It's not like you think. Autism, that is. And that's what I want people to know.
I have been thinking lately about disclosure. How open should I be about Oliver? At what point do I tell people that my son has autism? What do I want people to know about life with Oliver? What goal do I have in mind when I share this important fact of our life with people?
Shortly after we were given the diagnosis in early August of this year, I took Oliver to his pediatrician's office for his 3-year check-up. In the examination room a nurse sat down with us, Oliver's file in front of her, and asked if there was anything specific that we wanted to talk to the doctor about.
"Well, Oliver was just a few weeks ago diagnosed with autism and so I guess I have some questions about that."
I remember that my face turned red because I still wasn't used to saying these things out loud.
No reaction from the nurse but she made a note on the file and then, without looking up, started reading questions to me from the standard child development checklist. Does he do this. Does he do that. Can he do X, Y, and Z. As the questioning proceeded I squared my shoulders, straightened my back, firmed my jaw a bit more and willed myself not to cry. I looked directly at her and answered "no" every time. I couldn't believe she was putting me through this drill. After I had answered all but one question negatively I could see that the nurse's face had grown alarmed. She flipped through some pages in the file until she found the check-list presented at Oliver's two-year appointment.
"But he was right on track last year at this time."
"I told you, he has Autism. He started to lose all those skills around the age of two. In retrospect I think he started regressing around 18 months."
The nurse left, looking shocked, and the doctor came in, pronounced Oliver fit as a fiddle and looked blankly at me when I questioned him about autism as an autoimmune disease and about the root of Oliver's GI problems. I felt completely adrift -- and slightly assaulted -- as I dressed Oliver and gathered our things to go.
When I approached the business desk to get my receipt all of the nurses and receptionists were noticeably quiet. No one looked at us and I felt as though I were intruding on a private conversation. The nurse who had been with us earlier was standing to one side looking at her feet. "Oh," I thought. "She told them all and now they feel sorry for me." My guess was confirmed when the receptionist looked up at me with the unmistakeable look of pity on her face. I squared my shoulders once again, looked into my son's beautiful face, looked back at the woman and thought: "I will NOT accept your pity."
I took my son, whom they knew nothing about except for that goddamn awful word 'Autism', and left.
The shame and hurt and fury that I felt that day -- and everytime someone refuses to look me in the eye because they feel embarrassment or pity for me -- has stayed with me. It is burned into my psyche.
But the truth is that I was very fragile at that point. The diagnosis was still so new. And I, like so many people, knew of autism mostly from what I had picked up in the media over the years -- and that picture is, indeed, scary. But what I was having trouble sorting out, even in those early stages of grief, was that the picture that the media gives us about Autism has very little to do with our Oliver.
If the people who look at me with pity -- or who can't look at me at all -- knew Oliver, they would know why I count myself so lucky in life.
I haven't gone around telling people about Oliver. People who know us well know that Oliver has autism. But I hardly ever talk about it with anyone other than Nik, Oliver's teachers and therapists. And then of course, there is this blog, which is a very public chronicle of our lives with Oliver and the subject of autism. The more I learn about autism and the more I live and grow with Oliver, the greater my urge to educate people. I am so proud of our boy and I find myself telling more and more people. "My son has autism."
And it's not like they think. It's not like I thought.
My son Oliver has autism. And I wouldn't trade him for anything.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
A Different Kind of Reflection
I really need some more lines around my eyes.
Seriously.
I'm 36 years old and like Rod Stewart's Maggie Mae, the morning sun really shows my age. In fact I try to avoid looking in the bathroom mirror during a certain hour of the morning when the sunlight shines golden on that side of the house. Not that I'm vain or anything.
But for the past few months I have found myself pursing my lips and clenching my teeth throughout the day and evening. Sitting at my desk. Cooking dinner. In the shower. On the phone.
I need to lighten up. Taking life so seriously won't cure Oliver of autism.
Clenching my teeth won't put lines around my eyes.
Smiles that go all the way to my eyes -- the kind that Oliver and Nik and Sam have in abundance -- are what I wish for myself in the new year.
New Years Resolution #2: Get more lines around my eyes!
Seriously.
I'm 36 years old and like Rod Stewart's Maggie Mae, the morning sun really shows my age. In fact I try to avoid looking in the bathroom mirror during a certain hour of the morning when the sunlight shines golden on that side of the house. Not that I'm vain or anything.
But for the past few months I have found myself pursing my lips and clenching my teeth throughout the day and evening. Sitting at my desk. Cooking dinner. In the shower. On the phone.
I need to lighten up. Taking life so seriously won't cure Oliver of autism.
Clenching my teeth won't put lines around my eyes.
Smiles that go all the way to my eyes -- the kind that Oliver and Nik and Sam have in abundance -- are what I wish for myself in the new year.
New Years Resolution #2: Get more lines around my eyes!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Reflections
The new year is coming on steadily and reflections of the one behind us are, I suppose, inescapable. What a year it has been in our small green house!
2005 will probably always be known to us as the year of Autism, which is particularly sad because it was also the year that our Sammy was born. Sam was born at home, after only 3 hours of mostly easy labor and was welcomed into the arms of each family member in turn. It was the one shining moment of the year. I haven't been the best mother to baby Sam. All the kisses and hugs and tickles that were lavished on Oliver as a baby have been almost an after-thought with Sam. I know that all mothers of two children feel that the infancy of their second slips by faster than it did for the first -- but Sam has been almost completely overshadowed by autism. I haven't enjoyed the moments I've spent putting him to sleep because I am just desperate for him to be asleep. The minutes I spend walking and rocking him are minutes when Oliver is wandering aimlessly around the house or posted in front of the TV. The times when I should be oohing and aahing over his developmental milestones are times I have been focusing on trying to figure out how to get Oliver to milestones that he has missed.
New Year's Resolution #1: Spend more time enjoying Sammy. He is a gift of love and laughter and he needs us as much as we need him.
2005 was also the year that two neighbors, women I barely knew, offered me solace, hope, strong embraces, and ice cream in the middle of the afternoon.
It was the year that people started referring to their own children as normal. As in: "Well, my kid is normal but . ..."
And it was the year that a perfect stranger turned to me and said: "Did you ever think he might have autism?"
And it was the year I lost faith in the medical establishment.
2005 was the year I quit my job. And the year I learned what it really means to be a mother.
It was the year that old friends and some family members have disappeared -- or perhaps, not knowing what to say, they have remained silent. Same difference.
And it was the year that some friendships blossomed and nurtured me when I needed it most.
It was the year of the diet.
And the year of the poop.
And it was the year that I learned that when you just don't know whether to laugh or cry you should always choose laughter. Because, happy or sad, the same mess will be there to clean up when you are done and it is easier to face if you've just had a good laugh.
2005 will probably always be known to us as the year of Autism, which is particularly sad because it was also the year that our Sammy was born. Sam was born at home, after only 3 hours of mostly easy labor and was welcomed into the arms of each family member in turn. It was the one shining moment of the year. I haven't been the best mother to baby Sam. All the kisses and hugs and tickles that were lavished on Oliver as a baby have been almost an after-thought with Sam. I know that all mothers of two children feel that the infancy of their second slips by faster than it did for the first -- but Sam has been almost completely overshadowed by autism. I haven't enjoyed the moments I've spent putting him to sleep because I am just desperate for him to be asleep. The minutes I spend walking and rocking him are minutes when Oliver is wandering aimlessly around the house or posted in front of the TV. The times when I should be oohing and aahing over his developmental milestones are times I have been focusing on trying to figure out how to get Oliver to milestones that he has missed.
New Year's Resolution #1: Spend more time enjoying Sammy. He is a gift of love and laughter and he needs us as much as we need him.
2005 was also the year that two neighbors, women I barely knew, offered me solace, hope, strong embraces, and ice cream in the middle of the afternoon.
It was the year that people started referring to their own children as normal. As in: "Well, my kid is normal but . ..."
And it was the year that a perfect stranger turned to me and said: "Did you ever think he might have autism?"
And it was the year I lost faith in the medical establishment.
2005 was the year I quit my job. And the year I learned what it really means to be a mother.
It was the year that old friends and some family members have disappeared -- or perhaps, not knowing what to say, they have remained silent. Same difference.
And it was the year that some friendships blossomed and nurtured me when I needed it most.
It was the year of the diet.
And the year of the poop.
And it was the year that I learned that when you just don't know whether to laugh or cry you should always choose laughter. Because, happy or sad, the same mess will be there to clean up when you are done and it is easier to face if you've just had a good laugh.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Snow Day
All I could think of when I heard the radio announce that the schools were closed was: "Ugh! Stuck at home with both children." I know that isn't a great thing to admit but let's face it: they are a lot of work. And I'm not the kind of mom who bundles them up and goes outdoors to enjoy the fresh air and new fallen snow. I don't like it cold. Fresh air in the cold weather is their father's job.
But, determined to make the best of it, I rallied the children into the playroom after sending Nik off to work and cleaning up the Yummy Cake crumbs from breakfast. First thing Oliver wanted to do was run around and around between the two rooms and the hall while shaking his head in his favorite stim. OK, I thought. It's going to be a long day. So I grabbed him around the waist and said, in my most enthusiastic voice: "Let's build a tower, Oliver!!" Then I stationed Sammy in front of his new Fisher Price ball-eating-catepiller on one side of me and dumped out the bag of mega blocks on the other. I handed Oliver a block and started putting some randomly together hoping that he would join in easily. "Wow, this is going to be a great tower, Oliver!" He responded un-enthusiastically but heaving a block at the small construction and then tried to resume his running. Meanwhile, Sammy saw the tower and wouldn't content himself with just mouthing the few blocks I put in his lap but rather kept trying to cross over my legs to get at the tower. So there I was, trying desparately to keep Sam away from the tower while simultaneously repeatedly catching Oliver in some stage of escape and motivating him to help me build. He humored me until Sam distracted me and then he would again try to bolt and the whole comedy started all over again.
After the blocks the whole episode was repeated with the cars, trucks, dinosaurs, bubbles and musical instruments. I donn't remember a time when it was so hard to get Oliver to focus. And Sam, it appears has become suddenly stubbornly interested in only what his brother has and, apparently, doesn't want.
About 40 mintues into this I realized that Oliver had to go to the bathroom. So, I then moved the party into the small, downstairs bathroom: two children, one adult, a couple of books for Oliver and some toys for Sam. With Sam somewhat occupied I turned my attention to Oliver and alternately encouraged, soothed and distracted. After only one biting episode (yesterday I nearly lost my right ear when I leaned into his embrace thinking he only meant to hug me!) and 10 minutes we emerged from the bathroom victorious -- the second day in a row!! I was so proud and happy that I told him he could run around until his little legs couldn't carry him anymore. Curiously, though he didn't seem to need to. So instead I rewarded him with a video. Sam took a nap and I sat on the couch and rubbed Oliver's feet in just the way he likes me to.
Our afternoon therapist was able to make it to our house despite the snow. She had somewhat better luck than I did engaging Oliver. We brought some toys out of "retirement" and that seemed to help. And then the day seemed to pass without as much effort as the morning. Tag-teaming Oliver is the way to go. Solo is hard.
We also received word yesterday that our request for additional hours of service through the school district is being positively considered. So knowing that we don't have to do this all alone is an incredible boost. I am also feeling very fortunate that we haven't had to battle for the funding for his program. Oliver is the first child in our city to receive these services and so they consider him a "test case". I don't mind as long as it keeps working in our favor.
Both kids fell into a hard sleep at 7pm and I had the delight of being able to curl up with each of them for the last few moments before their breathing became heavy with sleep. When I crawled into Oliver's bear bed he put my hand over his and laid his cheek cool against mine. He was asleep within moments. A hard day of work and play behind him.
But, determined to make the best of it, I rallied the children into the playroom after sending Nik off to work and cleaning up the Yummy Cake crumbs from breakfast. First thing Oliver wanted to do was run around and around between the two rooms and the hall while shaking his head in his favorite stim. OK, I thought. It's going to be a long day. So I grabbed him around the waist and said, in my most enthusiastic voice: "Let's build a tower, Oliver!!" Then I stationed Sammy in front of his new Fisher Price ball-eating-catepiller on one side of me and dumped out the bag of mega blocks on the other. I handed Oliver a block and started putting some randomly together hoping that he would join in easily. "Wow, this is going to be a great tower, Oliver!" He responded un-enthusiastically but heaving a block at the small construction and then tried to resume his running. Meanwhile, Sammy saw the tower and wouldn't content himself with just mouthing the few blocks I put in his lap but rather kept trying to cross over my legs to get at the tower. So there I was, trying desparately to keep Sam away from the tower while simultaneously repeatedly catching Oliver in some stage of escape and motivating him to help me build. He humored me until Sam distracted me and then he would again try to bolt and the whole comedy started all over again.
After the blocks the whole episode was repeated with the cars, trucks, dinosaurs, bubbles and musical instruments. I donn't remember a time when it was so hard to get Oliver to focus. And Sam, it appears has become suddenly stubbornly interested in only what his brother has and, apparently, doesn't want.
About 40 mintues into this I realized that Oliver had to go to the bathroom. So, I then moved the party into the small, downstairs bathroom: two children, one adult, a couple of books for Oliver and some toys for Sam. With Sam somewhat occupied I turned my attention to Oliver and alternately encouraged, soothed and distracted. After only one biting episode (yesterday I nearly lost my right ear when I leaned into his embrace thinking he only meant to hug me!) and 10 minutes we emerged from the bathroom victorious -- the second day in a row!! I was so proud and happy that I told him he could run around until his little legs couldn't carry him anymore. Curiously, though he didn't seem to need to. So instead I rewarded him with a video. Sam took a nap and I sat on the couch and rubbed Oliver's feet in just the way he likes me to.
Our afternoon therapist was able to make it to our house despite the snow. She had somewhat better luck than I did engaging Oliver. We brought some toys out of "retirement" and that seemed to help. And then the day seemed to pass without as much effort as the morning. Tag-teaming Oliver is the way to go. Solo is hard.
We also received word yesterday that our request for additional hours of service through the school district is being positively considered. So knowing that we don't have to do this all alone is an incredible boost. I am also feeling very fortunate that we haven't had to battle for the funding for his program. Oliver is the first child in our city to receive these services and so they consider him a "test case". I don't mind as long as it keeps working in our favor.
Both kids fell into a hard sleep at 7pm and I had the delight of being able to curl up with each of them for the last few moments before their breathing became heavy with sleep. When I crawled into Oliver's bear bed he put my hand over his and laid his cheek cool against mine. He was asleep within moments. A hard day of work and play behind him.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Engaging Oliver
One of the biggest challenges we have right now is finding ways to keep Oliver engaged. There are few things that will really hold his attention. On a good day we can keep him focused on an activity for about five minutes. Left to his own devices Oliver will cruise around the house, moving from place to place and not really focusing on anything for more than a minute. It gets worse when he is really tired. Knowing that this is a problem, each of us takes a turn at playing with him during the day and evening. Sometimes this means one minute of puzzle-making and 30 seconds of catching him and trying to re-engage him to put in another piece. I feel bad sometimes because I catch myself thinking what a lot of work it can be and then I have to redirect myself to remember that it must be a whole lot more work for the little guy.
And then there are the self-stimulating activities. I mentioned before that one of Oliver's stims is to interact with his own reflection. Another one is to run around the perimeter of the playroom, or between two rooms, while shaking his head from side to side as if he were vehemently saying no to something the rest of us aren't privy to. Another are what I call hand puppets -- when he puts his hands right up to his face and watches very intently as he moves his fingers into shapes. I have to admit that the stims drive me crazy. It isn't that they bother anyone, particularly, but rather that I can't help but think that he just shouldn't be doing it. He should be doing something constructive. Something social. Something developmentally appropriate. I see him doing these things and I think that I'm not working hard enough to engage him so that he won't need to.
But lately I've come to realize that to completely cut Oliver off from his stims will both drive me to exhaustion and will send him the wrong message. Although I don't completely understand it, I know that he enjoys these activities, takes comfort in them, because he needs the sensory input that they provide. One day, perhaps, we will find a way for him to get the same experience in a more appropriate way but until then I suppose I have to find a way to think about them in a positive way more often.
Another thought I had was to see if I could make the stims into a social activity. At first this might sound peculiar, but I thought that it would at least be a way to meet him in the middle. The first one I tackled was the reflection-gazing. Last night I hung a large carnival mirror in the playroom hoping that we can all spend time being silly in front of the mirror with Oliver. He showed about 30 seconds of interest last night but today I saw him start to make the mirror a stop on his cruising rounds of the house. It always takes him a while to warm up to new things so it is too soon to tell if my plan will be effective. At the very least, Sam seems to like it and the bottom corner of it is now adorned with his slobber.
Now about the head shaking and the hand puppets I don't know. One thing at a time, I guess.
And then there are the self-stimulating activities. I mentioned before that one of Oliver's stims is to interact with his own reflection. Another one is to run around the perimeter of the playroom, or between two rooms, while shaking his head from side to side as if he were vehemently saying no to something the rest of us aren't privy to. Another are what I call hand puppets -- when he puts his hands right up to his face and watches very intently as he moves his fingers into shapes. I have to admit that the stims drive me crazy. It isn't that they bother anyone, particularly, but rather that I can't help but think that he just shouldn't be doing it. He should be doing something constructive. Something social. Something developmentally appropriate. I see him doing these things and I think that I'm not working hard enough to engage him so that he won't need to.
But lately I've come to realize that to completely cut Oliver off from his stims will both drive me to exhaustion and will send him the wrong message. Although I don't completely understand it, I know that he enjoys these activities, takes comfort in them, because he needs the sensory input that they provide. One day, perhaps, we will find a way for him to get the same experience in a more appropriate way but until then I suppose I have to find a way to think about them in a positive way more often.
Another thought I had was to see if I could make the stims into a social activity. At first this might sound peculiar, but I thought that it would at least be a way to meet him in the middle. The first one I tackled was the reflection-gazing. Last night I hung a large carnival mirror in the playroom hoping that we can all spend time being silly in front of the mirror with Oliver. He showed about 30 seconds of interest last night but today I saw him start to make the mirror a stop on his cruising rounds of the house. It always takes him a while to warm up to new things so it is too soon to tell if my plan will be effective. At the very least, Sam seems to like it and the bottom corner of it is now adorned with his slobber.
Now about the head shaking and the hand puppets I don't know. One thing at a time, I guess.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Red, Green and Blue
I'm a little behind on my Christmas shopping. OK, if truth be told, I haven't even started yet. The problem is that I've got a little bit of the Humbug! So I'm waffeling between wanting to just forget the whole thing this year and hoping that if I just start going through the motions my attitude will get the adjustment that it needs.
I'll probably just throw myself into it and see what happens.
Here is the dilemna: I'm one of those perfect gift type of people. I don't go all-out and stuff everything imaginable under the Christmas tree, but small or large, I try to find the perfect gift for everyone. But with Oliver this is particulary hard. There have been plenty of times that I've come home with an item that I would have just loved as a kid, only to have him show not a second of interest. I mean not even look at the the thing. Or, if I'm lucky he might play with it for five minutes and then walk away. As a Mom who would really like to give my kids the moon, this can be a little disappointing.
Also, one thing you should know if you don't already, is that a lot of kids with Autism lack the ability to engage in imaginative play. This is the case with Oliver but I'm happy to report that just lately we've been seeing some improvements. Within the last month he has started moving cars around and making motor noises and having them crash into one another. And I showed him how to make his toy dinosaurs ride on the cars and motorcycles and to my surprise this has become a favored activity.
Having to teach Oliver how to play is one of the oddest things about this new world of Autism. I'd always imagined myself as one of those anything-goes parents, not someone who feels compelled to to say there is a right and wrong way to play -- but that is exactly what I find myself doing. "No, we don't stack the pretend food in a tower, we make little sandwhiches and then pretend to eat them." "No, you don't put the pants on the bear's head, you put it on his legs."
When we were initially going through the diagnosis process I joked to Nik that the specialists were going to tell us that all of Oliver's problems could be traced to the fact that he didn't have enough toys. And, while Oliver certainly has more toys than some, he definately has far fewer than any of the kids in his playgroup. The reason for this is that I could never really identify things that I thought he would hold his interest. Buying toys was a big waste of money and, once we received the diagnosis, just plain painful.
But here we are at Christmas time and the really hopeful part of me thinks that I might be able to find something that he will like. I will put the tree up and try to get him to help with the decorations. I'll play Christmas music and talk about Santa Claus. But I'm pretty sure that none of it will make much of an impact on him.
Except possibly for the tree in the middle of the living room. I wonder what he will make of that?
I'll probably just throw myself into it and see what happens.
Here is the dilemna: I'm one of those perfect gift type of people. I don't go all-out and stuff everything imaginable under the Christmas tree, but small or large, I try to find the perfect gift for everyone. But with Oliver this is particulary hard. There have been plenty of times that I've come home with an item that I would have just loved as a kid, only to have him show not a second of interest. I mean not even look at the the thing. Or, if I'm lucky he might play with it for five minutes and then walk away. As a Mom who would really like to give my kids the moon, this can be a little disappointing.
Also, one thing you should know if you don't already, is that a lot of kids with Autism lack the ability to engage in imaginative play. This is the case with Oliver but I'm happy to report that just lately we've been seeing some improvements. Within the last month he has started moving cars around and making motor noises and having them crash into one another. And I showed him how to make his toy dinosaurs ride on the cars and motorcycles and to my surprise this has become a favored activity.
Having to teach Oliver how to play is one of the oddest things about this new world of Autism. I'd always imagined myself as one of those anything-goes parents, not someone who feels compelled to to say there is a right and wrong way to play -- but that is exactly what I find myself doing. "No, we don't stack the pretend food in a tower, we make little sandwhiches and then pretend to eat them." "No, you don't put the pants on the bear's head, you put it on his legs."
When we were initially going through the diagnosis process I joked to Nik that the specialists were going to tell us that all of Oliver's problems could be traced to the fact that he didn't have enough toys. And, while Oliver certainly has more toys than some, he definately has far fewer than any of the kids in his playgroup. The reason for this is that I could never really identify things that I thought he would hold his interest. Buying toys was a big waste of money and, once we received the diagnosis, just plain painful.
But here we are at Christmas time and the really hopeful part of me thinks that I might be able to find something that he will like. I will put the tree up and try to get him to help with the decorations. I'll play Christmas music and talk about Santa Claus. But I'm pretty sure that none of it will make much of an impact on him.
Except possibly for the tree in the middle of the living room. I wonder what he will make of that?
Friday, December 02, 2005
Then and Now
I got the following in an e-mail from Oliver's aide today:
"I just had a great day with Oliver and wanted to tell you this: Oliver was at the table with the doll house and a friend was playing beside him with a helper. The other little boy was in a hugging mood, he walked up behind Oliver and reached to give him a hug, Oliver then turned to return the hug. They stood there hugging for about 30 sec. The little boy started to walk away and Oliver continued to follow him around trying to "talk" to him (i'm not to sure what he was saying). Oliver kept reaching his arms out to give him another hug, and of course by this point all the teachers are watching so the little boy is pretending not to care. This went on for like 2 min then Oliver decided he was done and walked away. I think this was the most emotional I have been about a kid in a long time; it really touched me that he wanted to interact but was unsure until another student came and showed him how. I love moments like that. It will stay with me forever. "
Last fall we were really amused by Oliver whenever we took him to a place where there were other kids because he went around hugging everyone. I apologized to more than one parent after he had gripped their child in a bear hug so stong that both kids ended up tumbling to the ground. "He just really likes to hug people," I remember saying. And I felt kind of happy inside that he was such an affectionate kid.
Fast forward to the beginning of the summer this year and another picture that springs to mind is of Oliver playing in the kiddie pool in our back yard with one of the other children from our play group. The little girl spent a lot of time dumping water on Oliver's head to which he responded with such glee. He wanted to return the favor for her but she didn't really like water over her head so he was happy to let her do the dumping. It was about this same time that we were beginning to suspect that Oliver might have a speech delay and I had taken him to the school district for observation. There was no diagnosis yet.
Fast forward again to the end of the summer and another kiddie pool. Oliver wouldn't go near the other kids and I spent the whole time trying to keep him from escaping the yard. By now I had the diagnosis and was determined to get him to interact with the other kids. It didn't work and I ended up quietly devastated. It was almost unbelieveable to me how much he had changed in less than a year. How had it happened without it being so obvious?
So we have had the diagnosis for almost exactly 4 months, he has had a program going for 8 weeks and I already see glimmers of the things to come. A little hug can go a long way.
"I just had a great day with Oliver and wanted to tell you this: Oliver was at the table with the doll house and a friend was playing beside him with a helper. The other little boy was in a hugging mood, he walked up behind Oliver and reached to give him a hug, Oliver then turned to return the hug. They stood there hugging for about 30 sec. The little boy started to walk away and Oliver continued to follow him around trying to "talk" to him (i'm not to sure what he was saying). Oliver kept reaching his arms out to give him another hug, and of course by this point all the teachers are watching so the little boy is pretending not to care. This went on for like 2 min then Oliver decided he was done and walked away. I think this was the most emotional I have been about a kid in a long time; it really touched me that he wanted to interact but was unsure until another student came and showed him how. I love moments like that. It will stay with me forever. "
Last fall we were really amused by Oliver whenever we took him to a place where there were other kids because he went around hugging everyone. I apologized to more than one parent after he had gripped their child in a bear hug so stong that both kids ended up tumbling to the ground. "He just really likes to hug people," I remember saying. And I felt kind of happy inside that he was such an affectionate kid.
Fast forward to the beginning of the summer this year and another picture that springs to mind is of Oliver playing in the kiddie pool in our back yard with one of the other children from our play group. The little girl spent a lot of time dumping water on Oliver's head to which he responded with such glee. He wanted to return the favor for her but she didn't really like water over her head so he was happy to let her do the dumping. It was about this same time that we were beginning to suspect that Oliver might have a speech delay and I had taken him to the school district for observation. There was no diagnosis yet.
Fast forward again to the end of the summer and another kiddie pool. Oliver wouldn't go near the other kids and I spent the whole time trying to keep him from escaping the yard. By now I had the diagnosis and was determined to get him to interact with the other kids. It didn't work and I ended up quietly devastated. It was almost unbelieveable to me how much he had changed in less than a year. How had it happened without it being so obvious?
So we have had the diagnosis for almost exactly 4 months, he has had a program going for 8 weeks and I already see glimmers of the things to come. A little hug can go a long way.
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