowness of choices available, especially for children.
I found the only jacket for little girls without fake fur. It was tough, but with some perseverance I found it. It's pink and has embroidered flowers but no sequins and no fake shock of animal hair. I know L will appreciate that this year. Maybe next year she will be appalled by a hood without fur. Last year she got a silver vest with fake fur lining and sparkles. I've never seen her hate any piece of clothing so much!
For G, the choices were also limited. Sporty. That's it. Good thing I think my little guy looks adorable in sporty styles!
Sometimes I am baffled by the narrowness of choices available, especially for children.
Friday, September 18, 2009
name three animals
Last night I was trying to explain to someone who knows us quite well what's going on with G. I can't tell her exactly how information goes into and then out of his little head, since I only have limited understanding. But I can figure out quite a bit from knowing what he can and can't do and what is difficult for him. He knows the names of fifty animals, but if you ask him to name three, he can't do it. If there are pictures, or more specifics (farm animals, animals that say "meow", etc.) he'll be able to give an immediate and right answer. But the general request to name three animals was nearly impossible a week ago. We've been working hard and he's making progress! He seems to have a definite affinity for zebras... it's always the first or second animal he comes up with.
"Name three shapes." He stares at me blankly. He has identified shapes he's looking at for years now. But without a visual cue, it is so hard for him. He works so painstakingly for the conversations we have, but he has always wanted to communicate. Even when he only had ten words at his disposal, he used and used them. He put them together with intonations and gestures to mean more than what those words usually mean. We had a special language of our own. "Name three shapes. What's a shape with four sides?" He looks at me, thinking hard. "Square. Square shape." He's getting it.
G has made so much progress since we finally figured out his auditory processing is not the same as most! He absolutely hates working on these questions we ask over and over. They tire him out and I can see it affect him when he knows he isn't understanding or answering "right". Sometimes he gets so upset he just shuts down and repeats "No" over and over. When he is breaking through, understanding what is asked of him and working from a question to an appropriate answer, we can tell. His eyes light up. He grins. He practically sings his responses. He is excited and proud and happy and that those positive feelings have motivated him to work hard and just the other day, for the first time ever he answered a why question. "Why are you sad, G?" "Because I'm hungry." Absolutely amazing to us! We couldn't be more proud of our boy who only spoke in two syllable words not so long ago!
"Name three shapes." He stares at me blankly. He has identified shapes he's looking at for years now. But without a visual cue, it is so hard for him. He works so painstakingly for the conversations we have, but he has always wanted to communicate. Even when he only had ten words at his disposal, he used and used them. He put them together with intonations and gestures to mean more than what those words usually mean. We had a special language of our own. "Name three shapes. What's a shape with four sides?" He looks at me, thinking hard. "Square. Square shape." He's getting it.
G has made so much progress since we finally figured out his auditory processing is not the same as most! He absolutely hates working on these questions we ask over and over. They tire him out and I can see it affect him when he knows he isn't understanding or answering "right". Sometimes he gets so upset he just shuts down and repeats "No" over and over. When he is breaking through, understanding what is asked of him and working from a question to an appropriate answer, we can tell. His eyes light up. He grins. He practically sings his responses. He is excited and proud and happy and that those positive feelings have motivated him to work hard and just the other day, for the first time ever he answered a why question. "Why are you sad, G?" "Because I'm hungry." Absolutely amazing to us! We couldn't be more proud of our boy who only spoke in two syllable words not so long ago!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
smiles are big assets
So, I've always thought my kids had the most adorable, light-up-the-room smiles ever. (I am their mom!) It's like their whole hearts are right there on their faces when they are happy. But in the last few weeks I've gotten to hear it from other people and I love that other people see it too.
G has always charmed other kids at the playground with his smile, even when all he could really say to them was "hi" and it often was just what was needed for a great new friendship. And this morning our speech therapist said "It's great to see him smile because it's so genuine and so happy".
L impressed her great grandfather so much with her smile that he told us he was reminded of her great grandma's smile that made him want to marry her. He said it will take her far. I agree. I know that G's smile has!
L's been sick this week (Ah yes, the dreaded first week of school illness is here) and yesterday I told their daddy that I could tell she was feeling better because she has her mischievous eyes again...those little twinkles in her eyes which remind us of illustrations of fairies and are just the cutest thing ever.
I am so glad that other people respond to their fantastic smiles too, because even if G and L can't/don't say a word, their joy still comes through loud and clear.
G has always charmed other kids at the playground with his smile, even when all he could really say to them was "hi" and it often was just what was needed for a great new friendship. And this morning our speech therapist said "It's great to see him smile because it's so genuine and so happy".
L impressed her great grandfather so much with her smile that he told us he was reminded of her great grandma's smile that made him want to marry her. He said it will take her far. I agree. I know that G's smile has!
L's been sick this week (Ah yes, the dreaded first week of school illness is here) and yesterday I told their daddy that I could tell she was feeling better because she has her mischievous eyes again...those little twinkles in her eyes which remind us of illustrations of fairies and are just the cutest thing ever.
I am so glad that other people respond to their fantastic smiles too, because even if G and L can't/don't say a word, their joy still comes through loud and clear.
what ifs?
As soon as I had my fist kid, (actually as soon as I knew I was pregnant) the what ifs started plaguing me. Every mom is familiar with them. When we found out that G is not "like everybody else" I got a whole new set of what ifs to worry over. Many of them are what I call worst case scenario what ifs, that are mainly a way for me to think through my own fear and grief about lost expectations for my baby. But there is one that keeps coming back, and to me, it's a big one. What if there's something wrong and G can't tell anyone? It haunts me. It keeps me up at night. But until I mention it, hardly anybody else in his life even considers it.
A fairly mild example: the school really pushed for us to have G take the school bus. "All the kids go together and they love it!" "He'll feel left out when he sees everybody else taking the bus." "Are you sure? The kids have so much fun!" I said no. He's never gone to school before, he's never been in daycare. He's not used to going places without someone he's related to. When I tell him things, I don't know how much of it gets through. It runs through my mind again... The bus pulls up, I tell G goodbye and help him up the steps. He sits down in confusion because someone tells him to. He has no idea where he's going. He has no idea when he will come home. He doesn't understand why I'm not with him. He doesn't know who to ask for help, or how. He cries all the way to school and hates school for the rest of the year. Maybe he tries to run away.
I don't know how much he understands. So, if I tell him you are taking the bus to school and then you will go into your class with the teacher and have a lot of fun and then in a few hours you will get back on the bus and come home and see Mama and Daddy.... I don't know if he gets it. He might hear "bus to school.... Mama and Daddy," and put those things together to mean I will go on the bus to school and meet Mama and Daddy there. Things get lost and confused in our conversations. So, there's no way I'm putting him on a bus with a bunch of people he doesn't know to go to a classroom he doesn't know how to get to if he gets lost. If he really got lost and someone was trying to help him, the only thing I'm sure he'd be able to tell them is his first name. That's not a lot to go on. So, until I know he knows the ropes, until I know his teachers have some idea of what things are like in his little head, I will take him to school. Plus, then I can peek through the window and see if he's making great friends or great messes. Because, after all, he can't tell me what he did at school yet.
A fairly mild example: the school really pushed for us to have G take the school bus. "All the kids go together and they love it!" "He'll feel left out when he sees everybody else taking the bus." "Are you sure? The kids have so much fun!" I said no. He's never gone to school before, he's never been in daycare. He's not used to going places without someone he's related to. When I tell him things, I don't know how much of it gets through. It runs through my mind again... The bus pulls up, I tell G goodbye and help him up the steps. He sits down in confusion because someone tells him to. He has no idea where he's going. He has no idea when he will come home. He doesn't understand why I'm not with him. He doesn't know who to ask for help, or how. He cries all the way to school and hates school for the rest of the year. Maybe he tries to run away.
I don't know how much he understands. So, if I tell him you are taking the bus to school and then you will go into your class with the teacher and have a lot of fun and then in a few hours you will get back on the bus and come home and see Mama and Daddy.... I don't know if he gets it. He might hear "bus to school.... Mama and Daddy," and put those things together to mean I will go on the bus to school and meet Mama and Daddy there. Things get lost and confused in our conversations. So, there's no way I'm putting him on a bus with a bunch of people he doesn't know to go to a classroom he doesn't know how to get to if he gets lost. If he really got lost and someone was trying to help him, the only thing I'm sure he'd be able to tell them is his first name. That's not a lot to go on. So, until I know he knows the ropes, until I know his teachers have some idea of what things are like in his little head, I will take him to school. Plus, then I can peek through the window and see if he's making great friends or great messes. Because, after all, he can't tell me what he did at school yet.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Good job!
A few days ago, G and made a trip to the bathroom. I turned on the light, he sat on the toilet. I told him to go pee. He waited several minutes and then did. Then he said, "Good job yellow peepee!" (This is in reference to going, not what he uses to go. He actually doesn't seem to want a word for that yet.) Then he pulls his pants up (Okay, with some help from me.) and flushes and says, "Good job potty!"
I think there's a slight chance that maybe we use the phrase "good job" around here a lot.
I think there's a slight chance that maybe we use the phrase "good job" around here a lot.
Friday, September 11, 2009
about the title
The title of this blog is a reference to how G says to me "You too, Mama" all day long. He wants me to fly his airplane, jump on the bed, go pee in the toilet, lie in his bed, make weird faces, and just be with him. And I do, with the exception that I don't jump on the bed because we can't afford a new one. Those experts who told us we need to entreat and coerce him to interact with people... they got it wrong. He loves interacting.
I waited a long time to hear him say "mama", but now that he can, I can hear it from the time he gets up to the time he goes down. And I love it.
I waited a long time to hear him say "mama", but now that he can, I can hear it from the time he gets up to the time he goes down. And I love it.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Purplepellers
Purplepellers are often discussed in our house. Often we are missing our lego purplepellers. What is this I speak of, you ask?
G (the supercute four year old boy I call my own) says:
"alligator" for elevator
"eyebrown" for eyebrow
"honeybird" for hummingbird
"purplepeller" for propeller
I would like to be able to bask in the cuteness of the things my son says that are not quite right. Instead they are like flashing red lights in my day, reminding me of all my worries about his speech delay. It is so hard to see evidence that signals in our communication are getting crossed and distorted, without knowing what is actually happening for sure and if it can or will change.
I remind myself how grateful I am that G can tell me what he needs in a few words, that he understands our relationships, that he can tell me he loves me and ask me to say I love him too. I am excited and hopeful that he likes reading together so much. He memorizes his favorite parts of the books and he has just figured out that the letters on the pages spell the words I am reading! If he can learn to read it will give him so much more freedom from the confusion of auditory processing mixups. Our current favorites are Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever, The Pigeon Wants a Puppy by Mo Willems, Leaves by David Ezra Stein and In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak. When we read Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever, his absolute favorite part is "He doesn't eat the toaster!" Kid's got a sense of humor, that's for sure!
G (the supercute four year old boy I call my own) says:
"alligator" for elevator
"eyebrown" for eyebrow
"honeybird" for hummingbird
"purplepeller" for propeller
I would like to be able to bask in the cuteness of the things my son says that are not quite right. Instead they are like flashing red lights in my day, reminding me of all my worries about his speech delay. It is so hard to see evidence that signals in our communication are getting crossed and distorted, without knowing what is actually happening for sure and if it can or will change.
I remind myself how grateful I am that G can tell me what he needs in a few words, that he understands our relationships, that he can tell me he loves me and ask me to say I love him too. I am excited and hopeful that he likes reading together so much. He memorizes his favorite parts of the books and he has just figured out that the letters on the pages spell the words I am reading! If he can learn to read it will give him so much more freedom from the confusion of auditory processing mixups. Our current favorites are Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever, The Pigeon Wants a Puppy by Mo Willems, Leaves by David Ezra Stein and In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak. When we read Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever, his absolute favorite part is "He doesn't eat the toaster!" Kid's got a sense of humor, that's for sure!
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