Tag Archives: birthday parties

He Belongs

Posted on by findingmykid
4

Martin asked, “Why is this school year going so much faster than last year?”

I answered, “It can seem like time goes faster when you’re having fun. Do you think you’re having more fun at school this year?”

He said, “This year is way better than last year. The kids are so much nicer, because everyone knows me better now.”

I don’t consider myself a superstitious person. Yet I hesitate to post good news on Finding My Kid. I ask myself, What if tomorrow things go bad again? If I say today that Martin is doing well, do my readers assume that will always be true? Isn’t it easier to admit when we’re going through a tough time, and thus to set a lower bar that subsequently I can exceed? Am I going to jinx his whole recovery?

Martin has a handful of friends now—friends he made himself instead of in social-skills group or otherwise organized by me. Despite April’s unsuccessful play date, I think the friend situation continues to improve. What follows is a series of texts from last week with Martin’s school behaviorist, Debbie. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you may recall that I affectionately refer to the behaviorist as Debbie Downer, because she never seems to hesitate in giving bad news, which makes these texts all the more precious:

He’s totally part of the class now. Today was another [happy] tear-filled day. I just watched him interacting with his peers and them calling his name across the room to share in a private joke or ask each other questions.

I wish this year wouldn’t end for him.

We have so many kids that we can choose from now to request to be in his class next year.

You know, you probably could invite the whole class to his birthday party if it’s not too late. If you’re concerned about a lot of rejections you wouldn’t even have to tell him that you invited everyone. You would just be happy with whoever showed up.

You guys should be very proud of your little boy.

When I pick Martin up after school now, we cross the parking lot to the sound of “’Bye, Martin! ’Bye!” The other kids are talking to him.

Last week Adrian and I attended Martin’s IEP meeting, where this progress was confirmed. The speech teacher recommended switching from a mix of one-on-one and small-group instruction to small-group only, on the grounds that Martin progresses better when he has other kids to talk to, instead of being just with a grown-up. The resource teacher said the same thing she said at our last check-in: that Martin does not need resource room. The classroom teacher echoed what Debbie had said. We all decided that Martin no longer requires a one-on-one aide. Next year, he will share the aide with another student. The idea is to pair Martin with a special-education student who needs more academic support and less social support. Martin, who apparently no longer needs much academic support, won’t have someone looking over his shoulder in the classroom but will retain the benefit of the aide in the wild west that is gym class, lunch, and playground.

Friday before last, Martin was invited to a classmate’s birthday party. (The mom had invited every boy in the class, but still, Martin was invited!) The party was at an indoor track-and-field center, and chaos reigned. (The mom had also invited every boy in the twin brother’s class, plus friends from outside school.) Martin was hardly leading the pack; sports aren’t his forte. Still, he did fine and did not freak out or melt down—even when a boy who bullied him last year but has since switched schools showed up unexpectedly. Martin kept his distance from that boy and just did his thing. At one point, I saw Martin and the birthday boy from his class walking with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

Sorry about all the italics. How can I help it?

I left Martin’s IEP meeting feeling like a million bucks. Last school year was so difficult, and I constantly questioned whether we had made a bad decision when we pulled Martin from his self-contained special-education school and placed him in our local public elementary. Here was a team of professionals agreeing that Martin, finally, is bridging the gap and becoming more like a regular kid.

The same day as the IEP meeting, I attended an allergy-awareness presentation at the school. On the way out I ran into a church acquaintance, a mom I barely know but whose kids attend both school and Kids’ Klub with Martin. She looked confused and asked me what I was doing there. I said I’d also been at the allergy-awareness presentation. She still looked confused, so I asked, “Did you know Martin goes to school here?” She replied, “No. I had no idea,” and then added, “Martin goes to this school?”

As a special-needs parent, I have a tendency to perceive slights against Martin. I could have interpreted this mom’s question as geographic, i.e., surprise because she didn’t realize we live near each other; our district has several elementary schools. But of course I didn’t interpret her question as geographic. I assumed that what she’s seen of Martin at church has convinced her that he doesn’t belong in mainstream school with her kids.

I said, “Yes, Martin goes to this school. Did you think he isn’t good enough? Why would you suggest that to me? I have news—your kids are hardly brilliant.”

Just kidding.

I said, “Yes, Martin is in Mrs. B—’s class.”

And I thought, “That’s just where he belongs.”

Mommy Sticks

Posted on by findingmykid
Reply

My family jokes that Martin is “momnmy-centric.” Very mommy-centric.

If I am in the vicinity, Martin is all about me. An interaction with another adult might transpire this way:

Adult, to Martin: “Martin, what did you do at school today?”

Martin, to me: “Mommy, did I go to school last Thursday?”

Me: “Martin, [other adult] asked you a question.”

Martin, to me: “We went to gym class.”

Me: “Can you tell that to [other adult]?”

Martin, to me: “No.”

Mommy-centric Martin needs to talk with me constantly, regardless of whether others are present. One particularly annoying derivative of constant talking is Martin’s anxious reliance on saying, “Mommy.” He might attach “Mommy” to continuous questions, related or unrelated, as in—

“Mommy, is today Friday? Mommy, is Freddie in the basement? Mommy, what am I having for dinner? Mommy? Mommy, is Daddy in the office? How do we spell ‘course’? Are we going on vacation next year, Mommy? Mommy, can you talk to me? Mommy?”

Other times there isn’t so much as even a question with the “Mommy.” He just calls “Mommy!” because he wants to know I’m present, or because he’s nervous, or because someone else has spoken to him, or because he needs to be talking but has nothing to say, or because—. If Martin is eating breakfast and I exit the kitchen, “Mommy!”, yelled from the table, will follow me down the hall. If Martin is playing and I go to the bathroom, I can expect at least four or five “Mommy!” cries before I reemerge. If I plead, “Martin, can you please stop saying ‘Mommy’ for a few minutes?”, he responds with something like, “I’m not going to talk at all. That’s it. I’m not going to talk at all! Mommy, should I not talk at all? Mommy?”

The habit is annoying, to be sure. Even more problematic, other children have started to notice and use it as a reason to tease Martin. At a birthday party not long ago (effin’ birthday parties!), Martin called to me non-stop from the table where the children sat to eat. By the time the pizza was cleared and cake arrived, a couple girls near Martin were mockingly yelling, “Mommy-mommy-mommy-mommy-mommy!” Martin’s cousins Luke and Rosie, who are visiting right now, say, “Oh, mommy-mommy” whenever Martin is absent and we mention his name.

Some behaviors demand radical solutions. Introducing: mommy sticks.

Each morning, since Sunday, I place a glass on the kitchen counter and fill it with 25 pipe cleaners, which I call mommy sticks. When Martin says “Mommy,” I remove one pipe cleaner. If, at bedtime, one or more sticks remain in the glass, Martin wins a surprise. Nothing major. An Angry Birds pencil. Stickers. A coin-sized plastic car. The prize isn’t that important; Martin likes to win, so incentive-based systems work well.

I don’t distinguish among uses of “Mommy.” It might, for example, be completely legitimate for Martin to yell, “Mommy! I think the stove is on fire,” or, “Mommy! Is the cat supposed to be eating off my dinner plate?” Still, doing so would cost him a mommy stick, just as much as randomly calling “Mommy” to the wind. My goal is to get Martin to think about why he’s saying “Mommy,” and whether doing so is worth a mommy stick, instead of vocalizing by habit.

So far, I’m giving two thumbs up to mommy sticks. Four days in a row, Martin has won the prize, and Adrian and I have noticed a marked decrease in “Mommy!” floating around the house. Yesterday, Martin snidely tempted fate; when he saw about a dozen sticks left, he looked directly at me and said, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.” I extracted five pipe cleaners. Still he met his goal. That moment notwithstanding, I hope the system continues to function.

And I wish all behaviors could be addressed this easily.

Oranges, bananas, apples, avocados, onions, and mommy sticks. That's the kitchen counter in our ASD household.

Oranges, bananas, apples, avocados, onions, and mommy sticks. That’s the kitchen counter in our ASD household.

Birthday Parties and Swimming Pools

Posted on by findingmykid
3

Birthday parties and swimming pools. I hate them.

I suppose that sounds harsh. Who hates birthday parties and swimming pools?

The problem with birthday parties and swimming pools is that they expose Martin’s remaining social weaknesses.

Case in point No. 1:

In December, two boys from Martin’s class held a joint birthday party at a Chuck E. Cheese. If you’re an American parent, you’ve probably experienced a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. Video games. Pizza. Noise and flashing lights. Giant automated rodents manipulating musical instruments.

(Digression. More than three decades ago, I had my ninth birthday party at a Chuck E. Cheese. It may be the fog of time to blame, but I remember the place very differently than today’s Chuck E. Cheese. In my memory, Chuck E. Cheese is dimly lit, with more stages and Skee-Ball, fewer arcade consoles, and—could this be pure imagination?—physical play like a ball pit. Also, a candy counter with mammoth speckled gobstoppers. The candy counter was out front, before the entrance turnstile, and I used to duck into Chuck E. Cheese just to pay 50¢ for a gobstopper so big that I had to extract it from my mouth, repeatedly, until I sucked it down to a manageable size.)

I have written before about Martin’s difficulties when we attend class play dates. Half the boys in his self-contained special-ed class have speech/language delays but no social impairments. The class breaks roughly into three groups: the boys who instigate some imaginary game or roughhousing and play together, the boys who play alone and seem uninterested in joining the others, and—Martin. Martin, who wants to participate in cooperative play yet still doesn’t quite grasp the “how,” or have the confidence, to make others include him. Martin, gazing through the window, never beckoned to enter.

Chuck E. Cheese in December was a disaster. The flashiness overwhelmed Martin, and he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, understand any of the video games. I managed to sit him in front of me on a fake jet ski and run a virtual course for a few minutes, until he (quickly) bored. Soon he went instead to fixate on the mechanical mouse band. He ran hither and fro in front of the stage, occasionally tried to climb aboard, refused to venture back to the game section, where his classmates played.

Late in the party, after the pizza, and Martin’s special GFCFSF pizza, I was happy to find Martin and Jack, one of the more social boys, together in a walk-in video console, all smiles, pretending to play the game. I asked, “What are you two doing?” Jack answered, “We’re shooting aliens!” At that moment, Benjamin, another social boy, appeared. He pointed to Martin and said, “You go home!” Then he yanked Jack’s arm and said, “Jack, come play with me!” Jack obliged, exited the video console, and scampered away with Benjamin.

Martin stopped smiling. He looked at the empty space beside him, and said, “Mommy, I’m ready to go home.”

Yeah. Unstructured group play dates suck. Birthday parties suck double.

Case in point No. 2:

Last week, we were vacationing in Florida with my father-in-law; Adrian’s 13-year-old nephew, Luke; and Adrian’s 11-year-old niece, Rosie. For two days of our trip, we were joined also by another couple and their almost-three-year-old son, Marty. (Pardon the confusion. Their son happens to have the same name as the alias I chose for Martin in this blog. Not my fault. I started the blog before they named their son.)

Luke and Rosie, who see us infrequently and (by Adrian’s choice) have never been told that Martin has autism, showed their cousin due attention, amusing him, sharing iPad games, keeping an eye on him near water. If Luke and Rosie perceived Martin’s differences, they may have chalked them up to the language barrier; neither Luke nor Rosie speaks English, and although Martin undoubtedly understood his cousins, these days he refuses to speak Spanish with anyone except Samara. For the most part, Adrian and I were pleased with the children’s interactions. Rosie even had Martin sleeping in her bed at night.

When almost-three-year-old Marty arrived, however, The Martin Show was over. Once an adorable, lightweight—pick him up! carry him around! push him on a swing!—preschooler is on the scene, who wants to hang around with an awkward, sometimes stand-offish first grader? Luke and Rosie turned their attention elsewhere, and Martin was left to his iPad.

One morning, while the rest of the adults went parasailing, I took Luke, Rosie, Martin, and Marty to the resort’s splash pool. Little Marty was in high spirits as Luke and Rosie sprayed him with water, helped him through tunnels, and solicited giggles. Martin, my Martin, responded by focusing entirely on me, asking just-to-be-talking questions. “Mommy, are we in Florida?” “Mommy, did your cat named Billy die in 2002?” “Mommy, are you looking at me?” I told Rosie that I thought Martin might be feeling lonely. Rosie sweetly approached Martin, took his hand, and asked whether he wanted to climb into the model pirate ship. Martin said, “Go away.”

Martin also complained, to me, that he wanted to leave the splash pool and go to the nearby swimming pool. No one else wanted to leave the splash pool, and whereas I couldn’t let either Martin or Marty out of my sight, I told Martin he’d have to wait. He waited, kvetched, begged. At last I told everyone to move to the swimming pool, hoping Martin might re-engage.

Another disaster. I’d forgot the way Martin generally behaves in a crowded swimming pool. He likes swimming these days, I think because of the sensory aspects. Those same sensory aspects seem to prompt him to turn almost entirely inward. He bounces around the pool steps, half-floating, tunes out other children, and if he speaks, directs the comments only to me. He had followed this pattern for three days already at the resort. I’m not sure why I thought it would change now, and it didn’t.

Luke and Rosie, for their part, took over the complaining, because they wanted to take Marty back to the splash pool. So after 15 minutes of Luke, Rosie, and Marty ignoring Martin in the swimming pool, and Martin ignoring them, I moved everyone back to the splash pool. Martin isolated himself again, this time with the added unhappiness of having had to accede to others’ wishes.

Golden. Martin competing with other children sucks. Swimming pools double suck.

I’m going to put birthday parties and swimming pools out of my mind. Instead, I will imagine fluffy kittens chasing butterflies through a meadow.

It’s not denial. It’s survival.

Martin and Marty at the splash pool, occasionally aware of each other.

Martin and Marty at the splash pool, occasionally aware of each other.

In a nice moment without other kids around, Rosie escorting Martin to the children's area.

In a nice moment without other kids around, Rosie escorting Martin to the children’s area.