Tag: Adam

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When the autism spectrum wins

After a month of hunting down posts about Beth’s childhood, my mind wandered to our other child. How has he fared through all of this?

I remember first thinking in terms of Beth’s disorder “winning” during a Skype therapy session for obsessive-compulsive disorder. The therapist sought to personalize, yet disassociate the disorder from Beth in a way. She tried to objectify it – make it seem separate and distinct, to make it into something for Beth to fight. It also served to lift some of the shame from her shoulders. “This isn’t you Beth. This is OCD, and we can make it go far away. It may come back from time to time, but it’ll get easier and easier to send it away.” In the case of OCD it kind of worked, with a LOT of effort and tears. There were exercises which helped her to overcome some of the distinguishing characteristics of OCD (in her case), while not letting it define her.

Asperger’s Syndrome, in the larger context of our family, has been another animal. One of the ways I fear it’s won is the attention we’ve shifted from our wonderful son to endless therapies, doctors, and counselors with Beth, before and after diagnosis (but mostly before). You may have noticed the daily posts leading up to Beth’s thirteenth birthday – my sort of mock countdown to the end of her childhood, with a few re-posts from the early days.

It got me to thinking.

I don’t have nearly as many posts about Adam’s early years. We’re still in them so I still have time, but still – not a whole lot of Adam in here.

It’s not that Beth isn’t wonderful, or Adam hasn’t been noteworthy, but damn it all if we haven’t fallen into a tradeoff trap.

There are a number of harmless explanations just dying to dive off the tip of my tongue. Some of the magic of raising a child may seem more routine the second time around. Beth had the stage to herself for seven years, while Adam has to share it with a veteran of the theater. There are a bunch more where those came from.

They all sound like reasons, but even to my mind they sound more like excuses. Yet somehow, deprived of his share of attention, Adam has thrived. Even though I haven’t read to him as much as I would have liked, he’s been reading on his own for almost a year now – and he doesn’t start kindergarten until this Fall. He writes notes in a little notepad, sounding out the words. How many times have I heard him say, “Wait! I just want to get this down before we go!” It’s precious and hilarious.

Maybe Aspergers hasn’t won, not entirely. Maybe it’s beaten me down a little, but my little boy is a little stronger.

It surely hasn’t bested my daughter.

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My boy

A few weeks ago we were cleaning the house, something we’d neglected for too long. Pollen from the oak trees formed a thick yellow film over all of the vertical surfaces outside. The dust inside was approaching the critical mass for self awareness, and the growth in the bathrooms was beyond sentience – plotting a coup.

Adam took the cleaning frenzy one step further. I found him in our familyroom with a damp cloth scrubing the dirt and grim off some of our old toys.

“What are you up to Adam?”

“I’m cleaning some of our old toys for the poor kids who can’t afford toys to play.”

My heart melted.

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Fun with labels

I was picking up Adam from my in-laws’ place after work last week, and Adam had a little picture they gave him. It was a picture depicting Jesus and Mary.

“Do you have your picture Adam?” my mother-in-law asked as we were leaving. “Yes Memere,” (that French-Canadian thing again) Adam replied.

Later, as we were backing down the driveway, Adam asked, “why does Memere want me to have this picture so much?”

Now keep in mind I’m sort of a lapsed Lutheran, but I try really hard to be respectful. Since l wandered off into the wilderness from church, Cheryl has been taking the kids with her and her parents to Mass.

“Well, maybe it’s because she wants you to be a good Catholic” I replied.

“But I don’t want to be a Catholic, I want to be a veterinarian.”

You gotta love my little guy.

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An outing one evening

A mother a boy and his sister all walk into an ice cream shop.

“Do you take credit?” the mother asks.

“No,” the man behind the counter replies.

“You’ve GOT to be kidding me!” the boy exclaims, unintentionally doing a great John McEnroe.

My boy has none of my shy reserve.

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Mutiny on the pitch

It didn’t take long. Adam just had his first soccer practice, and already the parents are planning the coach’s ouster. From what I hear it might be deserved, but I’ve never coached little kids so what do I know?

First, there was the last minute way it was organized… as in: nine o’clock the night before we got a call from the coach – complete with a shopping list of what Adam would need.

I suspect she’s a stay at home mom – not that there’s anything wrong with that.

When the kids showed up the next evening our coach organized a game of tag. Meanwhile, the other team (from the same age group) was led through some basic drills, and went over some basic rules – like not using your hands. Our coach’s son was playing catch.

When she did decide to run some drills, her son practiced his kicking on the cones she was setting up (when he wasn’t making a break for the parking lot). The chorus rang out: “If you can’t control your son, how will you control a team?”

When the parents asked if she wanted some help she replied, “I don’t know.” When one of the parents offered to help set up a drill, or go over some of the basics she replied, “Oh no, that’s ok. I thought the kids would just play this time. You know, get to know each other.” The chorus rang out: “Can my kid play for that other team?”

When she finally got a drill set up the kids had spent an hour playing tag. The chorus rang out: “The kids have to go home now.”

The other night we got a clandestine call from one of the parents, planning to go rouge on drills. “I figure we need to set up three drilling stations. I’ve got one parent who’s agreed to run one of them. Will you run the other? The kids should learn at least a little soccer.”

Their first game is this Saturday. It’ll be fun to see how well tag translates to soccer. It’ll be almost as fun as explaining to Adam why adults can be just as bad as the kids.

They say sports can teach you a lot about life, but I wonder if we’re headed for understatement country.

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Adam bomb

Maybe it’s his small body. Maybe it’s just hardwired into a four year old boy.

Adam is showing an early flair for maneuvering, pattern recognition, and tactics. I think he’s worked out every long approach to a padded landing in the house. “Adam, no running!” comes out of my mouth on autopilot, like “God bless you” when someone sneezes. It comes out a fraction of a second before his body makes impact. Sometimes I’m the target. Sometimes it’s a piece of furniture, or an unsuspecting (large) stuffed animal. He is afraid of the dark, but he’ll run across two rooms and launch his body at full speed, head first, into a Lazy Boy – sending boy and chair sliding across the floor into the wall.

He’s still a little big for his age, my ribs can vouch for his conditioning, and he’s signed up for soccer this winter.

Fellow parents, I pray for your children.

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Unheralded classics

Among the likes of the wheel, the steam engine, integrated circuits, the moon landings, and the polyester cotton blend, one of humanity’s greatest (if overlooked) achievements is the Koosh Woosh.

In the late 1980s, a small toy company made a bundle selling funny little balls made of strands of rubber. Maybe you never had one. Maybe your parents didn’t love you. We had several – think indoor snowball fights (or as close as you can get in Florida).

Yeah, my parents have some regrets….

Lucky for us all, the Koosh gravy train didn’t end with a funny little ball-like lump of rubber. One Christmas morning I unwrapped a funky lycra disk stretched over a springy wire frame – the Koosh Woosh. Think Frisbee, but not. Ironically, it was voted “least likely to still be around in twenty years” by its gift class. It was a rough crowd that year. Yet my Koosh Woosh has followed me everywhere since: from college dorms and apartments, to condos and our current home.

I could lie and tell you it’s my favorite toy, but there are two problems. One, I’m not a liar; and two, you already know my old PowerBook fills that spot in my heart. On the other hand, I can’t think of another toy that’s been around so long or pops up so often. It’s THE (seemingly) omnipresent toy in the house, good for a glide across the room any time the urge to throw something (in fun not anger) strikes.

The kids have my old Legos, but they don’t love them like I did. This may be my greatest failure as a parent.

It’s lightweight so it doesn’t do indoor damage. Its frame is flexible, springy, and resilient; making all kinds of ricochet shots possible, while keeping it’s shape through years of abuse. And it’s soft, making it easy to catch for the little ones.

I don’t remember why, but we spent a lot of time indoors this weekend… and it didn’t matter. Adam and I had a blast. I used my full arsenal of Frisbee shots: the line drive, the forehand, the backhand, the skip shot, the vertical bounce (a Koosh Woosh specialty), curves, come-backers, soft glides, and bank shots – all indoors – and we have a small house. Think bumper-pool, Frisbee, and (almost) no rules. The only time Adam wasn’t smiling was when he was concentrating on imitating one of daddy’s throws. It was great fun.

When my kids get older, have kids of their own, and the subject of me comes up (there goes my runaway ego again), I hope it’s days like this they remember. We can’t always choose our legacy to our children – not the kind I’m thinking of anyway, but we can at least give it a nudge. I hope I give them enough good memories to be the kind of parent I want to be (if I don’t always succeed).

The sound of trouble

I think paternal instinct is underrated. Mothers are given credit for “the bond” and knowing instinctually when their kids are in trouble, while fathers are relegated to second class parenthood.

I know, I know. Fathers miss out on gestation and the birthing experience, but I’d put my ear for trouble up against any mother’s.

Now Cheryl might say the ear is only effective when the brain maintains an active connection – but I’d rather ignore this inconvenient observation for the moment.

I won’t try to tell you I’m an expert in child behavior but I know my kids. Their cries generally fall into a few common types. (Most of these aged into a fine whine as they got older.)

There’s the exaggerated play cry, the cry for sympathy/attention, the tired cry, the bored cry, the hungry cry, the scared cry, the hurt cry, and the grand-daddy of them all – the panicked, terrified, I’m really hurt bad and I need someone right now cry.

Thankfully, I’ve only heard that last one a handful of times in my life, but last night was one of them. I was enjoying a lazy Sunday evening at home after a busy week, spending a little quality time with my MacBook. I heard a crash. It didn’t raise immediate alarms. I’d need a lot more medication if the sound of stuff colliding/falling/breaking in the house raised my heart rate.

It’s early yet, but I think my kids might be headed towards a career in demolition.

There was a pause, a moment of quiet, that got my attention – not alarmed so much as curious. “I wonder what that was? It did sound kinda big. Is someone trying to conjure a benign explanation?”

Maybe my instincts aren’t so good after all.

That’s when I heard it. It was a rapid fire, panic filled, pained shriek for help… and that’s when my heart stopped. I ran into Adam’s room and found him on the floor, pinned under his dresser, crying out words faster than his breath could sustain. I threw the dresser back, tossed aside the drawers that had spilled out… and Adam popped up into my arms.

My heart started again.

After a good squeeze, a thorough once over, and a trip across the house for some reassurance from mommy that his skin wouldn’t fall off, everyone was ok again.

Except… how did I miss the dresser? When Beth was born it seemed like we bolted everything to the floor, the wall, or both. Now I figure out twelve years later we missed something.

One thing is funny – well sort of. Despite all of the evidence, Adam still won’t admit to climbing on his dresser. He explained what happened to me last night (after everyone had settled down) – and it was like something out of the Warren Commission. Should I be worried the first adjective that came to mind was cagey – and he’s still only four?

4 July 2009

Here’s a couple take aways from my 4th.

  • Miguel makes an awesome steak on the grill, rivaling anything I’ve eaten… anywhere. If this is his first attempt in 15 years, his potential is scary.
  • Mike is not your average stuffy neurosurgeon. Granted, he’s the only one I know, but he defies my stereotype.
  • There’s a variety of water gun/cannon out there that’s very effective. You should be afraid… very afraid.
  • Adam had a great time.
  • When I take pictures, my camera naturally follows my kid, no matter how cool the other kids are.

Phil gets Miguel Mike gets Adam Someone gets Adam Adam gets ideas

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It came in the mail

I was in college when I got my first SLR camera. It was an inexpensive (re: free) Pentax. A gift in fact, something that wasn’t getting any use from it’s previous owner. I got it with three lenses: an awkward telephoto zoom, a 50mm and a 35mm. When it broke we bought a Canon Rebel with a kit lens, then a “super-zoom” digital camera, then our current Nikon – again with a kit lens (plus a zoom lens suited for shooting outdoor activities).

Nothing was as fast as those lenses on the old Pentax, and I missed ’em.

Until now.

I’ve had the new Nikon 35mm f/1.8 on back order for a while now, and I found it on my doorstep this evening coming home from work with the kids. It couldn’t have come at at better time. Today was a rotten day.

Here’s some of the first pics. I know it’s a little redundant, showing them in a post when they show up in my Flickr feed in the sidebar, but I can’t resist.
Intimidating

I love Adam’s look in this one. So serious… the lighting so sinister… my sweet child in his Mickey shirt.

Cudly

The first of several pics taken outside. It was raining and late in the day so the light wasn’t terribly bright.

Innocent

Pretty much sums up Adam… or as much as any one picture can.

Silly

Cheryl told Adam he could get an alligator from the Build-a-Bear store if he was good for dad while she was gone. He picked out the shirt himself, I swear.