I often find myself marveling at the way that my teenager is able to consume exponentially more energy than my twin preschoolers. Nothing my little boys can throw at me – autism-related challenges included – empty me the way the teenager does. How do you convince someone who is hell bent on self-destruction to change course?
Sure, there’s the guilt. Where did we go wrong? What should we have done differently? But at a certain point – and with the blessing of various mental health professionals – we’ve had to face the fact that we have done our best. And I don’t mean we’ve done our best in the way that an absent parent who sends a check once a year might proclaim, “I did what I could, I don’t know why you don’t love me!” No, I mean we have worked at it.
We’ve done our homework, we’ve devised plans, we’ve seen therapists, we’ve focused on discipline vs. punishment, we’ve tried loving him through it…I won’t say none of it’s worked – I suppose we could be in a different place if we hadn’t done those things – but I can’t give any of them ringing endorsements, either.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m just at a total loss. I’m spent. I want to be strong and keep going, but sometimes I don’t know if I can. It’s too hard. And there it is, the guilt of even saying that out loud…because I’d like to believe that when it comes to my kids, nothing could ever be too hard.
Of course, whether or not it’s too hard really makes no difference. It’s a little like childbirth in that I simply have to keep going no matter how excruciating. Because even though it feels like I’m working against a ticking clock, like my window in which to help him become a functioning person is closing in on me – and despite all of his sentiments to the contrary – I know that he still needs us. And that fact just hangs there in the silence between us, with none of us knowing where to go from here.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Small Talk
I braved our spring blizzard this morning to go to Target. Thanks to our Vegas vacation, we were not only out of groceries, but we hadn’t yet procured any of the supplies needed to play Easter bunny on Sunday. Other than being especially easy because my husband was home with the kids, the shopping portion of the trip was uneventful. Then I got to the checkout.
“You’re doing your Easter shopping late,” the cashier, an awkward white male in his early twenties, said as he bagged my Cadbury eggs. I gave him a polite smile and shrug. He continued with “You didn’t want to get it done earlier?”
Well, yes, I wanted to start months ago by compiling a collection of toys small enough to fit inside plastic eggs and then going to a gourmet chocolatier to have special chocolate bunnies crafted in the likenesses of both of my boys…but then I remembered that Easter is virtually meaningless since we don’t subscribe to organized religion and my boys would be just as happy with M&Ms and a copy of “101 Dalmations.” And by the way, you clearly don’t have kids, so shut up.
I did not say any of this, of course. Instead, I smiled politely and made it through the rest of the transaction in silence until he did the obligatory, “Do you want to save 10 percent today?” To which I quickly replied – as I always do – “No, thanks, we already have a Target card.”
His reply: “Well then you should have used it.” Perhaps in response to my look of shock, he then added, “You could have earned 180 points.”
Asperger’s, is what I thought. This guy clearly has Asperger’s syndrome. Asperger’s is the highest functioning end of the autism spectrum – to oversimplify, it basically means that social skills don’t come naturally to individuals who have it. Though Owen isn’t officially diagnosed with it (his diagnosis fell slightly below Asperger’s, under the straight-up “autism” criteria), I often think his behaviors, paired with his exceptional intelligence, make it a more fitting diagnosis.
I find myself making Asperger’s diagnoses a lot when I meet socially awkward individuals – men, mostly. I also often wonder whether they know they have it.
True, my unscientific assessments might not always be accurate, but with the rates of autism spectrum disorders in Minnesota being calculated at 1 in every 81 children (the highest of any state), I’m probably not always off base either. And really, I’d rather just give these guys the benefit of the doubt by assuming that rather than being rude, they are just trying to navigate the complicated terrain of small talk. I hope that when Owen gets older, people will do the same for him.
“You’re doing your Easter shopping late,” the cashier, an awkward white male in his early twenties, said as he bagged my Cadbury eggs. I gave him a polite smile and shrug. He continued with “You didn’t want to get it done earlier?”
Well, yes, I wanted to start months ago by compiling a collection of toys small enough to fit inside plastic eggs and then going to a gourmet chocolatier to have special chocolate bunnies crafted in the likenesses of both of my boys…but then I remembered that Easter is virtually meaningless since we don’t subscribe to organized religion and my boys would be just as happy with M&Ms and a copy of “101 Dalmations.” And by the way, you clearly don’t have kids, so shut up.
I did not say any of this, of course. Instead, I smiled politely and made it through the rest of the transaction in silence until he did the obligatory, “Do you want to save 10 percent today?” To which I quickly replied – as I always do – “No, thanks, we already have a Target card.”
His reply: “Well then you should have used it.” Perhaps in response to my look of shock, he then added, “You could have earned 180 points.”
Asperger’s, is what I thought. This guy clearly has Asperger’s syndrome. Asperger’s is the highest functioning end of the autism spectrum – to oversimplify, it basically means that social skills don’t come naturally to individuals who have it. Though Owen isn’t officially diagnosed with it (his diagnosis fell slightly below Asperger’s, under the straight-up “autism” criteria), I often think his behaviors, paired with his exceptional intelligence, make it a more fitting diagnosis.
I find myself making Asperger’s diagnoses a lot when I meet socially awkward individuals – men, mostly. I also often wonder whether they know they have it.
True, my unscientific assessments might not always be accurate, but with the rates of autism spectrum disorders in Minnesota being calculated at 1 in every 81 children (the highest of any state), I’m probably not always off base either. And really, I’d rather just give these guys the benefit of the doubt by assuming that rather than being rude, they are just trying to navigate the complicated terrain of small talk. I hope that when Owen gets older, people will do the same for him.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Reality Bites
I have returned from the land of sin and slots, but I am not quite ready to jump back into real life. I was anxious to see the boys, of course, but they weren’t all that eager to return to real life either. Seems life at grandma’s was pretty sweet.
The Great Home Alone experiment with the teenager went just okay, which is to say that the house is still standing and the cats didn’t starve to death. The whole thing looks to have been an 84-hour Warcraft marathon, which is also to say that he’s been deemed not quite ready for further home alone adventures at this point. The problem, as I see it, is that he just doesn’t see the need to function when left to his own devices…
Anyway, the trip was lots of fun. I didn’t win big, but I didn’t lose big, either. I saw some sights, rode in a convertible through the desert in 50-some degree weather, had a single sip of my very first (and very possibly last) green beer, got to play a Showcase Showdown, and laughed a lot…yes, we had fun, fun, fun ‘til the slot machines took my last nickel away.
Now it’s back to reality, where there’s always a mouth to wipe and a call from the attendance office to answer…it’s not as fun as Vegas, but rumor has it that in the long run I will find it more rewarding.
The Great Home Alone experiment with the teenager went just okay, which is to say that the house is still standing and the cats didn’t starve to death. The whole thing looks to have been an 84-hour Warcraft marathon, which is also to say that he’s been deemed not quite ready for further home alone adventures at this point. The problem, as I see it, is that he just doesn’t see the need to function when left to his own devices…
Anyway, the trip was lots of fun. I didn’t win big, but I didn’t lose big, either. I saw some sights, rode in a convertible through the desert in 50-some degree weather, had a single sip of my very first (and very possibly last) green beer, got to play a Showcase Showdown, and laughed a lot…yes, we had fun, fun, fun ‘til the slot machines took my last nickel away.
Now it’s back to reality, where there’s always a mouth to wipe and a call from the attendance office to answer…it’s not as fun as Vegas, but rumor has it that in the long run I will find it more rewarding.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Spaceman
Even as a baby, Owen was a little spacey. He used to just kind of freeze up or withdraw…we used to refer to it as “getting stuck” and this was long before autism was ever suggested. Eventually, I affectionately started calling him “spaceman” and the nickname stuck.
When he was diagnosed with autism just before turning three, this spaciness made more sense. In fact, it was one of the few things that did seem to fit with the diagnosis at first. Nearly two years later, I can see the other characteristics that put him on the autism spectrum – the toe-walking, the lack of eye contact, the sensitivity to sounds, the general sort of quirkiness he possesses – but the spaciness still stands out as the most troubling. Or rather, the thing that I think will give him the most trouble in life.
I suppose you could view his ability to shut out external input and focus on whatever it is he wants to focus on as a gift. And thankfully, in his case, it’s only a sometimes state of being – we get lots of time where he’s just as present and engaged as any almost-five-year-old boy. Unfortunately, the unpredictable bouts of spaciness make school, group activities and, well, basic communication a lot more complicated – for us typically-brained folk, anyway.
Sometimes when he slips into his own little world, it really seems like he’s far away. Like he’s not there.
Last night, when he was supposed to be sleeping, he pattered down the hall to our room and curled up in my lap. I told him he could stay for a minute and tried making conversation. I got nothing back from him, so after a few minutes of silence on his part I just came out asked, “How come sometimes when I talk to you, you don’t answer me?”
And with no hesitation, he said, “Because sometimes I’m busy.”
So he’s there, he’s just busy. Fair enough.
When he was diagnosed with autism just before turning three, this spaciness made more sense. In fact, it was one of the few things that did seem to fit with the diagnosis at first. Nearly two years later, I can see the other characteristics that put him on the autism spectrum – the toe-walking, the lack of eye contact, the sensitivity to sounds, the general sort of quirkiness he possesses – but the spaciness still stands out as the most troubling. Or rather, the thing that I think will give him the most trouble in life.
I suppose you could view his ability to shut out external input and focus on whatever it is he wants to focus on as a gift. And thankfully, in his case, it’s only a sometimes state of being – we get lots of time where he’s just as present and engaged as any almost-five-year-old boy. Unfortunately, the unpredictable bouts of spaciness make school, group activities and, well, basic communication a lot more complicated – for us typically-brained folk, anyway.
Sometimes when he slips into his own little world, it really seems like he’s far away. Like he’s not there.
Last night, when he was supposed to be sleeping, he pattered down the hall to our room and curled up in my lap. I told him he could stay for a minute and tried making conversation. I got nothing back from him, so after a few minutes of silence on his part I just came out asked, “How come sometimes when I talk to you, you don’t answer me?”
And with no hesitation, he said, “Because sometimes I’m busy.”
So he’s there, he’s just busy. Fair enough.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Write On
When it comes to being a writer, sometimes I feel a little bit easy. Like I’m willing to write anything, as long as I can convince myself I’m still making a living writing.
In any given week, I could be working on a speech for a corporate executive, a newsletter for parents of preschoolers, and an article for a magazine. Alright, so that’s not so much an average week, it’s more like this week, but the point is that my writing assignments vary.
I am employed in the non-profit world but my freelance work in the corporate world is what actually pays the bills. I have the words “strategy,” “leverage” and “team” running on a loop in my head.
What I’d rather be doing is writing articles for national magazines...you know, using my college degree. Unfortunately, that kind of writing tends to be far more difficult to box into the times that I am available to write. It’s also just harder in general, which perhaps is why I find it to be more fulfilling.
But of course what I really would rather be doing is spending my days sitting in the office I designed just for writing (but rarely use) and churning out best-selling novels – or really, just one best-selling novel would be fine, too. I’m not greedy. Of course it's easy to say that that's what I really want to do when I have no intention of doing it. Not yet anyway. I’ll let you know when inspiration strikes.
In the meantime, I will continue selling my wares like the two-bit pencil pusher* that I am.
*Am I keyboard pusher? That doesn’t have the same ring to it.
In any given week, I could be working on a speech for a corporate executive, a newsletter for parents of preschoolers, and an article for a magazine. Alright, so that’s not so much an average week, it’s more like this week, but the point is that my writing assignments vary.
I am employed in the non-profit world but my freelance work in the corporate world is what actually pays the bills. I have the words “strategy,” “leverage” and “team” running on a loop in my head.
What I’d rather be doing is writing articles for national magazines...you know, using my college degree. Unfortunately, that kind of writing tends to be far more difficult to box into the times that I am available to write. It’s also just harder in general, which perhaps is why I find it to be more fulfilling.
But of course what I really would rather be doing is spending my days sitting in the office I designed just for writing (but rarely use) and churning out best-selling novels – or really, just one best-selling novel would be fine, too. I’m not greedy. Of course it's easy to say that that's what I really want to do when I have no intention of doing it. Not yet anyway. I’ll let you know when inspiration strikes.
In the meantime, I will continue selling my wares like the two-bit pencil pusher* that I am.
*Am I keyboard pusher? That doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I Could've Been Someone
I freely admit that I’m a reality television junkie, so it should shock no one to know that I set my Tivo to record the premiere of “Secret Life of a Soccer Mom” on TLC last night. Yes, it’s a bad title, but I thought maybe it was some sort of docu-drama series about being a stay-at-home mom. If I’d actually watched any of the commercials (versus fast forwarding through them), I might have known better.
The premise is this: A mysterious black moving van shows up at your house and you, soccer mom, get inside it without knowing what’s in store. In a bizarre twist, Tracey Gold is waiting for you. Perhaps what’s weirder than the fact that she’s hosting is the fact they don’t treat her as if she’s a celebrity – they never even say who she is.
The former Growing Pains star proceeds to make you feel bad about the career you gave up to stay home with your kids. The implication, of course, being that raising kids is fine, but it’s not like it’s an accomplishment or anything. But wait! Tracey Gold is offering you a chance to BE somebody!
All you have to do is make your family believe that you are going to the spa for a week (you know, like usual) and then Tracey Gold will whisk you away to a job the producers convinced someone to give you on the basis that you used to work in that field however many years ago. I suppose the idea here is that if you fail, at least you won’t have burdened your family with your stupid dreams.
Once you arrive at this job with your camera crew, you will have one week to prove that you can easily pick up where you left off career-wise. Your pseudo boss will then give you ridiculously hard assignments and your co-workers will make it clear that they have no faith in you. Oh, and Tracey Gold will reappear sporadically to show you clips of how incompetent your husband is as a single parent.
At the end of the week, you’ll be carted back home (in the aforementioned moving van) and forced to come clean with your family. Then, if you’ve done well, your pseudo boss might make a surprise appearance and offer you a full-time position…but you have to start Monday. Will you choose to return to your obviously unfulfilling life of children and housework or will you dive back into your career as if being a stay-at-home mom was merely a temporary illness from which you’ve been cured?
Sorry, I won’t be tuning in every week to find out. Although I would like to see the 6-month follow-up show where the moms describe the nervous breakdowns they suffered as a result of making a major life decision in a matter of hours in front of a film crew. Yes, that I would watch.
The premise is this: A mysterious black moving van shows up at your house and you, soccer mom, get inside it without knowing what’s in store. In a bizarre twist, Tracey Gold is waiting for you. Perhaps what’s weirder than the fact that she’s hosting is the fact they don’t treat her as if she’s a celebrity – they never even say who she is.
The former Growing Pains star proceeds to make you feel bad about the career you gave up to stay home with your kids. The implication, of course, being that raising kids is fine, but it’s not like it’s an accomplishment or anything. But wait! Tracey Gold is offering you a chance to BE somebody!
All you have to do is make your family believe that you are going to the spa for a week (you know, like usual) and then Tracey Gold will whisk you away to a job the producers convinced someone to give you on the basis that you used to work in that field however many years ago. I suppose the idea here is that if you fail, at least you won’t have burdened your family with your stupid dreams.
Once you arrive at this job with your camera crew, you will have one week to prove that you can easily pick up where you left off career-wise. Your pseudo boss will then give you ridiculously hard assignments and your co-workers will make it clear that they have no faith in you. Oh, and Tracey Gold will reappear sporadically to show you clips of how incompetent your husband is as a single parent.
At the end of the week, you’ll be carted back home (in the aforementioned moving van) and forced to come clean with your family. Then, if you’ve done well, your pseudo boss might make a surprise appearance and offer you a full-time position…but you have to start Monday. Will you choose to return to your obviously unfulfilling life of children and housework or will you dive back into your career as if being a stay-at-home mom was merely a temporary illness from which you’ve been cured?
Sorry, I won’t be tuning in every week to find out. Although I would like to see the 6-month follow-up show where the moms describe the nervous breakdowns they suffered as a result of making a major life decision in a matter of hours in front of a film crew. Yes, that I would watch.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Vegas on My Mind
In two weeks, I’m going to Las Vegas. Or more accurately, 14 days from this very moment, I will be somewhere on the Strip. Perhaps I will be walking in the desert sun along Las Vegas Boulevard, wondering at the ridiculous architectural spectacle. Or maybe sitting at a Price is Right slot machine, hoping to play the Showcase Showdown…
Whatever fabulous thing I am doing, two things are certain: I will have escaped the frozen tundra of Minnesota winter and I will only be in charge of me (love you boys, but mommy needs a vacation). Add in 24-hour fun and entertainment and it’s no wonder that my anticipation for this trip has reached full-blown obsessive mode.
No matter how many times I visit, Vegas just doesn’t lose its luster. Having already scoured the web and creating an hour-by-hour itinerary for my husband and our two friends (who have never been to Vegas), I have resorted to checking the weather forecast and using the Street View feature on Google Maps to pretend I am actually standing on the Strip outside Caesar’s Palace. Last night I even orchestrated a screening of “Showgirls,” which, in retrospect, I don’t recommend for either entertainment or Vegas travel preparation.
But today I feel that the universe is trying to tell me my obsession is okay. First, I opened the Sunday paper to find that Vegas is the featured destination in the travel section. Then, one of my favorite musicians, Johnette Napolitano, posted a blog all about her recent trip to Vegas! Coincidence? Okay, probably.
Excuse to continue obsessing until that plane touches down 332 hours from now? Absolutely.
Whatever fabulous thing I am doing, two things are certain: I will have escaped the frozen tundra of Minnesota winter and I will only be in charge of me (love you boys, but mommy needs a vacation). Add in 24-hour fun and entertainment and it’s no wonder that my anticipation for this trip has reached full-blown obsessive mode.
No matter how many times I visit, Vegas just doesn’t lose its luster. Having already scoured the web and creating an hour-by-hour itinerary for my husband and our two friends (who have never been to Vegas), I have resorted to checking the weather forecast and using the Street View feature on Google Maps to pretend I am actually standing on the Strip outside Caesar’s Palace. Last night I even orchestrated a screening of “Showgirls,” which, in retrospect, I don’t recommend for either entertainment or Vegas travel preparation.
But today I feel that the universe is trying to tell me my obsession is okay. First, I opened the Sunday paper to find that Vegas is the featured destination in the travel section. Then, one of my favorite musicians, Johnette Napolitano, posted a blog all about her recent trip to Vegas! Coincidence? Okay, probably.
Excuse to continue obsessing until that plane touches down 332 hours from now? Absolutely.
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