Category Archives: Motivation

Autism recovery is an arduous process with no clear end-date. Posts in this category address, in some form or another, what I say to keep myself going.

Quote of the Day (or Week) (or Month?)

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I’ve written already about songs that are helping to keep me going. Every so often I stumble across a quote that helps, too. I’ve decided to post some. Here is the first in what should become an occasional series:

I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?”

“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. . . .”

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre. Sure, variations on this theme pop up in the Bible (“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” Luke 12:48 (New International Version)), and Spiderman (“With great power comes great responsibility.”), and goodness only knows where else. The Jane Eyre version, with the keeping of accounts and such, feels both academic and motivational. Odd combination.

I won’t try to explain how this quote relates to the fight against autism. I’m probably giving my writing too much credit, but I aspire to post stories that tend to make such explanation unnecessary.

ASD Recovery Six-Month Review: Behavior

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Last year around this time, I thought I was a bad parent.

I have limited experience with young children, so I had only an inkling of how difficult managing a two-year-old should be. I just knew that watching Martin utterly exasperated me. He would not respond when I called him; he failed to follow the simplest directions; my anger, or annoyance, only amused him; time-outs produced no effects; the simplest task (putting on shoes, getting out the door) blossomed into a twenty-minute test of nerves.

I am not a loud person. Nor am I aggressive toward my child. Still, I found myself yelling, struggling to command, if not his obedience, then at least his attention.

The evening hours, when Samara had gone home and I needed to prepare dinner, hurt the most. Unable to occupy himself for more than a few seconds, Martin whined continuously, ran circles around our staircase, caused injury to himself or our possessions. These evening hours were my primary time with Martin, and I should have relished them. Instead, I sometimes dreaded Samara’s departure. That’s hard to admit. But it’s true.

Martin’s ASD diagnosis helped little. For the first time I understood why we struggled, and my empathy for Martin grew. Understanding and empathy, however, did not translate into increased ability to control his behavior. I was lost.

Six months into biomedical treatment of Martin’s autism, he does not behave perfectly, or even as a three-year-old with typical self-control might. For example, if I’m not next to him, reminding him to stay and eat, Martin wanders away from the breakfast table. He can be hyperactive. Although we’ve taught him the meaning of “clean up,” he has a narrow appreciation for order. When he’s done with a toy or object, he drops it and walks away. By dinnertime, chaos overtakes the apartment.

And the toughest part is that, with limited exceptions, Martin remains unable to read facial expressions or comprehend displeasure. He still considers almost any display of emotion humorous. Last night, as he was falling asleep, Martin repeated, dozens of times, “Martin, I am angry with you. Martin, Mommy is angry,” and laughed. That pretty much encapsulated my attempts at discipline.

Nevertheless, we’ve seen improvement in Martin’s ability to play and mastery of his own actions—skills that enable me to look forward to our time together. (Now that his new school has started, our time has shifted to the early-morning hours, with a bedtime addendum.) Simply because he does not need to keep constantly in motion, Martin finds less trouble to get into. The improvements in his attention and play skills mean that I might find him quietly building a chain of trains or looking through a book while I prepare a meal. With better receptive language, he understands more and more what I want him to do, and he often goes along with minimal cajoling. He also seems to know that eventually Mommy will get her way; when he’s in an amenable mood, he’s fine with Mommy prevailing sooner rather than later.

I haven’t raised my voice in weeks, except for the occasion when Martin slipped his hand from my grasp and ran into an active parking lot.

Of course, this isn’t all from the biomedical intervention. I’ve learned how better to handle Martin’s needs, such as transitioning him away from an object of obsession (like a guitar). A dedicated team of behavioral therapists also has helped. Finally, Martin is maturing.

Even ASD kids mature, right?

ASD Recovery Six-Month Review: Attention

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As I described in a previous post, Martin almost always had sleeping problems. The Big Imposing Hospital fired a variety of diagnoses at the sleeping issues—Restless Leg Syndrome, anxiety, improper home environment—hoping one would stick. No one there connected Martin’s inability to settle himself with autism, and neither did we.

No, the beacon of Martin’s real issue, for me and Adrian, was instead his attention. Or rather, his lack of attention.

Sitting and paying attention is difficult for a two-year-old. For Martin, it was infeasible, for any length of time. Unless lethargy overcame him, or he was strapped into a high chair or stroller, he simply could not stop moving and sit down. In the event he was able, with the “assistance” of an adult, to sit, he lasted only moments before becoming agitated. His toddler soccer class, which consisted mostly of toddlers scattering, gamely accommodated his unique style of participation. His pre-pre-school class for two-year-olds, on the other hand, kicked him out. Martin required an extra teacher to keep him from disturbing the class, they said, which was an amenity they were not willing to provide.

Back then Martin lacked joint attention. He did not engage with other children. He did not follow what they did. He did not imitate. He did not involve his parents or Samara in what he was doing. He commented on what he saw—Airplane! Moon! Mailbox! —but the soundtrack seemed to be for his own amusement; he made no effort to make sure we shared the experience. Indeed, he spent much of the day in Martinland, a private island of his own making, inhabited only by him, in his own head.

He responded to his name maybe 20% of the times we called it. On a good day.

He often drifted about the perimeter of the room, running his hand along walls and heat registers, apparently aimless. He kept his obsessions (musical instruments) constantly in hand. Other toys and books, however, he yanked from the toy chest and then dropped after no more than a second or two. We never saw him play with those toys in the manner in which they were intended, or in any manner. A toy truck might as well have been a stuffed zebra, from Martin’s perspective. They both ended up discarded.

And of course he had the shifty gaze. He avoided eye contact. If I forced him to meet my eyes, if I cupped his face to mine and used my palms as blinders, he cried immediately. One day last fall, before the official diagnosis, a girlfriend of mine squatted to address Martin in his stroller. Though she was no more than 18 inches from him, Martin gave no indication that he saw or heard her. He looked to some distant point, in a kind of fog. My friend asked, not unkindly, “Why is he doing that? Is something wrong?” I responded that we really should get going.

As of today, Martin seldom visits Martinland. The aimless wandering has stopped. He responds to his name 80% of the time, I estimate. Eye contact is regular and routine. As for joint attention, he has not advanced to typical three-year-old behavior, which would be calling Mommy! Mommy! or otherwise seeking my attention before he speaks. But he has started to look at me (or Adrian, or Samara) when he does speak, to make sure that we’re listening. He no longer releases comments into thin air. He now directs them toward someone. For example, if he’s watching Sesame Street and someone dives into the water, Martin shouts, “He’s in the water!” and then turns to make sure we saw it too.

Slowly he has begun to engage with other children. Usually the other child has to initiate the play. Once that’s accomplished, Martin joins in happily, such as chasing and seeking to be chased, or sitting in a playhouse. He shows an interest now in what others are up to. Last week he played for some minutes with a girl he knows, climbing playground equipment and running together. The fun stopped only when she wanted to catch and throw a ball, which is a physical skill Martin is yet to acquire.

Despite the improvements, attention is an area with room to grow. According to the teachers at his last school, Martin continues to have difficulty “attending,” which seems to be the official word for “doing what the rest of the kids are doing.” When the class sat in a group, Martin required constant redirecting to the task at hand. And the gulf still stretches between Martin and other kids when it comes to wanting others to see what he sees. I await the day when Martin approaches me with Mommy! not because he wants a cracker or drink or cuddle, but because he wants to tell me something, to relay some observation, be it earth-shaking or trite.

Overall, though, it is fair to say that over these past six months Martin has become more present. He is more with us, more in our world.

We couldn’t be happier to have him.

Chumbawamba, Friedrich Schiller. I’ll Be a Hero. I Know I Will

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The ASD recovery six-month review continues this evening. I’m posting twice today. I’m posting right now because Adrian feels depressed. We’re having the less-than-fabulous week I wrote about last night, and then this morning he read a father’s Wall Street Journal piece about a 15-year-old on the spectrum. The article reflects the grieve-for-the-child-you-don’t-have, celebrate-the-child-you-do-have, learn-from-difference perspective I discussed in my very first post.

Adrian emailed me the article. (In the event you’re reading between the lines, yes, it’s Labor Day, and we’re both working—lawyers to the core. Martin is out playing with my mother.) I read it and promptly replied to Adrian: “No. [Expletive] that. I’m not doing one iota of grieving until I have exhausted every avenue for overcoming ASD. No more articles like that, please.”

I refuse to grieve. I refuse to accept. I refuse to live with autism. I honor and adore Martin for who he is, at every step of this journey. But I refuse to stop trying to change him.

These words probably come across as haughty. It looks like I am suggesting that I—that we, all of us soldiers who believe we will recover our children, all the conquistadors who already recovered their children—have found a better way to deal with autism. Believe my assurance that I am a million miles from haughty about recovering Martin. I am uncertain, wobble-footed, and terrified about whether we will reach our goal. I wonder whether we are being taken on a long, expensive ride designed to exploit the hopes of desperate parents. This entire experience has humbled me, and Adrian, like nothing else. We have one child. We intended him to be perfect. Even when we recover Martin, he will be behind his peers. He’s lost so much time living alone in Martin-Land, under-communicative, distanced from us and other children.

I speak in absolutes because, from my perspective, acceptance is a dangerous slope. Each step toward reconciling myself to Martin’s autism is a step away from the unwavering determination needed to see this recovery process to its end, wherever that may be.

This Wall Street Journal article that depressed Adrian is, ironically, exactly the kick in the pants I needed this week. Reading it dropped that old 1990s Chumbawamba song Tubthumping into my head. You know the one: “I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.” Cheesy? Yes. Uncomfortably catchy? Maybe. A little shot of adrenaline when you need something to keep you going? Sure can be.

I’m guilty of various musical mantras these days. Adrian, a classical music fan, wonders why I’ve asked to hear Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in the car lately. He thinks I like the beginning of the fourth movement, the main portion of Schiller’s Ode to Joy that everyone knows. What I really want is a later, less-popular chorus of the Ode, this one: “Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen / Durch des Himmels prächt’gen Plan, / Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn, / Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.” That means, “Happy, as his suns fly / Through heaven’s magnificent plain / Run, brothers, your way / Joyful, as a hero to the victory.”

Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen. Joyful, as a hero to the victory.

I will never stop. Chumbawamba, Friedrich Schiller. And this hero to the victory.

Call It What You Will, New York State. A Rose by Any Other Name Is Still Autism

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Martin’s autism was diagnosed by the Big Imposing Hospital, and not by the State of New York during his Early Intervention intake.

For the EI intake, Martin was visited by a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, and a child psychologist. (A physical therapist came and evaluated him later.) The psychologist, who reviewed the speech and OT reports and ultimately made the determination that Martin was eligible for services, told me, “It’s autism. You might call it ‘high-functioning autism,’ or, ‘Asperger’s syndrome’.”

Several months later, when I brought Martin to the Big Imposing Hospital’s special department for developmental issues, I told the doctors, “Martin has autism.” The doctors conducted an extensive several-hours-long interview with me, ran Martin through a battery of tests over several visits, collected surveys from Samara and Martin’s classroom teacher, and finally met with me and Adrian together, whereupon they confirmed to us that Martin has autism.

They said they were surprised that the State had provided an autism diagnosis, however. The autism diagnosis was not usually given to a child so young.

I didn’t think much about that comment until one day when I was having a casual conversation with one of Martin’s EI therapists. The therapist—I’ll call her Anna—bemoaned the fact that, under state guidelines, children younger than age five cannot be labeled autistic.

Really? I went and found Martin’s original EI reports, including the comprehensive evaluation from the psychologist. I had never perused the documents thoroughly; I know I should have checked them, but at the time it was just too painful to read page after page describing Martin’s inabilities.

Sure enough, the official diagnosis of the psychologist—who had told me, “It’s autism”—was not autism, but “pervasive developmental delay,” or PDD. I showed the diagnosis to Anna and asked her why she thought it was problematic not to say “autism.”

It’s problematic, Anna opined, because she works with non-verbal, self-stimming, clearly autistic children whose parents say, “We’re not worried. It’s just developmental delay. He’ll catch up.” And she can’t say, “It’s not just a delay. It’s autism. And he probably won’t catch up.”

I understand the state’s policy (and will admit that I am laboring under utter hearsay, having undertaken no investigation to determine whether “no autism before five” in fact represents official policy). “Autism” is a nightmare of a word. More than one of my close friends gasped audibly the first time they heard me apply it to Martin. The Department of Health must not want therapists silly-stringing scary autism vibes over families, especially when an autism diagnosis itself doesn’t always stick.

On the other hand, let’s consider whether this policy doesn’t throw yet another hurdle into the path of recovery. Treating autism, whether biomedically or through traditional behavioral therapy, is ridiculously hard. I know it’s a heckuva lot more than I thought I was signing up for when Adrian and I decided to become parents. You can bet that I would not be spending most of my waking hours on Martin’s recovery regimen if I didn’t somehow feel that the effort is absolutely necessary.

Almost a year ago, when Adrian and I first noticed that somethng about Martin made him different from other kids, I phoned an old friend who works with children in EI. (I’ll tell that story in a later post.) My friend came and spent a day with me and Martin, asking questions and observing him at the playground, at home, and in a class for two-year-olds. That same day, in the afternoon, my friend said, “I know this isn’t easy to hear, but based on what I’ve seen, Martin has autism.”

She said that as a friend, not as an EI pracitioner or a state employee. And it wasn’t easy to hear. Still, I will be forever grateful to my friend for putting the word autism into my head, immediately and up front. I’m not as proactive as I must seem from these blog posts. Not nearly so—for example, ask Adrian about my housekeeping skills, or whether I’m on time for anything, ever. If I’d had ample wiggle room to convince myself that Martin had some issue other than autism, I would’ve done so. I would have been one of those parents saying that he’ll catch up, and letting myself be content with the ample behavioral therapy offered by the state. But I didn’t have wiggle room. The big A was staring me down, right from the get-go. Proactive or not, I don’t get pushed around, and no way was I going to let the big A mess with my kid.

What I worry is that when we don’t call a spade a spade, we let parents off the hook, which doesn’t benefit anyone in the years to come.

The Dreaded Comparisons: My ASD Son When the Neurotypicals Come to Town

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Adrian has taken Martin to a birthday party, for two girls Martin knows from the neighborhood playgrounds. I stayed home because I had to work. Honestly, though, I’m glad I had to work. I have not yet arrived at the place where I’m comfortable with Martin around other children.

Of course I don’t mean that I don’t like Martin playing with other children. Quite the opposite: Since he turned the corner a couple months ago from parallel play to interactive, we’ve delighted in watching him discover his friends in new ways.

What I dread is watching adults realize that Martin is not quite like the other kids. We have chosen to reveal Martin’s condition only to family and to friends who have cause to interact regularly with him. So I’m not out there shouting the word autism to strangers, or even to acquaintances not really within our inner circle.

Which means that ofttimes I’m uncomfortable and/or making excuses.

Example: Last weekend Adrian, Martin, and I attended a housewarming party for friends in Westchester. The first couple hours, Martin was the lone child present, apart from a lovely 11-year-old who—whether from boredom or geniality—was willing to chase and chum around with our toddler. During those hours, none of the adults gave Martin a second glance, other than to comment on his being cute.

Toward the end of our visit, however, another family showed up with a five-year-old and a three-year-old daughter in tow. A basis for comparison. Within minutes it was evident that their three-year-old had better self-control and was far more advanced in language than ours. And so, because I don’t like anyone thinking my son is unintelligent, or even developmentally behind, I started covering for him. When Martin spun in circles, I smiled knowingly and said he was tired and over-stimulated from a long week. When he used only simple declarative and imperative sentences, I said that he is bilingual, and that his English is playing catch-up to his second language.

Perhaps I was just imagining that the other Westchester guests were wondering what’s wrong with Martin. (Now is a good time to note that, some months ago, Martin would attract the curiosity of even non-parents, who seemed to register that he was “off.” We’ve made enough progress that few now seem to notice without parental perception, or another child for comparison.) Moreover, apart from the hosts, we knew hardly a soul at the party. I had no reason to cover for Martin the way I did. It’s an instinct, I suppose. It’s also a reaction to watching how my child still lags behind.

Adrian confessed to being nervous about today’s birthday party, too. He was shaken last week by a playground visit during which he and Martin ran into an acquaintance and his son, who is half a year younger than Martin. That boy and his father were playing “pretend baseball,” imitating throwing and catching and running the bases. Adrian has been working hard with Martin on pretending skills, which is one of Martin’s toughest areas. Adrian expressed sorrow that Martin lacked the skills to join the pretend baseball game.

I have this to go on: With persistence, we may just resolve Martin’s ASD before he is old enough himself to make these dreaded comparisons.

A Foretaste of the Feast

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We flew home from Chicago last night. Martin was fantastic on the plane. His behavior trounced that of the other toddlers aboard.

When we got on Martin held my hand and marched down the narrow aisle. He kept his free hand almost completely to himself. He walked in a straight line. He climbed into his seat and occupied himself looking out the window.

Upon taxiing he allowed me to fasten his cookie belt. (That’s like a seatbelt in all respects, except that wearing it entitles one to treats, like almond-flour cookies or a pear.) He used to be terrified of take-off and need to climb on my lap and cling to me, with the windowshade lowered. We’ve slowly been easing out of that. This was the best yet; he clutched my arm and pulled it close to him but othewise remained upright in his seat and even commented on going up in the air and seeing clouds.

Around the time we were allowed to move about the cabin (thanking my lucky stars for that one) I could see that Martin was straining, so I took him to the miniscule airplane bathroom. I expected to find one of his usual horrid diapers—pardon the scatology on this one—and when I didn’t, I sat him down on the airplane potty, where he promptly deposited all poopies. He even flushed.

We returned to our seats, and I felt confident enough to leave Martin eating a pear while I chased down the drink cart and demanded a glass of wine. (You caught me! Mother’s little helper in action.) I enjoyed the wine. Martin finished his pear. It was late evening, and at some point Martin asked for John Paul—that’s his elephant-shaped clutch blanket; how it came to be called John Paul, I have forgot—and lay down with his head in my lap. He didn’t sleep but lounged prostrate, chatting about objects to be seen, or singing lightly to himself, until I sat him back up and buckled his cookie belt for landing. During the plane’s descent into Newark, Martin and I looked out the window and had this conversation:

Me: “I see a bridge.”
Martin: “It’s the Queensboro Bridge!”
Me: “Hmm. I don’t think so.”
Martin: “It’s the Triboro!”
Me: “I don’t know what it is, Martin. I think we’re somewhere over New Jersey.”
Martin, triumphantly: “It’s the New Jersey bridge!”

After landing we were stuck for some minutes on the tarmac. Although it was by then two-and-a-half hours past his bedtime, Martin waited patiently. We looked at FedEx planes and talked about Adrian and his brother meeting us in the airport. Finally, as the passengers streamed out, Martin tromped unassisted to the front of the plane, thanked the flight personnel (okay, that one required my prompting), and stepped carefully into the jetbridge. He topped off this performance by running, with my blessing and me right behind him, through the lonely airport and into his father’s arms. Heck, he even glanced behind him as he ran, to make sure I was still following. That’s a big deal. The biggest.

I know we’re not “there yet” in Martin’s recovery, or even close. For example, it’s after 10:00 p.m., and I’m writing this blog post on an iPad in Martin’s bedroom because he can’t settle enough to sleep. But episodes like yesterday’s flight feel like—borrowing from church terminology—a foretaste of the feast to come. They steel my resolve, these moments that transport me beyond the difficulties of these times, forward to a day when I will sit beside my child and observe and converse and enjoy this world as any two neurotypical persons might.

In fairness to Martin I will conclude this post by admitting that he was right. It was the Queensboro Bridge. We were flying SSE along the northern end of Manhatten into Newark, but the plane hadn’t turned enough for me to see the skyline and get my bearings. Score one for Martin.

Martin’s Dejection

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This post is titled “Martin’s Dejection.” It’s more about my elation.

Martin has been going through a biting phase. He has a mild oral fixation; he also grinds his teeth and thrusts his lower jaw forward. In the case of biting, if he finds himself with his mouth open and pressed against flesh, such as when I’ve picked him up and his head is on my shoulder, he exercises the oral fixation by tightening his jaws against what is conveniently before him—flesh. It’s more a crime of opportunity than malicious, or even particularly intentional, biting. Nevertheless, Adrian and I are keen to put a stop to the behavior, ASAP.

When he bites, typically I kneel, stand him before me, hold his face firmly, and say, “No biting. We never bite. Never.” Then I make him repeat, “No biting,” several times, apologize to me, and hug. This method has not been particularly effective, but I’ve been at a loss as to what else to do. The primary problem is that Martin is not yet good at reading faces, or judging the seriousness of a situation, so his reaction is to laugh, to cry from distress, or to look away and exit the situation by doing something cute. (Our RDI therapy is aimed, in part, at helping Martin read faces better.)

This evening I was getting Martin ready for his bath. As I completed one HANDLE exercise, Martin ended up with his face against my neck, and he bit. He was sitting on a changing table, at my eye level, so I left him there and started my usual admonition.

After a few seconds, Adrian emerged from the bathroom, where he’d been preparing the bathtub. He brushed me aside, seized both of Martin’s wrists, lowered his voice and spoke very slowly, enunciating in a manner I’d never heard before: “Martin, look at me. You cannot bite Mommy. You cannot bite anyone.” Martin tried to smile and wiggle away, but Adrian stood his ground, holding Martin’s wrists. I remained behind Adrian, looking over his shoulder, with my arms crossed and wearing the most serious expression I have.

Martin looked from Adrian to me and back again. After several seconds he lost his smile. He stopped trying to free his wrists from Adrian’s grasp. Finally, a pure, unaffected look of dejection crossed his face. He didn’t cry, as he does instinctually against being restrained.  Nor did he protest. It was a new look for Martin. In that moment, it appears, Martin understood that he’d done wrong, and he felt bad about it. He seems to have experienced an emotion something like guilt, or sadness.

The moment passed. Martin said quietly, “Sorry, Mommy,” and allowed Adrian to take him to the bath.

His dejection was my elation. We may have turned another corner.

The Marvelous and Amazing Napkin Hand-Off

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Adrian is a fastidious man. Among his many missions in life is to teach Martin the proper use of a napkin. He insists that Martin not eat without a napkin within reach. In the event that Adrian sees a sleeve rub across a mouth, he springs into action, cleans the sleeve, and assists Martin to use his napkin instead. So he was tickled pink last week when Martin, supervised at breakfast by me (of course), realized he had no cloth handy, thrust his squash-fry-oiled little hands into the air, and demanded, “Napkin!”

I am not a fastidious person. The napkin demands echoing through our apartment tend to annoy me. Not this evening, though. This evening I witnessed a miracle:

It was dinner time. Martin and I were sitting on stools in the kitchen watching a Sesame Street DVD while he ate. Adrian, unusually, was at home, so I was doing my part to ensure that Martin had a napkin. At some point during the meal, Martin wiped his hands, then tossed the napkin to the floor. I picked it up and explained that we don’t toss napkins to the floor.

A few minutes later, Martin’s hands were messy again, and I handed him the napkin. He wiped his hands. Almost without thinking, I kept my hand resting in my lap but turned the palm upward, in a subtle, unspoken suggestion of, “All right. Give it back to me.” Just as casually, without taking his eyes from the television screen (he must have seen my gesture from the periphery of his vision), Martin reached over and dropped the napkin into my hand.

Without words, without requiring exaggerated motions or repeated promptings, Martin caught, understood, and obeyed a tiny gesture. Kids on the spectrum really don’t do that. They don’t read faces. They seldom respond to commonplace non-verbal communication.

It’s true that Martin’s action may have been accidental occurrence. But I hope instead it was the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for, after a long week of diminished attention.

When I’m asked how I know that Martin is getting better, I often resort to accurate but indefinite answers like, “He is aware of his surroundings,” or, “He’s just more . . . present.”

If anyone inquires in the near future, I will answer, “I know he’s getting better because he dropped a napkin into my hand.”

And I will leave it at that, because a miracle allows no explanation.

Highs and Lows

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Since we started this process, I’ve become better at a number of things. Baking without using grains, for example. Compartmentalizing and exploiting every minute of my day, and then squeezing out some extra minutes. Popping a pill into a toddler with a single motion, capped with a boop! sound. Talking a wide circle around the topic of developmental delay when someone asks about Martin and I don’t care to reveal his condition.

I’ve made progress in some less obvious areas, too. One of those is weathering the highs and lows that come with autism recovery.

In the early weeks, I was a mess. When we switched his diet and started the supplements etc., Martin made such progress so fast that (despite warnings to the contrary) I envisioned a straight, steady trajectory from autism to neurotypicality. It wasn’t long before the bad days started coming, though—days when he would not (or could not) respond, when he screamed with every diversion from routine, when he spun in circles and walked on his toes. I really, really let those days get me down. It seems like we haven’t made any progress at all. Is this regression? Are we going backwards? Are the treatments hurting him? My optimism ebbed and flowed with every change in Martin’s mood. It was also the most difficult time on the learning curve; Martin’s diet was ultra-restricted, and I felt like I’d never get the hang of measuring and administering all the potions, not to mention scheduling and attending endless “Track One” doctor appointments. I became frustrated and snippy. I pitied Adrian for having to put up with me.

By the time we’d managed the first couple months, I was better able to accept that the trajectory to neurotypicality is indeed constant, but also jagged. Yes, Martin has bad days. Now, however, they are reminders of how far we’ve come. When he engages in a behavior I haven’t seen in weeks, such as running circles around our freestanding staircase while strumming a toy guitar, I remember when he used to do it several times a day and thank my lucky stars that it has mostly disappeared. In fact, after the first couple months, even our worst days were better than our best days in January, before the interventions. Besides, I’ve noticed that bad days—and, especially, bad nights—often herald breakthroughs. Martin will wake at 1:00 am, toss and turn for three hours, then sleep in and rise with more sentences then he’s ever spoken. So, in general, I’m serene.

This week has tested that serenity and the confidence that accompanies it. Today marks the sixth day in a row that Martin has had no attention span whatsoever. This morning Adrian tried to do his usual 30-minute RDI with Martin and managed only eight minutes. (Adrian later confessed that the experience left him feeling dejected, which did little to help me.) Martin had an appointment with his craniosacral therapist, typically a 60- or 75-minute affair. She gave up after half an hour. Martin just is not fully with us. He’s been self-stimming, obsessing over toys, and spending time alone in Martinville. This is the longest period I can remember of seemingly stalled progress.

It’s hard for me, to have a full week this way. Here are a few factors nevertheless buoying me:

First, despite the lack of attention, Martin has done remarkably in other areas this week. His speech is great, with original thoughts left and right. We can actually hear the thought process as he speaks; upon seeing a bare-chested man in the park, Martin announced, slowly, “That boy is wearing a shirt . . . no!” And he’s engaging in more interactive play than ever. In addition to chasing a couple of girls he knows, and letting them chase him, yesterday he initiated play with a boy he didn’t know. We’ve never seen that before. Samara (nanny) was excited as could be when she brought Martin home.

Second, I’ve been theorizing about why Martin’s attention might be off, and this morning the craniosacral therapist, Diane, said something that confirms what I’ve been thinking. Martin has a lot going on, Diane said. He’s making strides in language and play, he’s dealing with a changing body (his muscle development appears to have caught up with neurotypical toddlers, his physical therapist has mentioned), and his systems are strengthening (his recent fever, I think, confirms this). On some level, the progress is over-taxing him. His attention span is taking a break to deal with it all. We may just be on the verge of something big.

Diane didn’t actually say that last part, about being on the verge of something big. I added it—just one more way to get myself through the day.