Here it is again, that thick sheaf of paper that comes home in Secondo’s backpack, held together at the top with a paper clip. I forget about it sometimes, when our days are filled with stories, shopping, trips to the park. The paperwork that reminds me that so much of what P and I do with the boys is deliberate, purposeful, reinforced daily by teachers at school, all of us working doggedly to accomplish specific goals, goals that are spelled out in black and white in excruciating detail. The paperwork that reminds me, lest I forget—oh, right!--that my kids are in special education classes. I close my eyes before looking at it, and, as I always do, will myself to remember as many of Secondo’s IEP goals as I can. I do know a lot of them, in general, but every time I open his IEP I am surprised, again, improbably, at the level of detail and the formulaic language. And there are always a couple of goals that I’ve forgotten.
This is Secondo’s progress report, sent home for us to go over before parent-teacher conferences this week. It is peppered with acronyms: ES for emerging skill. Even a few SPs for sufficient progress here and there. The category headers remind me just how different my boys are from other children their age. Social Language. Body Orientation. Acknowledging Glance. Verbal Turn Taking. Use Peer’s Name.
Then there’s my very favorite, Defense of Property, which sounds more like something I’d be likely to hear in court, not in an educational document. Secondo does not consistently show any sort of reaction when a peer takes something from him. He needs physical and verbal cues to react when a peer takes something he is playing with. By such-and-such-a-date, Secondo will use one or more words to express prohibition or cessation of a peer's action (i.e. stop, no, that's mine, etc) with no more than 1 prompt in 4 out of 5 opportunities over 5 consecutive sessions. This freaked out both Primo and Secondo’s evaluators from the very start—the fact that they weren’t too bothered about kids taking things from them. It was a Big Red Flag, apparently, and I watched as one teacher played a game with Primo in which they took a toy from each other over and over again, saying, “Mine!” And I was both kind of incredulous and kind of saddened that all of a sudden I had special ed teachers determined to teach my sons the concept of “mine.” But then I watch kids at the playground, like the boy who threw his entire body over a toy (one the boys had been playing with first but calmly turned over to him) so they wouldn’t play with it, and the other who screamed and screamed about how he WOULD NOT SHARE the instant Secondo showed some interest in the train he was playing with. Normal reactions for kids their age, to be sure. And I must admit I feel a little conflicted about this one—when these things happen, my inclination is to tell the boys to go find something else to do. Maybe I should be teaching them more about not being pushovers, but at the same time, this “normal” preschool behavior is something I’m just as happy not to have to deal with. (Most of the time, anyway—they’re no saints, and we’ve had our share of altercations over toys and the like. But I often suspect we have fewer issues than we would if our kids were typical.)
I’m looking forward to the conferences, even though highlighting your child’s weaknesses is never fun. There will be many, many strengths, too. And I will prepare by reading the progress report, the summary of goals, this document that reminds me of how far there is to go, still. And also of how hard we’ve worked to get where we are.
Showing posts with label Secondo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Secondo. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Primo: The short version
A million years ago (wait—was it only last spring?), Primo was evaluated by the good people of our school district. The results, in a nutshell:
Cognitive domain: above average. The therapist’s jaw drops when he takes her book from her and starts reading, in English and Spanish.
Social domain: below average. This after he has been observed in his regular classroom.
Speech: He passed, but I’m not sure he should have, are the words of the speech pathologist after she scratches her head and we discuss things for an entire hour after the evaluation.
Do you even qualify for special education services if your only issues are social? I ask my friends. I really don’t know. I’m thinking no.
Apparently, you do. So Primo is assigned a special education teacher in the spring, Ms. J, a wonderful, kind soul I like immediately. The initial plan is for her to work with Primo in his regular preschool class once a week for an hour and a half. It all sounds good.
Then comes his IEP meeting. I go alone, since both boys are sick and P has to stay home. I went to his school and observed him myself, Ms. J tells me. It won’t be enough. She is kind, but her tone implies, it’s worse than we thought. He needs to stay in his regular preschool, she tells me. He needs to be with his typical peers as much as possible. But he needs more help, not just an hour or so a week. The two days he’s not in school, she suggests, he can be in a special education class like Secondo, at the same school.
My heart sinks, but it immediately sounds right to me. I tell them I want to call P before I sign the IEP. Then I sign it. And then I cry most of the way home. I try to calm myself down enough so I can see the road through my tears. A chipper, upbeat song comes on the radio, a song that sounds like it’s destined to be the feel-good song of the summer (I find out later it’s “I’m Yours,” by Jason Mraz), and I don’t know if I want to go home and download it immediately or if I never want to hear it again. And I curse this straight stretch of road between our house and Secondo’s school. Because it’s not the first time I’ve cried on this path.
And then I am just sad and conflicted, and it takes me a little while to get used to the fact that both of my boys are in the system. We get contradictory information from the school for a while during the summer. Secondo is changing schools. No, he’s not. Yes, he is. No, he’s not. My mind reels when I think of the logistics involved with two boys, two schools, three different classes, three different schedules. Not to mention work for me, home visits from teachers and appointments with the psychiatrist. I stop blogging for a while, because I can’t quite express what I’m feeling.
And then things just start to click into place in ways I could not have imagined, even if I’d been asked to think of the best possible scenarios. I get work that involves travel, Paul has to travel for a conference, and on the spur of the moment, we decide to go to Costa Rica for a month. The boys have tons of friends and family around, get to go to the pool every day and hang out on the beach. They watch all kinds of TV, in Spanish. It is great for their language skills. I drink piña coladas with my mother and sister-in-law, and watch movies with my brother. The word autism comes up maybe once or twice.
I get a call from P, who is back in the U.S. Are you sitting down? he asks. He got a call from a school administrator, who tells him about a new class they’re putting together. A mixed class, half typical children, half developmentally delayed. Ms. J spoke to her and lobbied hard for Primo, who she thinks would be an ideal candidate for the class. He would attend five days a week. His schedule would be the same as Secondo’s. Oh, and Ms. C, Secondo’s old teacher we love so much and to whom I said such tearful good-byes last year, is being moved up a year, so she’ll be his teacher again next year.
And so, as I download supply lists and prepare to head to Target for hand sanitizer and new fall shoes, I am filled with such hope, excitement, and happiness for both of my boys. I will be going to two open houses at school next week, and then school will start. The four hours—four hours!—I will have to myself every day, at least on days I’m not working, is just the icing on the cake.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Fire Trucks and Ladders
I sit in the middle of our tiny living room surrounded by mounds of Fisher-Price toys, puzzles, bins of blocks and crayons and chalk. And also books. For the first time ever it occurs to me that P may have a point when he says we have too many books, because our crappy World Market folding bookshelf has collapsed under their weight. When I empty it and remove it from its corner, it immediately falls into several pieces and I curse under my breath before getting to work with the screwdriver, hammer and glue. Then I curse some more.
The shelves flap back and forth and the pegs refuse to slide into their slots. I’ve gotten glue all over me. The commotion draws Secondo over from the table where he was watching his brother play on the computer, and it occurs to me that trying to get this done while the boys are even awake was a stupid idea. Sure enough, Secondo grabs the shelves and tries to squeeze through the open sides. I grumble and shoo him away. Repeatedly.
Finally, he is content to stand and watch. Bomberos, he says. Bomberos, bomberos.
My mind is on the bookcase. Yes, Secondo, I think. A fire truck went down our street ten minutes ago, and I ran to the door and opened it so you could watch it speed by, the way I do every single time I hear a fire truck, because you adore them and I love watching you watch them. But they’re gone, and right now I’m in the middle of something that is really annoying me.
Bomberos, he says again. And then, escalera.
I stop and rub the glue from my hands. Escalera, he says, and touches the bookcase. And it hits me that the sides of the bookcase, with their rungs, look exactly like a ladder, and I laugh.
I don’t know if the thing will hold together. But I’m a lot less annoyed with it now.
The shelves flap back and forth and the pegs refuse to slide into their slots. I’ve gotten glue all over me. The commotion draws Secondo over from the table where he was watching his brother play on the computer, and it occurs to me that trying to get this done while the boys are even awake was a stupid idea. Sure enough, Secondo grabs the shelves and tries to squeeze through the open sides. I grumble and shoo him away. Repeatedly.
Finally, he is content to stand and watch. Bomberos, he says. Bomberos, bomberos.
My mind is on the bookcase. Yes, Secondo, I think. A fire truck went down our street ten minutes ago, and I ran to the door and opened it so you could watch it speed by, the way I do every single time I hear a fire truck, because you adore them and I love watching you watch them. But they’re gone, and right now I’m in the middle of something that is really annoying me.
Bomberos, he says again. And then, escalera.
I stop and rub the glue from my hands. Escalera, he says, and touches the bookcase. And it hits me that the sides of the bookcase, with their rungs, look exactly like a ladder, and I laugh.
I don’t know if the thing will hold together. But I’m a lot less annoyed with it now.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Support
I occasionally attend a support group for parents of children with special needs. I was excited to find out about it, and even though it’s held on weekday mornings, my schedule sometimes allows it. I’ve met some very nice people, including the coordinator, a gentle soul I was drawn to the minute I met her, a woman who gives out her cell phone number so you can call her in the middle of the night about an IEP if you need to. They are a wealth of information and experience. Their kids are all older than mine. Many of their children have multiple disabilities and are autistic on top of that, a fact that humbles me. They treat me, the newcomer, with kid gloves. Your son was just diagnosed, they tell me. You’ll never be as vulnerable as you are right now. It will never be this hard again. It will still be hard, but it will be different.
And every time I go, I question whether or not I should go back.
The group is different every time, so we start with introductions. My son, Secondo, is three, I tell the group at the most recent meeting. He’s autistic, and he’s in the special-ed preschool class. His teacher is wonderful, and he’s made a lot of progress. She just told us we need to rewrite his IEP, because he’s mastered most of the goals in his current IEP.
I tell the group this, and it’s not like I’m expecting a fucking cookie, as my roommate used to say. But I am definitely not expecting the response I get, which is this:
Laughter. Followed by: “Well, enjoy it now, because that’s never going to happen again.” A couple of snorts. Taken aback, I look at the coordinator, who says, “You do know that this won’t happen again.” I don’t know if it’s a statement or a question. Her tone is gentle, her expression is compassionate, but she is speaking as if she needs to disabuse me, the Pollyanna in their midst, of the notion that my son’s progress in preschool means that life will be nothing but rainbows and fairy dust from now on.
“Oh, sure,” I laugh, because now I am on the spot, and I have to laugh it off. But I am hurt, really hurt. We move on to the next introduction.
The thing is, I know. No one has to tell me. I know things get hard, really hard. I know that parents hire advocates because they feel the system is failing their children and have knock-down, drag-out fights at IEP meetings. I think about junior high and about kids being cruel to my boy, and it terrifies me. I know Secondo will be autistic for the rest of his life, and I don't know what his future holds. I know that Secondo’s special-ed preschool class is a special little bubble, one in which in many ways, I don’t have to face reality. In this bubble I can concentrate on the good, and only on the good, if I so desire. I know. I know one of the reasons he’s mastered his goals is because they were so basic to begin with, and that things will become much more challenging. But I’d rather just be happy that he’s mastered these goals. Because if I really think hard about the fact that one of the original goals was to get him to respond to his name, it makes me want to cry.
But you know what? No matter how basic those goals were, I normally do find it easy to feel optimistic about things. Because the fact of the matter is, Secondo wasn’t responding to his name a few months ago. (Before he was evaluated, but after we’d shared our concerns with P’s parents, they came to visit and my father-in-law spent a great deal the visit yelling, “Secondo!!” and clapping his hands in Secondo’s face to get him to respond. I can’t even describe how stressed out I was, or the despair I felt right then.)
But he’s come a long, long way since then, and I’m prouder of him than I can say.
So, let me try my introduction again, here, on my blog. My son is three, his name is Secondo, and he’s autistic. He’s in a special-ed preschool class, and he’s doing great. His teacher suggested we rewrite his IEP soon, because he’s mastered most of his goals. They were basic goals, but they were things I couldn’t even imagine him doing only a few months ago.
Isn’t that awesome?
[And hey, if you want to leave a comment, at least you know what not to say.]
And every time I go, I question whether or not I should go back.
The group is different every time, so we start with introductions. My son, Secondo, is three, I tell the group at the most recent meeting. He’s autistic, and he’s in the special-ed preschool class. His teacher is wonderful, and he’s made a lot of progress. She just told us we need to rewrite his IEP, because he’s mastered most of the goals in his current IEP.
I tell the group this, and it’s not like I’m expecting a fucking cookie, as my roommate used to say. But I am definitely not expecting the response I get, which is this:
Laughter. Followed by: “Well, enjoy it now, because that’s never going to happen again.” A couple of snorts. Taken aback, I look at the coordinator, who says, “You do know that this won’t happen again.” I don’t know if it’s a statement or a question. Her tone is gentle, her expression is compassionate, but she is speaking as if she needs to disabuse me, the Pollyanna in their midst, of the notion that my son’s progress in preschool means that life will be nothing but rainbows and fairy dust from now on.
“Oh, sure,” I laugh, because now I am on the spot, and I have to laugh it off. But I am hurt, really hurt. We move on to the next introduction.
The thing is, I know. No one has to tell me. I know things get hard, really hard. I know that parents hire advocates because they feel the system is failing their children and have knock-down, drag-out fights at IEP meetings. I think about junior high and about kids being cruel to my boy, and it terrifies me. I know Secondo will be autistic for the rest of his life, and I don't know what his future holds. I know that Secondo’s special-ed preschool class is a special little bubble, one in which in many ways, I don’t have to face reality. In this bubble I can concentrate on the good, and only on the good, if I so desire. I know. I know one of the reasons he’s mastered his goals is because they were so basic to begin with, and that things will become much more challenging. But I’d rather just be happy that he’s mastered these goals. Because if I really think hard about the fact that one of the original goals was to get him to respond to his name, it makes me want to cry.
But you know what? No matter how basic those goals were, I normally do find it easy to feel optimistic about things. Because the fact of the matter is, Secondo wasn’t responding to his name a few months ago. (Before he was evaluated, but after we’d shared our concerns with P’s parents, they came to visit and my father-in-law spent a great deal the visit yelling, “Secondo!!” and clapping his hands in Secondo’s face to get him to respond. I can’t even describe how stressed out I was, or the despair I felt right then.)
But he’s come a long, long way since then, and I’m prouder of him than I can say.
So, let me try my introduction again, here, on my blog. My son is three, his name is Secondo, and he’s autistic. He’s in a special-ed preschool class, and he’s doing great. His teacher suggested we rewrite his IEP soon, because he’s mastered most of his goals. They were basic goals, but they were things I couldn’t even imagine him doing only a few months ago.
Isn’t that awesome?
[And hey, if you want to leave a comment, at least you know what not to say.]
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Reentry
We made it home, and everyone is healthy, happy, and sleeping through the night.
Our plane was delayed a couple of hours, so we missed our connection. Secondo and I were seated behind a nasty couple who complained to the flight attendant when Secondo had a dirty diaper right before takeoff (exact quote: "Gawd, don't you have an extra diaper? 'Cause your kid smells like CRAP."), and then again when Secondo kicked the seat in front of him a few times before I stopped him by putting up his tray table. I don't think I would have been so upset by the whole thing if it hadn't been for the fact that my kids were being SO GOOD. It was a long flight. Sigh.
We made it home at 2 a.m. I checked my messages to find out where I was supposed to be working that morning and found out it was a murder trial. I stopped by the cafeteria on my way upstairs, and one sip of the harsh, institutional coffee jolted me back to reality. I drank it anyway, to get rid of the throbbing headache, and at least it worked.
I expected to find the results of Primo's evaluation waiting for me when I got back. Instead, there was a ten-day-old message from the speech therapist on the answering machine asking me to call her so she could ask me a few more questions.
I put a huge dent in the driver's side of the car when I scraped past a barrier at a gas station on my way back from a birthday party on Saturday, which was both frustrating and really embarrassing because I was in the middle of telling my passenger all about how my driving KICKS ASS. P, to his credit, reacted by telling me in mock exasperation, "Don't you know all dents are supposed to be on the passenger's side?!" That side is, indeed, seriously dented. The most frustrating thing is that now guys in parking lots all over the DC metro area will probably not stop trying to get me to pay them to punch out the dents in my car.
Slowly getting back into the swing of things. More to come.
Our plane was delayed a couple of hours, so we missed our connection. Secondo and I were seated behind a nasty couple who complained to the flight attendant when Secondo had a dirty diaper right before takeoff (exact quote: "Gawd, don't you have an extra diaper? 'Cause your kid smells like CRAP."), and then again when Secondo kicked the seat in front of him a few times before I stopped him by putting up his tray table. I don't think I would have been so upset by the whole thing if it hadn't been for the fact that my kids were being SO GOOD. It was a long flight. Sigh.
We made it home at 2 a.m. I checked my messages to find out where I was supposed to be working that morning and found out it was a murder trial. I stopped by the cafeteria on my way upstairs, and one sip of the harsh, institutional coffee jolted me back to reality. I drank it anyway, to get rid of the throbbing headache, and at least it worked.
I expected to find the results of Primo's evaluation waiting for me when I got back. Instead, there was a ten-day-old message from the speech therapist on the answering machine asking me to call her so she could ask me a few more questions.
I put a huge dent in the driver's side of the car when I scraped past a barrier at a gas station on my way back from a birthday party on Saturday, which was both frustrating and really embarrassing because I was in the middle of telling my passenger all about how my driving KICKS ASS. P, to his credit, reacted by telling me in mock exasperation, "Don't you know all dents are supposed to be on the passenger's side?!" That side is, indeed, seriously dented. The most frustrating thing is that now guys in parking lots all over the DC metro area will probably not stop trying to get me to pay them to punch out the dents in my car.
Slowly getting back into the swing of things. More to come.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
From the Planner of Keen
Appointment #1
When: Tomorrow
Who: Secondo
What: IEP meeting to see if he qualifies for occupational therapy. He was evaluated a few weeks ago, and we need to get additional therapy for him, but it sure would be nice if he qualified for services at school. The only information I have about how his evaluation went is an offhand comment from Ms. C, who told me the OT was concerned about his fine motor skills.
Keen’s anxiety level: Moderate. Even though every IEP meeting so far has been positive, I can’t say I enjoy them.
Appointment #2
When: Tomorrow
Who: Primo
What: Formal evaluation by speech/educational specialists.
Keen’s anxiety level: Through the roof. I have such mixed feelings about this. Do I want him not to qualify for services? If he doesn’t, maybe it means his preschool teachers were wrong and he just marches to a different beat, which would be a relief. Do I want him to qualify? If he does, that means he’ll end up in Secondo’s special-ed class, which is a wonderful place for Secondo, but I’m not sure Primo needs to be there. These thoughts play in my head on an endless loop, and I have no answers. I’m not sure the evaluation team can give me answers. One thing worth mentioning is that a Spanish-speaking team will evaluate him, which is a relief because his Spanish is still definitely stronger than his English.
Appointment #3
When: Tomorrow
Who: Primo and Secondo
What: Dentist’s appointment
Keen’s anxiety level: Low, in that it will affect no one’s future and has nothing to do with developmental issues. High, in that I am not looking forward to wrangling two three-year-olds by myself at the dentist’s office.
Appointment #4
When: Tuesday
Who: Secondo
What: Appointment with the psychiatrist
Keen’s anxiety level: Mostly low, but high on either end of the appointment. I love Dr. B, though I still find it kind of surreal that we take Secondo to see the psychiatrist every two weeks. It initially seemed too often, so at one point we let three weeks go by without an appointment and then regretted it. It’s amazing how much we find to talk about. Sometimes I feel like they’re more about Secondo, and sometimes they’re more about us. Topics for discussion this week: Secondo’s newfound fascination with reflections, which I find a little unsettling. Occupational therapy. The fact that he's constantly bringing things over to show me. Ms. C’s reports of Secondo’s enthusiasm during circle time, and the way he’s been going up to his classmates and hugging them, or wanting to hold their hands while walking down the hall.
This will be the first time I go without P, however, which means that I have to drive there. I don’t enjoy driving. I have a lousy sense of direction. I’m a new driver--I’ve only had my license for a few months. And I will have to drive across the District, and nothing stresses me out more than driving in the District. Also, the clinic has the craziest, most overcrowded parking lot I’ve ever seen. Just thinking about it is bringing my heart rate up.
Appointment #5
When: Tuesday
Who: Secondo
What: Doctor’s appointment
Keen’s anxiety level: Low, low, low. After all that, taking one child to see the doctor is going to be practically enjoyable.
When: Tomorrow
Who: Secondo
What: IEP meeting to see if he qualifies for occupational therapy. He was evaluated a few weeks ago, and we need to get additional therapy for him, but it sure would be nice if he qualified for services at school. The only information I have about how his evaluation went is an offhand comment from Ms. C, who told me the OT was concerned about his fine motor skills.
Keen’s anxiety level: Moderate. Even though every IEP meeting so far has been positive, I can’t say I enjoy them.
Appointment #2
When: Tomorrow
Who: Primo
What: Formal evaluation by speech/educational specialists.
Keen’s anxiety level: Through the roof. I have such mixed feelings about this. Do I want him not to qualify for services? If he doesn’t, maybe it means his preschool teachers were wrong and he just marches to a different beat, which would be a relief. Do I want him to qualify? If he does, that means he’ll end up in Secondo’s special-ed class, which is a wonderful place for Secondo, but I’m not sure Primo needs to be there. These thoughts play in my head on an endless loop, and I have no answers. I’m not sure the evaluation team can give me answers. One thing worth mentioning is that a Spanish-speaking team will evaluate him, which is a relief because his Spanish is still definitely stronger than his English.
Appointment #3
When: Tomorrow
Who: Primo and Secondo
What: Dentist’s appointment
Keen’s anxiety level: Low, in that it will affect no one’s future and has nothing to do with developmental issues. High, in that I am not looking forward to wrangling two three-year-olds by myself at the dentist’s office.
Appointment #4
When: Tuesday
Who: Secondo
What: Appointment with the psychiatrist
Keen’s anxiety level: Mostly low, but high on either end of the appointment. I love Dr. B, though I still find it kind of surreal that we take Secondo to see the psychiatrist every two weeks. It initially seemed too often, so at one point we let three weeks go by without an appointment and then regretted it. It’s amazing how much we find to talk about. Sometimes I feel like they’re more about Secondo, and sometimes they’re more about us. Topics for discussion this week: Secondo’s newfound fascination with reflections, which I find a little unsettling. Occupational therapy. The fact that he's constantly bringing things over to show me. Ms. C’s reports of Secondo’s enthusiasm during circle time, and the way he’s been going up to his classmates and hugging them, or wanting to hold their hands while walking down the hall.
This will be the first time I go without P, however, which means that I have to drive there. I don’t enjoy driving. I have a lousy sense of direction. I’m a new driver--I’ve only had my license for a few months. And I will have to drive across the District, and nothing stresses me out more than driving in the District. Also, the clinic has the craziest, most overcrowded parking lot I’ve ever seen. Just thinking about it is bringing my heart rate up.
Appointment #5
When: Tuesday
Who: Secondo
What: Doctor’s appointment
Keen’s anxiety level: Low, low, low. After all that, taking one child to see the doctor is going to be practically enjoyable.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Christmas Eve
It won't be that bad, I think. Everyone else had their kids' pictures taken with Santa ages ago. I'm sure I'm the only mother left who waited until Christmas Eve. And that way I can give the boys' nanny a ride to the Metro, and she can leave early. It'll be nice for everyone.
That is what I'm thinking as I pack the kids up and drive everyone to the mall, which of course is a madhouse, and I realize too late that I'm an idiot. We enter through the garage on an upper level and have to take the elevator downstairs. It is a huge glass elevator, and the boys love it. Primo begs to hold my hand, the way he usually does when something scares him a little but he's trying to be a trooper about it, like when I'm grinding coffee in the kitchen.
We reach Santa and the line is long, long, long. I try to prep the boys on the sidelines before we get in line, pointing out how other kids are sitting on Santa's lap and how much fun this will be. Santa notices us and waves obligingly. The boys ignore him completely. A woman comes by with picture samples and they are overpriced, of course, but the background and the poses also look slightly creepy to me.
What do you want to do? I ask the boys. Do you want to go see Santa?
Quiero el ascensor de cristal, they respond in unison.
So we go for a ride in the glass elevator again, and they are silent and filled with wonder. We head over to a pretzel shack and split a pretzel. They are amazed to see a pretzel that big. We hang out on a bench and eat it, and they marvel at the lights and decorations hanging in the atrium. Mira todas las luces, says Primo. Estrella, Secondo says softly, and points at a glittery star. The fact that my boy is pointing at things and naming them of his own volition is such a huge deal that it makes me want to cry, right there in the food court at the mall on Christmas Eve. I'm completely relaxed and at peace, even as throngs of people surround me. Even the trip back to the car in the plain parking elevator is fun.
And the only thing we bought was that pretzel.
Merry Christmas.
That is what I'm thinking as I pack the kids up and drive everyone to the mall, which of course is a madhouse, and I realize too late that I'm an idiot. We enter through the garage on an upper level and have to take the elevator downstairs. It is a huge glass elevator, and the boys love it. Primo begs to hold my hand, the way he usually does when something scares him a little but he's trying to be a trooper about it, like when I'm grinding coffee in the kitchen.
We reach Santa and the line is long, long, long. I try to prep the boys on the sidelines before we get in line, pointing out how other kids are sitting on Santa's lap and how much fun this will be. Santa notices us and waves obligingly. The boys ignore him completely. A woman comes by with picture samples and they are overpriced, of course, but the background and the poses also look slightly creepy to me.
What do you want to do? I ask the boys. Do you want to go see Santa?
Quiero el ascensor de cristal, they respond in unison.
So we go for a ride in the glass elevator again, and they are silent and filled with wonder. We head over to a pretzel shack and split a pretzel. They are amazed to see a pretzel that big. We hang out on a bench and eat it, and they marvel at the lights and decorations hanging in the atrium. Mira todas las luces, says Primo. Estrella, Secondo says softly, and points at a glittery star. The fact that my boy is pointing at things and naming them of his own volition is such a huge deal that it makes me want to cry, right there in the food court at the mall on Christmas Eve. I'm completely relaxed and at peace, even as throngs of people surround me. Even the trip back to the car in the plain parking elevator is fun.
And the only thing we bought was that pretzel.
Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Spaghetti
I know that we’re supposed to pick our battles with our children. That when we do, we’re supposed to win every time. That some things are best not turned into battles in the first place. And I try to remember that, but some things just drive me batshit crazy.
With Secondo, one of them is eating with utensils. Or not eating with utensils. It drives me crazy that he often flat-out refuses to. That he will grab a handfuls of oatmeal and gleefully squish gobs of it between his fingers with obvious enjoyment and then wipe his hands on his shirt. That I’ve occasionally caught his overly-motherly Salvadoran nanny feeding him in order to prevent messes from happening, even though I’ve asked her not to. That my friend with the toddler who eats soup without spilling a drop makes comments about children needing to learn table manners and then glances pointedly at my kids. I tell myself not to get so frustrated about the whole thing, which is getting harder the older they get, because there are some things they should just be able to do by now, dammit, and it all ties in to my expectations for Secondo and my constant worry about what behavior is just your average three-year-old behavior and what isn’t. Because some of it isn’t. The autism, it always lurks, and it can mess with my mind.
I sit with Secondo and snatch his bowl of food away as he lunges at it with his hands. Con la cuchara, I remind him. Con la cuchara, he repeats, and takes a spoonful. Then he lunges with his hands again, and he’s really, really fast.
Tonight I take a different tack, something I’ve tried before, so it’s not exactly new. I will be positive, I will not let my frustration show. The boys are eating spaghetti, and Secondo takes a bite with the fork. ¡Excelente! I yell, and he looks at me and giggles. I’ve never been quite this enthusiastic, and I've obviously hit upon the right word. ¡Excelente! he repeats. Then takes another bite. ¡Excelente! I squeal, and this time I clap my hands and praise him profusely. Now Primo is laughing and wants in on it, too, so when he takes a bite: ¡Excelente!
And we are all having so much fun and laughing so hard that I don’t notice when Secondo grabs a handful of spaghetti, like a flash. I grab the bowl. It goes flying. There is spaghetti everywhere. I put my head in my hands and take a deep breath. Several seconds go by.
No tan excelente, Primo observes, finally, breaking the silence. His tone is sober.
Not so excellent, indeed. But at least now I am laughing as I clean up the spaghetti.
With Secondo, one of them is eating with utensils. Or not eating with utensils. It drives me crazy that he often flat-out refuses to. That he will grab a handfuls of oatmeal and gleefully squish gobs of it between his fingers with obvious enjoyment and then wipe his hands on his shirt. That I’ve occasionally caught his overly-motherly Salvadoran nanny feeding him in order to prevent messes from happening, even though I’ve asked her not to. That my friend with the toddler who eats soup without spilling a drop makes comments about children needing to learn table manners and then glances pointedly at my kids. I tell myself not to get so frustrated about the whole thing, which is getting harder the older they get, because there are some things they should just be able to do by now, dammit, and it all ties in to my expectations for Secondo and my constant worry about what behavior is just your average three-year-old behavior and what isn’t. Because some of it isn’t. The autism, it always lurks, and it can mess with my mind.
I sit with Secondo and snatch his bowl of food away as he lunges at it with his hands. Con la cuchara, I remind him. Con la cuchara, he repeats, and takes a spoonful. Then he lunges with his hands again, and he’s really, really fast.
Tonight I take a different tack, something I’ve tried before, so it’s not exactly new. I will be positive, I will not let my frustration show. The boys are eating spaghetti, and Secondo takes a bite with the fork. ¡Excelente! I yell, and he looks at me and giggles. I’ve never been quite this enthusiastic, and I've obviously hit upon the right word. ¡Excelente! he repeats. Then takes another bite. ¡Excelente! I squeal, and this time I clap my hands and praise him profusely. Now Primo is laughing and wants in on it, too, so when he takes a bite: ¡Excelente!
And we are all having so much fun and laughing so hard that I don’t notice when Secondo grabs a handful of spaghetti, like a flash. I grab the bowl. It goes flying. There is spaghetti everywhere. I put my head in my hands and take a deep breath. Several seconds go by.
No tan excelente, Primo observes, finally, breaking the silence. His tone is sober.
Not so excellent, indeed. But at least now I am laughing as I clean up the spaghetti.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Look! A Picture!
Kind of. Don't ask me why I'm so unwilling to post pictures of my boys on my blog but then submit them to other blogs. But I submitted a picture of Secondo to Faces of Autism. Here's the link, if anyone wants to take a peek.
I wrote in my blogroll post that I look at those pictures and see nothing but joy, but that's not entirely true. I look beyond the smiling faces and see families who have struggled, just as we are struggling. I see a tremendous amount of love.
But mostly, I do see the joy, and that's why I love that blog. Because I think that most people don't think the words "autism" and "joy" go together. But they do. Go see.
I wrote in my blogroll post that I look at those pictures and see nothing but joy, but that's not entirely true. I look beyond the smiling faces and see families who have struggled, just as we are struggling. I see a tremendous amount of love.
But mostly, I do see the joy, and that's why I love that blog. Because I think that most people don't think the words "autism" and "joy" go together. But they do. Go see.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Turkey Soup
I got home from work today and after reading a few stories with the boys, headed straight for the kitchen. I don't usually cook when I get home, because it's virtually impossible. The boys are demanding and pull me every which way if I try to get anything done in the kitchen, so we either have something in the Crock Pot or something ready to go in the oven, or P cooks while I take care of baths and bedtime.
Today, though, I was bound and determined to make my mother's turkey soup. The carcass from our Thanksgiving turkey had been waiting in the refrigerator for a week and I didn't want it to wait any longer, and we had no Plan B for dinner. It doesn't require that much prep work, so I snuck into the kitchen while the boys were distracted with their toys and got to work.
A few minutes later I was dicing a potato, completely lost in thought, when I realized something. The music on the CD player had stopped. It was completely quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you deeply uneasy when you have three-year-old twin boys. I dropped the chef's knife and ran into the living room.
Secondo was on the couch, Primo in the armchair. Both were peacefully reading a book. Secondo looked up when I appeared in the doorway. "Mi semana," he offered softly, by way of explanation. "My Week!" Primo chimed in.
I went back into the kitchen. They went back to their books. I could not believe what had just happened.
And the soup was absolutely delicious.
Today, though, I was bound and determined to make my mother's turkey soup. The carcass from our Thanksgiving turkey had been waiting in the refrigerator for a week and I didn't want it to wait any longer, and we had no Plan B for dinner. It doesn't require that much prep work, so I snuck into the kitchen while the boys were distracted with their toys and got to work.
A few minutes later I was dicing a potato, completely lost in thought, when I realized something. The music on the CD player had stopped. It was completely quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you deeply uneasy when you have three-year-old twin boys. I dropped the chef's knife and ran into the living room.
Secondo was on the couch, Primo in the armchair. Both were peacefully reading a book. Secondo looked up when I appeared in the doorway. "Mi semana," he offered softly, by way of explanation. "My Week!" Primo chimed in.
I went back into the kitchen. They went back to their books. I could not believe what had just happened.
And the soup was absolutely delicious.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
On Co-sleeping
When Primo and Secondo were newborns, we only had one crib. The boys slept in it together, and we thought that would last a while.
Then Secondo started scooting around on his back in his sleep. Just a little, at first. But when thee boys were eight weeks old I woke up one morning to Primo's cries, went to check on them, and realized the reason he was crying was because Secondo had scooched over was kicking him in the head. Obviously, that could not continue. Not so much because I felt bad that Secondo was beating up on his brother, but more because when you have newborn twins, anything that interrupts their (and your) sleep is a very, very bad thing.
P did some hunting around on Craigslist and came home with a beautiful Pali crib a few days later. I was so happy I could have kissed his feet. We separated the boys as soon as we could put the crib together. But it made me sad that we had to do it so early. What about that twin bond? What about being so close together in the womb? Weren't they supposed to feel comforted by each other's presence? Obviously not, because they didn't seem to care and they definitely slept much better. So did we.
When they turned two, though, Secondo decided he wanted to be with his brother in his crib. Even though he could be completely oblivious to Primo's presence all day, he whined and cried until we put him in there--and then Primo whined and cried, because though Secondo doesn't kick him in the head anymore, he loves to stomp on him and sit on him, and there really isn't enough room for two hefty toddlers in one crib.
When it was time to move them out of their cribs and into big boy beds, the choice was obvious: We moved them into my old queen-size futon. Partly because it was already in their room. Partly due to space considerations in our tiny condo. But mostly so they could be together. It's worked out beautifully--it's big enough so that they rarely fall out (and it's close to the ground when they do), and it's the perfect spot for reading bedtime stories. And even when they start out at opposite ends of the bed, they always end up moving towards each other. One's head will be nestled on the other's shoulder, or they'll hold hands. Tonight they are in the shape of a T, with both of Secondo's legs resting comfortably on Primo's belly.
I know this will end eventually, too, and when they're old enough, we'll move them into bunk beds. But I'm enjoying this while it lasts. And if I'd known how much they would enjoy sleeping in the same bed as toddlers, I might not have felt so wistful when they were eight weeks old.
Then Secondo started scooting around on his back in his sleep. Just a little, at first. But when thee boys were eight weeks old I woke up one morning to Primo's cries, went to check on them, and realized the reason he was crying was because Secondo had scooched over was kicking him in the head. Obviously, that could not continue. Not so much because I felt bad that Secondo was beating up on his brother, but more because when you have newborn twins, anything that interrupts their (and your) sleep is a very, very bad thing.
P did some hunting around on Craigslist and came home with a beautiful Pali crib a few days later. I was so happy I could have kissed his feet. We separated the boys as soon as we could put the crib together. But it made me sad that we had to do it so early. What about that twin bond? What about being so close together in the womb? Weren't they supposed to feel comforted by each other's presence? Obviously not, because they didn't seem to care and they definitely slept much better. So did we.
When they turned two, though, Secondo decided he wanted to be with his brother in his crib. Even though he could be completely oblivious to Primo's presence all day, he whined and cried until we put him in there--and then Primo whined and cried, because though Secondo doesn't kick him in the head anymore, he loves to stomp on him and sit on him, and there really isn't enough room for two hefty toddlers in one crib.
When it was time to move them out of their cribs and into big boy beds, the choice was obvious: We moved them into my old queen-size futon. Partly because it was already in their room. Partly due to space considerations in our tiny condo. But mostly so they could be together. It's worked out beautifully--it's big enough so that they rarely fall out (and it's close to the ground when they do), and it's the perfect spot for reading bedtime stories. And even when they start out at opposite ends of the bed, they always end up moving towards each other. One's head will be nestled on the other's shoulder, or they'll hold hands. Tonight they are in the shape of a T, with both of Secondo's legs resting comfortably on Primo's belly.
I know this will end eventually, too, and when they're old enough, we'll move them into bunk beds. But I'm enjoying this while it lasts. And if I'd known how much they would enjoy sleeping in the same bed as toddlers, I might not have felt so wistful when they were eight weeks old.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Goals
Our meeting with Miss C today was wonderful. I was glad I'd skimmed Secondo's IEP. His progress was evaluated using a series of codes that I can't remember. But he did get a couple of Ms for Mastery of a skill, a few of his skills were considered Emerging Skills, and he should be on track to meet those goals by the end of the year. I'm not so interested in the goals, exactly. What matters to me is that he seems like a different boy than he was when he started school, he's much more engaged, there's less echoing and his language is so much more purposeful than it used to be. Miss C is a new teacher, and I sing her praises to anyone who will listen.
We also met with his speech therapist for the first time. I had no idea that she speaks Spanish fluently, and she told us she often uses it with Secondo during their sessions. I could have wept, I was so excited.
[Anyone notice how I often get my November posts in right under the wire, before midnight? I think this one will still count for my Thursday post, even though it's now Friday.]
We also met with his speech therapist for the first time. I had no idea that she speaks Spanish fluently, and she told us she often uses it with Secondo during their sessions. I could have wept, I was so excited.
[Anyone notice how I often get my November posts in right under the wire, before midnight? I think this one will still count for my Thursday post, even though it's now Friday.]
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Preparation
I will be working at a conference tomorrow morning. The timing was perfect--the place where I was originally supposed to work tomorrow canceled on me, and I'm busy in the afternoon, so a few hours of work will fill my morning nicely. The only information I have is the name of the organization where I will be working, a link to their website and the name of my colleague. I like knowing details so I can read up on the subject and prepare a glossary, but tonight I've been wading through pages and pages on their website and I have no idea what information is relevant.
Tomorrow afternoon we have a parent-teacher conference with Miss C, where we will discuss Secondo's progress in meeting the goals set forth in his IEP. I've heard a million horror stories about IEP meetings, but ours went swimmingly. I do realize, though, that that's because it was our very first meeting and we were not evaluating his progress, we were setting goals, goals that sounded good to me so throughout the meeting I nodded enthusiastically and occasionally chimed in. Goals that I no longer remember. So tonight I dug out Secondo's IEP and reread it in preparation for tomorrow. I was reminded that his progress will by measured using the very specific, numerical criteria established several months ago, even though it's obvious to me that he's progressed by leaps and bounds.
Tomorrow afternoon we have a parent-teacher conference with Miss C, where we will discuss Secondo's progress in meeting the goals set forth in his IEP. I've heard a million horror stories about IEP meetings, but ours went swimmingly. I do realize, though, that that's because it was our very first meeting and we were not evaluating his progress, we were setting goals, goals that sounded good to me so throughout the meeting I nodded enthusiastically and occasionally chimed in. Goals that I no longer remember. So tonight I dug out Secondo's IEP and reread it in preparation for tomorrow. I was reminded that his progress will by measured using the very specific, numerical criteria established several months ago, even though it's obvious to me that he's progressed by leaps and bounds.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Books, Books, Books
My dad was a big fan of celebrating special occasions. He especially loved celebrating them on dates that were not the actual dates of the occasions. I’ve mentioned before how we used to celebrate Thanksgiving whenever we felt like it, sometimes several times a year, and rarely in November. Christmas was often celebrated whenever my dad came back from a trip to the United States. It’s hard to describe just how incredible the ritual of the Opening of the Suitcases was when I was growing up. There were special gifts like walkmans and cassette tapes, magazines, Hershey bars and all kinds of assorted candy that was locked in a trunk and rationed throughout the year. My dad always milked it and made the most out of each reveal, so that my brother and I were always craning our necks practically drooling in anticipation while we waited for him to pull out whatever was hidden beneath the dirty laundry in his luggage. Christmas was always a fun time—tamales! rompope! huge manger scenes!—and an important holiday, but gifts were not big part of it. Nothing could have compared to the Opening of the Suitcases.
And my birthday, which was in May, was always celebrated in July.
There are a lot of bookstores in Costa Rica that sell books in English now, and there are even used bookstores which are full of books that tourists have left behind. But when I was growing up, there was only one. It was called simply The Bookshop, and it was so small and cozy. And they had a huge sale every year. In July.
My dad took me every year. It was my birthday gift, and I was allowed to buy stacks and stacks of books. After I was done picking out my favorites—books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madeleine L’Engle and James Herriot, the Great Brain books, Trixie Belden and every book in the Oz series—my dad would always steer me towards the saleslady and ask her what else she might recommend for a girl my age, and I would add some more to my pile. When I got home, I would spread them all out on my bed and look through them carefully, and deciding which one to read first took an eternity.
My parents passed their love of reading down to me. The yearly shopping spree at The Bookshop is the only time I remember money being no object. When I outgrew my own books, I moved on to my parents’ books. They had an aversion to fiction, so I read many, many memoirs, written by teachers, actors, doctors, books about the Cold War and about Holocaust survivors. We took to initialing the inside of the front cover of the books we’d read, so it was easy to keep track of who had read what. Even though we watched some TV every night, it was always turned off at some point so we could all have some peace and quiet while we all read in the living room together.
And now, I'm making every effort to pass that love of reading on to my boys. I didn’t start reading to them as early as they say you should, but I felt silly reading to them when they were newborns, just like I felt silly talking to them when I was pregnant. (Also, they got to hear my voice half an hour per hour while I was interpreting. I figured it didn't matter that what they were hearing were court proceedings in Spanish.) Once they could sit up, though, there were always board books strewn around the floor along with their toys. When I started reading them stories at night, I had a captive audience—their room was so tiny that there was only enough room to wedge a chair between both of their cribs. I would sit and read to them every night while they stood in their cribs and peered over the top.
When they were that small and had no say in the matter, I read to them almost exclusively in Spanish. That ended once they were big enough to grab a book and bonk me in the head with it insistently until I agreed to read it to them, so I began reading to them in English as well. What I’ve found, though, is that we keep coming back to the books in Spanish again and again, to the point that even P often reads to them in Spanish because those are their favorites and those are the stories they want to hear.
This has meant I’ve become quite passionate about children’s books in Spanish. I’m always on the lookout for them—new on Amazon, used at library sales, from friends and relatives who come to visit from Costa Rica. P often comments that our place looks like a bomb went off in Barnes & Noble. And while we started with Buenas Noches, Luna and the Eric Carle books in Spanish, the boys quickly moved past those (though I won’t say they outgrew them, because we recently went through another Eric Carle phase and they seemed to enjoy the books even more than they had before), and I’ve discovered many, many wonderful books since the days of La oruga muy hambrienta.
I’ve added an Amazon widget to my blog that reflects our current favorites, just for fun, and I’ll comment on what we’re reading occasionally as well, both for my own benefit as well as in hopes that it might lead someone else to discover something new.
And my birthday, which was in May, was always celebrated in July.
There are a lot of bookstores in Costa Rica that sell books in English now, and there are even used bookstores which are full of books that tourists have left behind. But when I was growing up, there was only one. It was called simply The Bookshop, and it was so small and cozy. And they had a huge sale every year. In July.
My dad took me every year. It was my birthday gift, and I was allowed to buy stacks and stacks of books. After I was done picking out my favorites—books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madeleine L’Engle and James Herriot, the Great Brain books, Trixie Belden and every book in the Oz series—my dad would always steer me towards the saleslady and ask her what else she might recommend for a girl my age, and I would add some more to my pile. When I got home, I would spread them all out on my bed and look through them carefully, and deciding which one to read first took an eternity.
My parents passed their love of reading down to me. The yearly shopping spree at The Bookshop is the only time I remember money being no object. When I outgrew my own books, I moved on to my parents’ books. They had an aversion to fiction, so I read many, many memoirs, written by teachers, actors, doctors, books about the Cold War and about Holocaust survivors. We took to initialing the inside of the front cover of the books we’d read, so it was easy to keep track of who had read what. Even though we watched some TV every night, it was always turned off at some point so we could all have some peace and quiet while we all read in the living room together.
And now, I'm making every effort to pass that love of reading on to my boys. I didn’t start reading to them as early as they say you should, but I felt silly reading to them when they were newborns, just like I felt silly talking to them when I was pregnant. (Also, they got to hear my voice half an hour per hour while I was interpreting. I figured it didn't matter that what they were hearing were court proceedings in Spanish.) Once they could sit up, though, there were always board books strewn around the floor along with their toys. When I started reading them stories at night, I had a captive audience—their room was so tiny that there was only enough room to wedge a chair between both of their cribs. I would sit and read to them every night while they stood in their cribs and peered over the top.
When they were that small and had no say in the matter, I read to them almost exclusively in Spanish. That ended once they were big enough to grab a book and bonk me in the head with it insistently until I agreed to read it to them, so I began reading to them in English as well. What I’ve found, though, is that we keep coming back to the books in Spanish again and again, to the point that even P often reads to them in Spanish because those are their favorites and those are the stories they want to hear.
This has meant I’ve become quite passionate about children’s books in Spanish. I’m always on the lookout for them—new on Amazon, used at library sales, from friends and relatives who come to visit from Costa Rica. P often comments that our place looks like a bomb went off in Barnes & Noble. And while we started with Buenas Noches, Luna and the Eric Carle books in Spanish, the boys quickly moved past those (though I won’t say they outgrew them, because we recently went through another Eric Carle phase and they seemed to enjoy the books even more than they had before), and I’ve discovered many, many wonderful books since the days of La oruga muy hambrienta.
I’ve added an Amazon widget to my blog that reflects our current favorites, just for fun, and I’ll comment on what we’re reading occasionally as well, both for my own benefit as well as in hopes that it might lead someone else to discover something new.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Hello, November
A year ago, NaBloPoMo inspired me to start a blog. I thought it would motivate me to start out, since the concrete goal would be to post every day. I posted 18 times that month, which wasn't bad, for me. Since then, I've only posted a few times a month (or once a month, in some cases), but this year, I'm going to challenge myself to ramp up the number of blog posts. I'm going to unoficially do NaBoPoMo again. So, here goes.
One of the reasons I started to blog was because I felt so strongly about teaching the boys Spanish and I wanted to chronicle their language development. And then I held back, because it became clear that Secondo's language development was delayed, and I felt guilty posting language-related stories because most of them would have been about Primo.
One year and one autism diagnosis later, I'm over that. Things are what they are. Primo's language development continues to amaze me, and Secondo's language development has become a cause for celebration, not a source of worry like it was last year. That is a huge relief, and overall, I'm feeling optimistic and ready to tackle November.
I have to say, October kicked my ass. It's not all doom and gloom around here, though. Many of the events I'm writing about occured a few weeks ago, and I'm over them and am moving on, but I need to get them out. So there will be more posts about autism, because it's become a big part of our lives. But there will also be more posts about language, about the wonderful books we're reading. About my work and other things going on around here. Things that have seemed unimportant lately, things that have taken a backseat to autism.
But you know what, here's to the unimportant stuff.
More tomorrow.
One of the reasons I started to blog was because I felt so strongly about teaching the boys Spanish and I wanted to chronicle their language development. And then I held back, because it became clear that Secondo's language development was delayed, and I felt guilty posting language-related stories because most of them would have been about Primo.
One year and one autism diagnosis later, I'm over that. Things are what they are. Primo's language development continues to amaze me, and Secondo's language development has become a cause for celebration, not a source of worry like it was last year. That is a huge relief, and overall, I'm feeling optimistic and ready to tackle November.
I have to say, October kicked my ass. It's not all doom and gloom around here, though. Many of the events I'm writing about occured a few weeks ago, and I'm over them and am moving on, but I need to get them out. So there will be more posts about autism, because it's become a big part of our lives. But there will also be more posts about language, about the wonderful books we're reading. About my work and other things going on around here. Things that have seemed unimportant lately, things that have taken a backseat to autism.
But you know what, here's to the unimportant stuff.
More tomorrow.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Diagnosis, Part I
We sit in the waiting room in the Psychiatry Department, and we wait. Considering that it took us so many months to get this appointment, the waiting room here is not as nice as I thought it would be. It’s actually kind of sad. There is a worn train table, but there are no toy trains or cars to be seen. There is a chipped plastic musical toy that even Secondo, who adores anything with buttons that plays music, only tries out once before he loses interest. I have his favorite book, one about a school bus, in my purse, and I hold him on my lap and read it to him over, and over, and over again. He wanders over to the double doors occasionally, and I follow to make sure no one opens them and knocks him over.
We wait, and we wait. I am sick of the book about the school bus. After about an hour I hear the receptionist whispering animatedly on the phone. Tell her she’s got a patient waiting, she hisses loudly enough for me to hear, then hangs up and tells me the doctor is on her way down.
I can tell you all are really busy, I say, trying to sound sympathetic.
This place is CRAZY, she says, shaking her head, and I nearly start to laugh, considering where we are and all, but she doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said.
Dr. A rushes in, finally, and greets us warmly. She had an emergency upstairs. She disappears in the back for another twenty minutes. I assume she’s reading Secondo’s chart, or at least I hope she is, because filling out all the paperwork was draining and took P and me hours.
She walks back out, this time with an entourage of about four other doctors, interns, who knows. I don’t remember. They all stand in a row holding their clipboards and though she introduces them all, I am disconcerted by their presence and their names don't even register.
We go to the playroom. The carpet is dark and the room is small and bare, except for a table and chairs and one large window, which I later realize is a two-way mirror. Dr. A and another doctor (the others have disappeared behind the mirror, I assume) break out a bin of toys and watch Secondo play even as they’re grilling us. They ask P and me probing questions that throw me for a loop, questions about breastfeeding and baby blues, our marriage, high school. Secondo wanders around, not so much into any of the toys with the exception of a hot pink Barbie convertible. At one point he gets up and starts licking the armrests of every chair in the room. I am so taken aback that I can’t even speak, because I’ve never seen him do this, ever, and it makes me feel deeply uneasy. Absurdly, a clip from the movie Airplane! starts playing in my head: Jim never has a second cup of coffee at home. Secondo never does this at home. But I don’t say that, because he's doing it now. Instead I distract him and he moves on to something else.
Dr. A is full of positive comments. It’s always hard to diagnose children who’ve received good parenting. You have a gentle touch with him. I think your instincts are good. She needs to see Secondo a few more times, she says. She and the second doctor talk for a minute about repetitive behaviors they've noticed. It’s just such a relief, I tell her. It's such a relief to have someone NOT dismiss my concerns. And all of a sudden I am crying so hard I can’t speak. Someone passes me a box of tissues that is on the table. I hadn’t noticed it when we came in. Of course they keep them right there, I think. Duh. And as I try to regain my composure I am reminded of all of the witnesses I’ve ever interpreted for who have cried on the stand as I’ve stood next to them, waiting, sympathetic but detached and professional. There’s always a box of tissues right there, but they never notice it until someone nudges it in their direction.
I know this is hard, Dr. A says gently, and that’s when I stop crying. No, I tell her, wiping my eyes. This isn’t hard. The hard part was taking him in for that very first appointment.
This is what I’ve told people for many months now, and I’ve firmly believed it. And yet, today, even as I’m saying it, I realize it’s not true, at least not this time.
Because it is hard. Even when you see it coming, it’s hard.
We wait, and we wait. I am sick of the book about the school bus. After about an hour I hear the receptionist whispering animatedly on the phone. Tell her she’s got a patient waiting, she hisses loudly enough for me to hear, then hangs up and tells me the doctor is on her way down.
I can tell you all are really busy, I say, trying to sound sympathetic.
This place is CRAZY, she says, shaking her head, and I nearly start to laugh, considering where we are and all, but she doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said.
Dr. A rushes in, finally, and greets us warmly. She had an emergency upstairs. She disappears in the back for another twenty minutes. I assume she’s reading Secondo’s chart, or at least I hope she is, because filling out all the paperwork was draining and took P and me hours.
She walks back out, this time with an entourage of about four other doctors, interns, who knows. I don’t remember. They all stand in a row holding their clipboards and though she introduces them all, I am disconcerted by their presence and their names don't even register.
We go to the playroom. The carpet is dark and the room is small and bare, except for a table and chairs and one large window, which I later realize is a two-way mirror. Dr. A and another doctor (the others have disappeared behind the mirror, I assume) break out a bin of toys and watch Secondo play even as they’re grilling us. They ask P and me probing questions that throw me for a loop, questions about breastfeeding and baby blues, our marriage, high school. Secondo wanders around, not so much into any of the toys with the exception of a hot pink Barbie convertible. At one point he gets up and starts licking the armrests of every chair in the room. I am so taken aback that I can’t even speak, because I’ve never seen him do this, ever, and it makes me feel deeply uneasy. Absurdly, a clip from the movie Airplane! starts playing in my head: Jim never has a second cup of coffee at home. Secondo never does this at home. But I don’t say that, because he's doing it now. Instead I distract him and he moves on to something else.
Dr. A is full of positive comments. It’s always hard to diagnose children who’ve received good parenting. You have a gentle touch with him. I think your instincts are good. She needs to see Secondo a few more times, she says. She and the second doctor talk for a minute about repetitive behaviors they've noticed. It’s just such a relief, I tell her. It's such a relief to have someone NOT dismiss my concerns. And all of a sudden I am crying so hard I can’t speak. Someone passes me a box of tissues that is on the table. I hadn’t noticed it when we came in. Of course they keep them right there, I think. Duh. And as I try to regain my composure I am reminded of all of the witnesses I’ve ever interpreted for who have cried on the stand as I’ve stood next to them, waiting, sympathetic but detached and professional. There’s always a box of tissues right there, but they never notice it until someone nudges it in their direction.
I know this is hard, Dr. A says gently, and that’s when I stop crying. No, I tell her, wiping my eyes. This isn’t hard. The hard part was taking him in for that very first appointment.
This is what I’ve told people for many months now, and I’ve firmly believed it. And yet, today, even as I’m saying it, I realize it’s not true, at least not this time.
Because it is hard. Even when you see it coming, it’s hard.
Friday, September 26, 2008
A Note to Ms. C
9/26
Ms. C,
An update on Secondo’s appointment—we met with Dr. [Big Fancy Psychiatrist] at [Big Fancy Hospital] today. No official diagnosis, because she wants to see him a few more times in the upcoming weeks, but in her words, he’s most likely on the autism spectrum.
I know Secondo isn’t so big on the fruit I send to school with him, but I keep trying anyway!
K.
Ms. C,
An update on Secondo’s appointment—we met with Dr. [Big Fancy Psychiatrist] at [Big Fancy Hospital] today. No official diagnosis, because she wants to see him a few more times in the upcoming weeks, but in her words, he’s most likely on the autism spectrum.
I know Secondo isn’t so big on the fruit I send to school with him, but I keep trying anyway!
K.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Open House, Part Two
The thing is, I used to be against preschool.
I just didn’t think it was necessary for my kids. The boys have a nanny, who I’ve known since I was in high school, and I’ve loved and trusted her from day one. The fact that she is from El Salvador and speaks no English was a huge bonus to me. It meant the boys would be exposed mostly to Spanish, and I wanted to keep that going for as long as possible. Plus, preschool for two children would be expensive, and who needs that? I watched several of my friends research schools last spring, tour them all, get on waiting lists and then agonize over the decision. Oh, hell, no, I thought.
But then Secondo qualified for the preschool class at our public school, and P and I started feeling a little bad for Primo. He would be lonely without Secondo, probably. We don’t have too many playdates, so he doesn’t see other kids all that often. And he’s such a cheerful, outgoing child that he would probably love being with other kids at preschool.
So I contacted a preschool. It’s a short walk from the house. That was seriously my only criterion. Primo and I went on a tour, and he walked into the classroom like he owned the place. My guide talked the school up. That’s okay, lady, I thought. As long as you aren’t torturing small children in the basement, really, I’m good. But I just nodded. Since this was just last month, there was a waiting list, so I put Primo on it and crossed my fingers.
I got the call fifteen minutes after Secondo’s open house was over. It was last minute, the director said. There was a parents’ meeting that night, and an open house the next day. I got the wrong information about the class would be in, so we went to the wrong open house. I was bummed—again--when I found out there were three Spanish-speaking parents there, too. Primo will be in the other class, the one for younger children, starting tomorrow. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He loved it. It will be good.
Today was Secondo’s first day. We were going to take the bus, Primo, Secondo, their nanny and I, so I could show her how to get there if she ever needs to pick him up. But the bus was late, so we had to pile into the car and rush over. P was waiting there. We all walked in, and Secondo headed for the toy school bus again. I kissed him goodbye and told him I was leaving. It didn’t seem to register. Then we closed the door behind us and I looked through the window for just a few seconds. When he looked up and seemed to realize I’d left, I quickly moved away so he wouldn't see me. Didn’t you cry? my friends asked me later. I would have. No, I said. I just wanted to get away from there to make life easier for him and his teacher.
P told me his was just fine, if clingy, when he picked him up. Ms. C told him Secondo named several foods and ate a rice cake. That was the summary of the day. I looked through his daily log as soon as I got home from work. Great first day! it read in neat script. Secondo used lots of words! Underneath was a little list: cracker, raisin, more.
That is a good first day.
I just didn’t think it was necessary for my kids. The boys have a nanny, who I’ve known since I was in high school, and I’ve loved and trusted her from day one. The fact that she is from El Salvador and speaks no English was a huge bonus to me. It meant the boys would be exposed mostly to Spanish, and I wanted to keep that going for as long as possible. Plus, preschool for two children would be expensive, and who needs that? I watched several of my friends research schools last spring, tour them all, get on waiting lists and then agonize over the decision. Oh, hell, no, I thought.
But then Secondo qualified for the preschool class at our public school, and P and I started feeling a little bad for Primo. He would be lonely without Secondo, probably. We don’t have too many playdates, so he doesn’t see other kids all that often. And he’s such a cheerful, outgoing child that he would probably love being with other kids at preschool.
So I contacted a preschool. It’s a short walk from the house. That was seriously my only criterion. Primo and I went on a tour, and he walked into the classroom like he owned the place. My guide talked the school up. That’s okay, lady, I thought. As long as you aren’t torturing small children in the basement, really, I’m good. But I just nodded. Since this was just last month, there was a waiting list, so I put Primo on it and crossed my fingers.
I got the call fifteen minutes after Secondo’s open house was over. It was last minute, the director said. There was a parents’ meeting that night, and an open house the next day. I got the wrong information about the class would be in, so we went to the wrong open house. I was bummed—again--when I found out there were three Spanish-speaking parents there, too. Primo will be in the other class, the one for younger children, starting tomorrow. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He loved it. It will be good.
Today was Secondo’s first day. We were going to take the bus, Primo, Secondo, their nanny and I, so I could show her how to get there if she ever needs to pick him up. But the bus was late, so we had to pile into the car and rush over. P was waiting there. We all walked in, and Secondo headed for the toy school bus again. I kissed him goodbye and told him I was leaving. It didn’t seem to register. Then we closed the door behind us and I looked through the window for just a few seconds. When he looked up and seemed to realize I’d left, I quickly moved away so he wouldn't see me. Didn’t you cry? my friends asked me later. I would have. No, I said. I just wanted to get away from there to make life easier for him and his teacher.
P told me his was just fine, if clingy, when he picked him up. Ms. C told him Secondo named several foods and ate a rice cake. That was the summary of the day. I looked through his daily log as soon as I got home from work. Great first day! it read in neat script. Secondo used lots of words! Underneath was a little list: cracker, raisin, more.
That is a good first day.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Open House
“You’d better get a three-ring binder,” the teacher told me a month ago, as we left the IEP meeting. “You’re going to need it—you’ll have that much paperwork.”
The events regarding Secondo the past few months have been a blur. Not because there’s been that much going on, or because things have happened at lightning speed. But it’s all kind of fuzzy in my mind. He was evaluated at home, several months ago. It took an hour. And after that, we got a report in the mail. Even though I read it many, many times, I can only remember a few phrases. Developmental delay. Special education. And the only one that actually scares me a little: Social communicative disorder cannot be ruled out.
Which is how P, Secondo and I finally find ourselves at the open house for the special education preschool class he will be in starting on Monday. It is so bright and welcoming. The children’s names and birthdays are written on construction paper balloons and stapled on the bulletin board. When I see Secondo’s name up there, I am happy and excited and wistful and think I might cry.
Secondo, unfazed, makes a beeline for the toy school buses. His little yellow school bus is his favorite toy at home, and he immediately starts rolling this one back and forth. We parents and the two teachers alternate between making small talk and refereeing squabbles over toys, of which there are many.
“Secondo,” I chide, when he instigates such a squabble. “Tiene que compartir.”
The other little boy’s mother stares at me. “¿Hablas español?” she asks me, and then we are chatting away at a speed that English speakers find unnatural.
“Does your boy speak Spanish?” I ask.
She lowers her eyes. “Well, I speak to him in Spanish,” she says. “But he doesn’t talk too much.”
I could kick myself. “I know,” I tell her. “Secondo’s the same way.”
Her little boy is Ramón* and I am deeply bummed to find out that he and Secondo won’t be in the same class. But his mother tells me she’ll be going to the support group meetings for parents. I remember the flier, which is buried deep in a stack of papers and will be until I get that three-ring binder. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but now I decide I’ll go whenever I can.
We get ready to leave. I gather up Secondo so that he’s at eye level with his teacher, who he’s ignored for the past hour. “Secondo,” I say in English, for her benefit. “This is your teacher, Miss C.” Nothing. “Secondo.” I gently turn his face with the palm of my hand. And then he looks at her, really looks at her. And I can tell he doesn’t quite know what to make of this. So I tickle him and get a huge smile.
“He’s a beautiful child,” Miss C. murmurs.
And I’ll bet she says that to all the parents. But he is a beautiful child. I take him by the hand, and we walk to the car. And I’ve come away with such a great feeling.
I can’t wait until Monday.
*Names changed, of course.
The events regarding Secondo the past few months have been a blur. Not because there’s been that much going on, or because things have happened at lightning speed. But it’s all kind of fuzzy in my mind. He was evaluated at home, several months ago. It took an hour. And after that, we got a report in the mail. Even though I read it many, many times, I can only remember a few phrases. Developmental delay. Special education. And the only one that actually scares me a little: Social communicative disorder cannot be ruled out.
Which is how P, Secondo and I finally find ourselves at the open house for the special education preschool class he will be in starting on Monday. It is so bright and welcoming. The children’s names and birthdays are written on construction paper balloons and stapled on the bulletin board. When I see Secondo’s name up there, I am happy and excited and wistful and think I might cry.
Secondo, unfazed, makes a beeline for the toy school buses. His little yellow school bus is his favorite toy at home, and he immediately starts rolling this one back and forth. We parents and the two teachers alternate between making small talk and refereeing squabbles over toys, of which there are many.
“Secondo,” I chide, when he instigates such a squabble. “Tiene que compartir.”
The other little boy’s mother stares at me. “¿Hablas español?” she asks me, and then we are chatting away at a speed that English speakers find unnatural.
“Does your boy speak Spanish?” I ask.
She lowers her eyes. “Well, I speak to him in Spanish,” she says. “But he doesn’t talk too much.”
I could kick myself. “I know,” I tell her. “Secondo’s the same way.”
Her little boy is Ramón* and I am deeply bummed to find out that he and Secondo won’t be in the same class. But his mother tells me she’ll be going to the support group meetings for parents. I remember the flier, which is buried deep in a stack of papers and will be until I get that three-ring binder. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but now I decide I’ll go whenever I can.
We get ready to leave. I gather up Secondo so that he’s at eye level with his teacher, who he’s ignored for the past hour. “Secondo,” I say in English, for her benefit. “This is your teacher, Miss C.” Nothing. “Secondo.” I gently turn his face with the palm of my hand. And then he looks at her, really looks at her. And I can tell he doesn’t quite know what to make of this. So I tickle him and get a huge smile.
“He’s a beautiful child,” Miss C. murmurs.
And I’ll bet she says that to all the parents. But he is a beautiful child. I take him by the hand, and we walk to the car. And I’ve come away with such a great feeling.
I can’t wait until Monday.
*Names changed, of course.
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