Category Archives: Language

Thinking Inside the Box

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Earlier this week, Martin entered the apartment with me and discovered that I’d left a box on the kitchen counter. It was nothing special, just an Internet purchase I had not opened since it arrived that morning.

Martin poked the box, looked at me, and asked casually—note that I try to avoid adverbs, so if I’m using one, read it in emphatic italics: So help me, he asked it casually—“Mommy, what’s in this box?”

The question was spot-on. It was relevant, directed (including eye contact), and succinct. He even got the intonation right.

Not impressed? Get a kid with autism.

Martin’s verbal skills are outstanding these past couple weeks. Like any parent of a recovering child, I’m digging through my notes, supplementation charts, lists of interventions, and so forth, trying to pinpoint what underlies the improvement. As usual, I have no idea.

Still, I love it when something’s going right.

Perseveration. Perseveration. Perseveration. Perseveration.

Posted on by findingmykid
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Want to know what kills me?

Perseveration kills me.

Perseveration is verbal repetition. You might call it “harping on one subject” or “just not letting it go.”

Let’s start with a relatable situation: The C train inexplicably makes a 20-minute sojourn in Midtown—“Attention, passengers! We are being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher. We expect to be moving shortly”—and you end up late to a lunch date. Then, even though you have a million things to discuss, the friend you are meeting wants to talk about your tardiness only. You might have a conversation like this:

“It’s not just today. You’re always late.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. Like I said, I did a great job getting out of the apartment today. Too bad the train got stuck. How is it going at work with your new boss?”

“The trains get stuck every day. You should build that expectation into your plans.”

“You’re so right. I have got to start doing that. Is the new boss a jerk like you thought?”

“They almost didn’t hold the table for us. They have a ten-minute policy on reservations at lunch.”

“I’m so glad they ended up holding it. This place is great. I ate here with my aunt last month. Oh my gosh, did I tell you what my aunt said on Sunday?”

“I looked like an idiot, sitting here alone. I kept saying, yeah, my friend is coming. It felt like forever.”

“I know how you hate sitting alone! Can’t believe I caused that. Did you at least get to do some people watching? I’ve heard a lot of actors eat here.”

“Next time you’re late I’m just going to leave. I swear.”

“I would totally understand if you did that. You look fabulous today, by the way. Is that the blouse you said you were going to splurge on?”

“You’re an old friend. That’s why I put up with you being late all the time.”

“Old friends are always the troublesome ones, aren’t they? It’s funny, isn’t it?: Remember how we used to get in trouble together?”

“Can you please just not be late next time?”

That would be a frustrating lunch, right? By this point you might want to yell, “Shut up! Shut up! I was late! You’ve got to move on!”

Now let’s consider autism perseveration. From the above example, remove (1) provocation (i.e., the late arrival); (2) verbal variation (i.e., the friend’s many different ways of saying the same thing); and (3) any hope of changing the subject (i.e., the reason you brought up the new boss, the blouse, and your aunt). Also, assume that the same topic will arise several times daily, and will last for hours. You might end up with something like the conversation Martin and I just had, which is also the conversation we had a few minutes ago, which is also the conversation we had dozens of times yesterday:

“Mommy, what’s your first name?”

“You know my first name, Martin. I don’t want to talk about names.”

“It’s Maria! Mommy, what’s your middle name?”

“You know my middle name, Martin.”

“And what’s your last name?”

“It’s the same as your last name. Let’s talk about something different.”

“Most people have a first name, a middle name, and a last name, Mommy.”

“That is true, Martin.”

“Mommy, what’s my first name?”

“Martin, look! There’s Uncle Rudy. Can you say hi?”

“What’s his middle name?”

“Hi, Rudy. Martin and I were just heading to the playground.”

[My brother Rudy:] “Hi, Martin! How are you doing?”

“What’s your first name? Mommy, what’s his first name?”

[Me:] “Martin, I think you need to say hi.”

“Hi! What’s your last name?”

Currently, names are Martin’s favorite topic of perseveration.  It doesn’t matter whether the object in question actually has a name. (“Mommy, what’s the name of this chair? What is Curious George’s last name? Mommy, that car doesn’t have a middle name?”) Other perseveration topics include bedtime (“Mommy, who am I doing sleepy-time with tonight? Who am I doing sleepy-time with tomorrow? Who am I doing sleepy-time with on Wednesday?”); residences (“Mommy, where do you live? Mommy, I live in New York. Mommy, where does that dog live? Mommy, he lives in New Jersey.”); and, especially, spelling. Martin is clever with the spelling. He draws me in by (I believe) intentionally substituting a different first letter:

“Martin, do you remember when we flew to California?”

“California starts with a K!”

“No. It starts with a C. You know that.”

“And what’s the next letter, Mommy?”

“A.”

“And what’s the next letter?”

You can imagine where that goes.

There is a bright side, of course. There always is. Before perseveration, Martin’s verbal tic was echolalia. He repeated the last word(s) he heard, regardless of whether it (they) made sense in context: “Martin, are you almost ready?” “Are you almost ready?” “It’s time to go.” “Time to go.” The echolalia is gone now. It’s in the “so far gone” category, even. In that sense, perseveration is progress. Martin’s babysitter reminded me of that a couple weeks ago. She and Martin had just returned from a play date with Harry, a nearly nonverbal classmate of Martin’s. Martin was perseverating on sleepy-time when his babysitter said, almost absentmindedly, “I bet Harry’s parents wish he could go on like this.”

More than two years into our recovery journey, Martin still engages in many frustrating behaviors. He loses attention, dawdles, wanders. His low muscle tone causes him to fall out of chairs and also to sit down anywhere—in a crowded grocery check-out lane, on the floor in the Starbucks bathroom, astride the playground rope ladder so other children cannot pass. When his mind works faster than his words, which happens often, he whines.

Of all the behaviors, perseveration is the worst for me. Martin repeats constantly. He talks when no one is listening. He chats merrily regardless of others trying to speak.

I admit this: There are times when I fantasize of yelling, “Shut up! Shut up! No one cares about middle names! You’ve got to move on!”

It’s only a fantasy, of course. If I go to lunch with a friend who can’t let tardiness go, I listen patiently until the discussion finally runs its course. When Martin carries on about nothing, I indulge him, or I say, “I don’t want to talk about that,” or I bite my tongue.

And then I kiss him, over and over and over again.

That’s my own game of repetition, to remind us both that Martin is my everything.

Why? Why? And While We’re at It, What the … ?

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Adrian seldom comes home on weeknights before Martin has gone to bed. About a month ago, on an early-January evening, he surprised us by arriving at 5:45 pm, just as Martin was starting dinner.

Happy Martin.

The next afternoon, January 9, as Martin and I were returning from his hippotherapy session in New Jersey, I called Adrian from the car. We chatted for a few minutes by speakerphone. Martin (softly, almost inaudibly, as is his way) called Hi, Daddy! from the backseat.

After I hung up, Martin asked, “My daddy is where?”

“Daddy is at his office working.”

And then…

“My daddy, why he don’t come home?”

The words were jumbled, but the intent was clear: Martin asked his first-ever Why? question.

A week later, January 17, Martin had to have blood drawn at his doctor’s office. When it was over, as a reward, the doctor let Martin pick from a basket of toys. Martin selected a yellow—everything must be yellow right now, even his subway seat—“sticky foot,” a rubbery, goo-coated, miniature foot, with a tail, meant to be hurled at a wall so that it can creep vertically to the floor. (Yes, that description stinks. How to describe a sticky foot?) For the rest of the doctor visit, Martin played with the sticky foot, not hurling it at a wall but stretching it long, plucking the tail like a guitar string, rolling the stickiness betwixt his fingers.

The sticky foot was still in his hand when we left the office. In the parking lot, Martin asked:

“Mommy, what is this?”

Another first! Martin frequently asks, “What do you call this?” or, “Do you know how to call this?” or, “How do you say [whatever] in Spanish?” But he’s never before gone for the gold, i.e., asked what an object is, how it’s used or what purpose it possesses.

I responded: “It’s a sticky foot.”

If autism recovery were perfect, if every step forwarded heralded another step forward, Martin’s next question would have been, “What’s a sticky foot?”

Alas, it was not. But it was still pretty good. He yelled, “A sticky foot! A sticky foot!” and then asked, “Can I bring it on Saturday?”

Saturdays Martin participates in Ready, Set, Play!, a therapeutic playgroup. Every Ready, Set, Play! participant brings a show-and-tell item. Until the sticky-foot incident, I always chose Martin’s show-and-tell for him, packing whatever small toy or token seemed interesting that week. Now Martin was telling me that he wanted to select his own show-and-tell, and that this week it would be the sticky foot.

I didn’t know what he planned to “tell” about the sticky foot, as he evidently had no idea what the hell a sticky foot is for. Nevertheless, we were making progress.

So: “Why?” and “What is?” January 9 and January 17, respectively.

Martin does not yet answer Why? questions. Nor did he immediately pose any other Why? or What is? inquiry. That’s his way. Last Thanksgiving, Martin responded to a question with, “I don’t know.” More than a month passed before I heard “I don’t know” from him again, and then it stormed into common usage. Now he’s comfortable with “I don’t know” in all sorts of contexts.

Four weeks passed from January 9 until today, February 4, a Monday. On Monday evenings Samara stays with Martin while I go out. Monday is my night off. Most weeks I depart by 5:00 pm or so and have dinner with a girlfriend.

Tonight I’m hunkered in a local wine bar, exchanging goofy emails with Adrian and typing my blog, and that meant I left later.

Around 6:45 pm, I was helping Samara finish Martin’s evening supplements. Martin, his mouth full of pre-sprouted mushroom-garlic quinoa, turned to me (!) and asked, “Mommy, why you’re still here?”

Why? question No. 2. Rock and roll. I believe he’ll ask Why? more and more now, and maybe soon, with the understanding the question brings, Martin may even answer a Why? question.

Epilogue: Saturday, January 19, as we were leaving for Ready, Set, Play!, I produced the sticky foot and declared, “Here’s your show-and-tell.” Martin took one look, said no, and went to his toy chest for an accordion instead. It took exactly 44 hours for him to lose interest in the sticky foot and change his mind. I guess that’s being four years old.

High Score

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Monday evening Samara babysits Martin. It’s my big night on the town.

As I was leaving yesterday, around 5:30 pm, Samara was heating dinner and Martin was playing in the loft space above our entry hall.

Playing alone. Score for Martin.

From the living room, I yelled, “Martin! Where are you?”

Martin appeared in the loft door.

Understanding that I needed to see him. Score for Martin.

“I’m leaving now,” I said. “I love you very much.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

An appropriate response, including the use of “too” and addressed directly to me. Score for Martin.

I asked, “Can you blow me a kiss?”

Martin placed his hand to his lips, then waved it toward me.

Direction, albeit simple direction, followed. Score for Martin.

I tossed a kiss at him and departed.

Later, after drinks with parents from Martin’s school, I met a church friend for dinner. This friend knows that Martin has autism. At some point during dinner, he said, “I hope it’s okay to say this and it doesn’t make you mad or anything: When I see Martin at church, he looks just like all the other kids.”

A friend doesn’t want to offend me when he says Martin looks like any other kid. Score for everyone involved.

I Don’t Know

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“Mommy, I don’t know.”

Martin said that this week, in a response to a question about a stuffed panda bear’s nose. The conversation ran like this:

“Martin, what color is Panda’s nose?”

“Yellow.”

“Silly! It doesn’t seem yellow to me. Look again?”

Martin hesitated, studying the panda’s nose, which had once been black but faded to some flecked gray that apparently defied description, at least for Martin. At last he said, “Mommy, I don’t know.”

Until now, when Martin didn’t have the answer to a question, he would resort to echolalia and repeat the question: “Martin, what are you doing?” “What are you doing?” “Martin, where are we going?” “Where are we going?” For weeks I’ve been trying to get him to say instead, “I don’t know.”

It’s advanced, when you think about it. To say, “I don’t know,” is to (1) comprehend what the question seeks; (2) realize that it is capable of being answered (e.g., the question is not, “What time is that tree?”); (3) understand that, although an answer exists, you do not possess it; and (4) roll those concepts into a response. Saying, “I don’t know,” is a manner of implying absence: Knowledge of this matter exists; it is absent from my body of knowledge.

This week, Martin made that implication. Just once, I’m afraid. Later the same day, he answered a question with, “I don’t know,” when prompted: “Martin, where are your shoes?” “Where are your shoes?” “It’s okay to say if you don’t know, buddy.” “I don’t know.” He has not again admitted unprompted that he doesn’t know an answer.

But he will. That’s the way these new skills come, sometimes. Once, not again, a few times, an avalanche. So he will.

When? Oh, I don’t know.

Holy Cow, What a Week

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This has been a week of outrageous swings: new development upon new development, meltdown upon meltdown.

Let me start with the good. Let me start with the incredible, because I am bursting with pride. Here, blog world, are the headlines—

Martin has managed new feats of attention. Sunday I asked Martin to put on his shoes. Martin walked to the front hall and put on his shoes, albeit on the wrong feet. That was an achievement in itself; seldom does Martin obey a command without additional prompting, especially not a command that requires multiple steps to fulfill. (Walk to front hall. Find shoes. Sit down. Put on first shoe. Velcro first shoe. Put on second shoe. Velcro second shoe. Usually I ask two or three times, and finally bark, “Martin! Shoes! Feet! Now!”) After the initial success Sunday, I said, “Oh, Martin, I think those shoes are on the wrong feet. Why don’t you switch them?”, and he did it without being asked twice. He looked at his feet, removed the shoes one at a time, reversed them, and Velcroed them closed again. He didn’t seem to notice that tears of happiness appeared in my eyes.

Martin is showing off. Tuesday on this blog I described how Martin jumped in circles on a trampoline at the doctor’s office and announced, “I’m jumping in circles.” It was a generalized observation, kind of informing the universe what was happening. Compare what happened the next day, Wednesday, at a Manhattan playground: After three tries, Martin managed to ascend a green spinning corkscrew and hoist himself onto a V-shaped joint at its top. Then, balancing himself, he checked to see if he had my attention and said, “Look how high I am!” That was no generalized news bulletin. That was a desire to show off to his mommy. He was proud of himself for climbing the corkscrew, and I was proud of him for wanting me to know it.

Martin is moving, at least sometimes. We live in a fourth-floor walk-up apartment. Because the apartments below us have high ceilings, it’s more like climbing five flights. There are 78 steps total. I know because I used to count them when I was eight- and nine-months pregnant. I thought getting up the stairs was tough in those days. It was nothing compared to the challenge of getting Martin up them. He dawdles. He fiddles with his bicycle, stored in the ground-floor foyer. (We have the kind of cool neighbors who allow that.) Especially when he’s lethargic, he sits down on the landings and talks to himself instead of continuing. If I take his hand and try to march him upwards, he bends his legs slack and suspends his body from my hand. The stair process can last ten, fifteen minutes. So imagine my surprise Wednesday evening when, as we entered the building, Martin said, “I want to hold your hand,” then took my hand in his and, next to me, ascended all 78 steps without interruption—a historic achievement in Martindom.

Martin wants what other kids have. Yesterday morning, Friday, I brought Martin to an Anat Baniel Method therapy appointment. As we were leaving, we encountered another boy, about Martin’s age, and his father. The boy made excellent eye contact and had far more verbal skills than Martin. He introduced himself by name. Then, obviously proud, he held up an MTA MetroCard and said, “My dad gave me this to hold, and it still has some money left on it.” Martin, who watched and heard this from a few feet away, immediately said, “I want to hold a card. I want to hold a card!” Unfortunately, I had just loaded $50.00 onto my MetroCard and therefore did not want to trust it in Martin’s hands. I said, “Let’s go back to the subway station and see if we can get you one.” I hoped that, in the ten-minute walk to the station, he might forget the incident. Instead, when I pulled out the MetroCard to enter the station, he demanded to hold it, which I allowed for a short time. Martin has taken an interest in other kids’ food before, but to my recollection he has not sought their playthings or special privileges, at least not so earnestly.

Martin is indicating the person to whom he’s speaking. This began when he started using the command form; to his dictates, he appended Mommy. “Come here, Mommy.” “Open the candy bar, Mommy!” (Martin doesn’t really eat candy bars, of course. We call Go Raw brand raw sprouted seed bars “candy bars” to make them sound as delicious as possible.) Within a few days, as we were driving in the car, Daddy became subject to our little dictator, too. “Close the roof, Daddy.” “Turn on the radio, Daddy.” Not too much later, we realized that even non-command comments were directed toward me or Adrian. “Mommy, I want something to eat.” “Daddy, I need some help.” Martin was no longer throwing words to the wind. He was giving them to his parents. Finally, just yesterday afternoon, I heard him specifically address someone other than me or Adrian. “No, Samara,” he responded to a question from his babysitter. Martin begins to understand that a conversation requires a partner.

Martin doesn’t always need the sound. Last night Samara was giving Martin a bath while I packed for our Thanksgiving trip to Texas. (I’m typing this entry on the airplane, while Martin watches Sesame Street on the iPad. We’ll be in Texas for a week.) From the bedroom, about ten feet away, I caught Martin’s eye. I put my hands over my heart and silently mouthed the words, “I love you.” Martin apparently read my lips. From the bathroom he called, “I love you, Mommy.” Can you imagine? A boy who once lacked appreciable receptive language read my lips.

So we had a week of singular advancements. Let me not, however, overstate where we are. As always, there’s more to the story.

•      On Sunday while Martin switched the shoes from foot to foot, although he maintained focus on the task, he also perseverated nonsense to no one while he worked. “I’m reading it on the computer. ¡Hola! The elephant’s name is Mitt. I’m not going to take a shower!”

•      The day Martin climbed the corkscrew, there were some four dozen kids scampering around the playground, chasing each other and playing games. Martin declined to interact with any of them. The activities to which he set his mind were his, and his alone.

•      After Martin seamlessly ascended 78 steps while holding my hand, he entered the apartment, removed his shoes and coat, and immediately began self-stimming, running back and forth with two pa-dap-BUMPs capping each lap.

•      While the boy with the MetroCard introduced himself, Martin turned around and thrust his face into a waiting-room sofa, with his butt in the air towards me, the boy, and the boy’s father. When I fished him from the sofa and asked him to say hello, Martin responded by muttering, “No, no!” and hiding behind my legs. It was from that position that he watched the other boy show off his metro card.

Moreover, Martin’s mood has been disastrous. Perhaps because of the itchy viral rash plaguing him, or perhaps because our travel has thrown off his sleep, or perhaps just as a counterpart to the rate of change in his neuro-processing, Martin has turned on the tears at any provocation this week, and sometimes at no provocation.

One sunny morning he said, “It’s cloudy outside.” When I said, “Look out the window, Martin. I think it’s sunny today,” Martin started crying and yelled repeatedly, “No, it’s cloudy outside. It’s cloudy outside.” For several minutes he was inconsolable. Another morning, following a poor night’s sleep, Martin whined continuously for 30 minutes. Oh mommy oh mommy oh mommy oh mommy oh mommy oh mommy on and on. And on and on. And on and on. His poor night’s sleep meant I was running on about three hours’ sleep that morning. The oh mommys did nothing good for my nerves.

This afternoon Adrian suggested that Martin consider wearing his green fleece coat to Texas instead of his bulky winter jacket. Martin responded by screaming from our apartment, screaming down 78 steps, screaming through the foyer and parking lot, and screaming halfway to JFK. I occupied the passenger seat and rubbed the back of Adrian’s neck as he drove. We pretended that no one was screaming in the back seat.

When the noise finally stopped, I said to Adrian, “It’s amazing, isn’t it, all the new things he’s managed this week?”

No Yeast?

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Poor yeast, gets all the blame.

I posted yesterday that Martin is in Symptomatic Itchy-ville, and that a yeast imbalance is to blame.

We made it to the doctor appointment (an hour late, with that “patchy fog” to thank), and the doctor thinks Martin’s sandpaper skin looks more like massive detox than yeast overgrowth. To the credit of this theory, we entered Symptomatic Itchy-ville right around the time last month when we reached full dose of takuna, a detoxifying agent.

That’s Martin’s way: His digestive tract isn’t as good as it should be at spitting out bad stuff, so his skin overcompensates. One thing good, one thing bad.

Isn’t that just like our life right now? Martin skips and perseverates and self-stimulates by running laps. He’s grouchy; everything is a tantrum. He was up, in our shared hotel room, from 2:00 am-5:00 am, laughing hysterically in detox mode. (I know he wasn’t actually drunk. I made him carry a jug of drinking water into the hotel last night, a Herculean effort that left no little hands free for smuggling alcohol.)

Those challenging aspects make it easy to overlook the good that’s happening. In the doctor’s office yesterday, Martin jumped on the trampoline higher and with more coordination than ever. He jumped in circles and announced, “I’m jumping in circles.” When he was trying to fall asleep last night—late last night—he called from the bedroom of our hotel “suite”:

“Mommy!”

Parked on a sofa in front of the Chiefs–Steelers game, I responded: “I’m eating dinner, Martin. Go to sleep.”

“Maybe later you’ll come to bed and shut the bedroom door.”

I’d left the door between the bedroom and main room ajar, so Martin wouldn’t be scared. I called, “Do you want me to shut the door now?”

“No. Maybe later.”

It might not sound like much, but that’s a conversation, or the beginning of one, in any event.

We’re surviving the not-so-good because there is also good.

And maybe because it’s not yeast. I’m not sure I have the strength for another full-out war on yeast.

Hard Truths

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Where have I been, these two months?

Let’s talk hard truths.

I’ve been dealing with Martin, who’s been nowhere near where I’ve wanted him.

Over this summer, something went awry, and his progress hit a plateau. I did not see significant improvement.

Honestly, I don’t really recall seeing any improvement. We had some firsts, like supermarket walking and approaching a stranger. At the end of July, a friend sent me an email stating that her husband, upon interacting with Martin for the first time in several months, “thought he seemed great—real improvement since last time!” But the jagged ascent to which I’ve become accustomed—progress, little setback, progress, little setback—evaporated. At times the summer felt more like uneven descent: no progress, little setback, no progress, little setback.

Finding My Kid is “a parent’s real-time blog of autism recovery.” It’s hard to post reports when no recovery is evident. It really is. It’s even harder when the author descends into hopelessness, into questioning whether she’s abandoned her career, her church work and activism, and large chunks of her social life in pursuit of a goal that never will be reached.

Then, two weeks ago, Martin tanked. I mean, tanked. One day I felt like, though progress had leveled off, at least I had a child without perceptible autism, and the next day I had a child with myriad classic signs of the disorder. In our apartment Martin ran compulsively to and fro, chanting “d-d-d-d-d-dah, d-d-d-d-d-dah.” He lost eye contact and name responsiveness. He threw tantrums when not allowed to watch one video repeatedly. Echolalia resurfaced. It was as if a year of progress disappeared overnight.

I consulted with his doctors and therapists. The prognosis was unanimous: stress. Adrenal stress, systemic stress from doing too much. Martin’s delicate system cannot keep up with the amount of detoxification we’re imposing.

We pulled back immediately. I took him off almost every agent meant for detoxification, whether heavy metals, parasites, viruses, or otherwise, and I kept him on only supplements and agents meant to support his adrenals.

With those changes, Martin shows signs of improving again. The repetitive behaviors, though still present, are diminishing. He’s making eye contact, albeit unsustained. Adrian and I are subjected to near-constant whining (hey, Martin is a four-year-old, after all) but fewer tantrums. I’m not going to say Martin’s recovery is back on track. I’m not even going to say we are where we were a month ago, when I already was unhappy with his progress.

I will say that, I hope, the ship is turning again.

So why recommence blogging now?

Because I have no excuse not to. Finding My Kid comes with an honesty pledge. Posting reports only when recovery is proceeding apace—well, that’s just not honest.

See you soon.

[Addendum: If you’re taking the time to read Finding My Kid, you probably already saw the piece in this morning’s New York Times about the the links between autism and immune disorders. I’m always happy when the mainstream press edges toward acknowledging that autism is medical and should be treated as such.]

Sentences. They Help.

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Yesterday’s post described what is not going right. Yesterday I felt in the dumps (though still sanguine, I promise, sanguine). After some encouraging words from Adrian—“Stop it. Why do you get anxious? He is doing marvelous. Adjust his protocol a little, that’s all. These minor ups and downs don’t bother me.”—I decided to talk more about what remains positive, i.e., Martin’s language.

Martin is assembling original sentences more than ever, articulating his observations and needs and, well, wants.

One morning last week, while Adrian was helping Martin dress, Martin informed me, “I don’t want to go to school. I want to go to the toy store.” After breakfast, when Martin said to me, “You’re going to take me to the school bus,” I replied, “No, Daddy will take you down to the bus. I’m going to stay here,” then braced myself for protest. Martin remained calm and said, “Daddy will take me to the school bus instead.”

“Instead”!

On our way home from his school, Martin and I stopped at our favorite—well, my favorite—organic restaurant for a “mega-green juice” of celery, leafy greens, lemon, ginger, and half an apple. The apple half and raw crucifers make mega-green juice a no-no for Martin, but (ahem!) sometimes I let that slide. The following conversation ensued:

Martin: “I want to hold the juice.”

Me: “You can hold the juice. Can I have a sip first?”

Martin: “No.”

Me: “I can’t have a sip of my own juice?”

Martin: “No. I’m going to drink the juice.”

Then on Sunday night, for out last potty break before sleepytime, Martin picked up a book on ladybugs, which he decided to read while doing his peepees. Never too young to start the bathroom literature, I suppose. I asked him, “Would you also like to read this book before bed?” He said, no, he wanted to read Guess How Much I Love You? before bed. But, he continued, “I want to take the ladybugs book to bed with me.”

“You want to read Guess How Much I Love You? before bed but then go to sleep with the ladybugs book?” I asked.

“Yes,” Martin affirmed, seeming quite confident.

Martin’s ability to express himself made for an upset- and tantrum-free evening. Fifteen minutes later, having enjoyed Guess How Much I Love You? together, I watched Martin doze off, the ladybugs book snuggled under his right arm.

Tanked. Temporarily.

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We’re tanked.

This past week Martin has displayed long-forgotten symptoms: clumsiness, running circles around our apartment, low name responsiveness, even some toe-walking. Toe walking! What’s up with that? His attention has gone MIA, and his daytime sleepiness makes me suspect nighttime restlessness. He is inserting into his mouth anything he can get his hands on. And when he can’t get his hands on anything, he simply inserts his hand.

Times like this used to trigger hopelessness in me. All this work, I would think, and we’ve gone nowhere?

I’m more sanguine these days. So we’re tanked—big deal. Paradoxically, Martin’s language has been stronger than ever, notwithstanding the symptomatic behavior. As to that behavior, maybe the blame lies with the onslaught of pollens and other allergens our early spring has brought. Or else residual dust or cement particulates from our recent mini-renovation (we had some work done in the apartment when I took Martin to visit his grandparents over spring break) could be bothering Martin. Most likely, we need to tweak something in his supplementation protocol.

Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. I know that we’re tanked only temporarily. I’ve seen what Martin can do and know we’ll get back there, and beyond.

Of course, feeling calm overall, on a general basis, does not translate into rationality every minute. This weekend Martin and I were riding a carousel, on horses side-by-side, when I caught him arching his back and stretching his neck to look at the ceiling and even behind him. That’s a sensory stimulant, one that’s been gone more than a year; it used to be hard to take Martin to restaurants, because he would throw his head back so far from the highchair that he blocked aisles, and I fretted about decapitation by waiter or bathroom-bound patron.

On the carousel I was alarmed and disheartened to see the behavior reemerge.

“Martin,” I said, “sit up like a big boy. No throwing your head back.”

Martin complied and straightened his back, but 10 seconds later he leaned back, hands clutching the horse’s pole, and gazed upward.

“Martin, please. Sit up like a big boy.”

Martin complied again, then said, “There are flowers up there.”

“What?” I asked. “Where?”

“Right there!” He threw back his head and pointing to the carousel’s ceiling.

I looked and saw what had caught his eye: lovely flowers hand-stenciled above us.

False alarm. No sensory stimulation. Just Martin appreciating the world around him.

“Martin, those flowers are lovely.”

Adrian helps Martin with his balance on a weekend stroll.