A few months ago I let down my guard and lamented to a friend that I would give anything -- anything -- if Oliver would talk. That's when she told me that she wished she had my problem because it felt like there were days when she couldn't get her daughter to shut up. Aside from that being just an incredibly stupid thing to say, it made me realize that sometimes it is really difficult to "get" someone else's problems unless you've put on their proverbial shoes. But I've made a real effort this summer to kick off my shoes, proverbial, metaphorical and otherwise and spend some time walking barefoot, feeling the earth, wet from a child's afternoon romp under the sprinkler, squish up between my toes. And it feels good. It feels right. I'm tired of my shoes and I'm not about to try on anyone else's either. So I've made a lot of excuses, let the phone ring the machine will get it, turned down invitations, left early when it didn't feel right and just generally tried to keep my feet in close contact with the earth in my own little patch of backyard.
Yesterday I spent some time with Oliver laying in the grass in our backyard, gazing up at the tree and the sky and the clouds. It has been a long time since I did that, maybe since I was a child myself. It reminded me what it is like to be a little person in a big person's world. It was also quite itchy laying in the grass like that.
Oliver is making some progress though on his use of language. He is repeating more: both immediately and delayed. If I help him point to objects and then label them he will ususally try to repeat what I've said if I give him the space and time. Or if he is upset or confused he might also repeat what was just said. I know this is a good sign but I am also trying hard not to get so excited that I begin to pressure him into performing.
The three words for celebration this week are: "Bye", "Oliver", and "Yes". All of which have consistently been heard from a little special someone who moves me beyond words.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Ben
"So will Oliver be able to stay with you?"
The question was so far from anything I had ever thought about that it took me a second to realize what she was talking about.
"Um. Yeah. I mean I can't imagine him being anywhere else."
But she hadn't yet met Oliver, that would come the next day. And the question was an honest one and based on what she knew about autism. I was helping to host her family while they stayed in our town, her husband working on a project with my colleagues. Their two girls were exactly the same age as my two boys and so when I found out they would be accompanying him I offered to show them around, share some toys and for our kids to play together. We exchanged e-mails prior to the visit and, although I rarely talk about Oliver's autism to those whom I don't know well, I found myself typing out the words: "my son has autism." Just like that. No further explanation.
Her reply surprised me. She told me that her brother, who died 4 years earlier, also had autism. He had other health issues that made it difficult for them to keep him at home and so, at the age of seven, he went to live in an institution. In another country.
There was a time in my life when I would have felt that I could pass judgement on those two points. That time has certainly passed.
When we met at the tea shop that morning my children were at home and I spent the hour trading stories and secrets and jokes with her young one who is Oliver's same exact age. I couldn't take my eyes from her. I threw all my energies into not thinking about how I wished to know my own child in the same way.
The next day we met at a beautiful park with hiking trails and a lake where we go often to walk and feed the ducks. We took a picnic lunch and the children and sat on a blanket under a shade tree eating grilled cheese sandwhiches. I felt relaxed in her company because I knew she understood and because I knew she wouldn't pass judgement and because I knew she could see how beautiful he is. And when she said: "You're doing a really good job with him." I knew she meant that too.
I cautiously asked her about Ben, the brother who had died. He didn't talk much and couldn't tell them exactly what was wrong when he began to feel the pain. He was admitted to the hospital too late and by the time they found the cause it had already killed him. He loved to swim. He loved to sit in a room full of moving lights. She wished she had known him better. As she spoke she couldn't take her eyes from Oliver. And then it was too hard for her to talk about anymore.
Our conversation lapsed as we sat there, two near strangers in silent understanding.
I will never forget Ben, though I never met him. And I will never forget that afternoon by the lake.
The question was so far from anything I had ever thought about that it took me a second to realize what she was talking about.
"Um. Yeah. I mean I can't imagine him being anywhere else."
But she hadn't yet met Oliver, that would come the next day. And the question was an honest one and based on what she knew about autism. I was helping to host her family while they stayed in our town, her husband working on a project with my colleagues. Their two girls were exactly the same age as my two boys and so when I found out they would be accompanying him I offered to show them around, share some toys and for our kids to play together. We exchanged e-mails prior to the visit and, although I rarely talk about Oliver's autism to those whom I don't know well, I found myself typing out the words: "my son has autism." Just like that. No further explanation.
Her reply surprised me. She told me that her brother, who died 4 years earlier, also had autism. He had other health issues that made it difficult for them to keep him at home and so, at the age of seven, he went to live in an institution. In another country.
There was a time in my life when I would have felt that I could pass judgement on those two points. That time has certainly passed.
When we met at the tea shop that morning my children were at home and I spent the hour trading stories and secrets and jokes with her young one who is Oliver's same exact age. I couldn't take my eyes from her. I threw all my energies into not thinking about how I wished to know my own child in the same way.
The next day we met at a beautiful park with hiking trails and a lake where we go often to walk and feed the ducks. We took a picnic lunch and the children and sat on a blanket under a shade tree eating grilled cheese sandwhiches. I felt relaxed in her company because I knew she understood and because I knew she wouldn't pass judgement and because I knew she could see how beautiful he is. And when she said: "You're doing a really good job with him." I knew she meant that too.
I cautiously asked her about Ben, the brother who had died. He didn't talk much and couldn't tell them exactly what was wrong when he began to feel the pain. He was admitted to the hospital too late and by the time they found the cause it had already killed him. He loved to swim. He loved to sit in a room full of moving lights. She wished she had known him better. As she spoke she couldn't take her eyes from Oliver. And then it was too hard for her to talk about anymore.
Our conversation lapsed as we sat there, two near strangers in silent understanding.
I will never forget Ben, though I never met him. And I will never forget that afternoon by the lake.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Opening myself to Yes
"No, no, no, no!" is a favorite remark of Oliver's. And sometimes it really gets on my nerves. Like when I know he has to pee and I give him the count-down until the potty and still he tries to get out of going. First he tries to slip from my grasp as I reach out to direct him to the bathroom and then it's all: "No, no, no, no!" So I find myself saying: "Oliver, just say 'YES'! Say 'YES' to life!!" I feel very Norman Vincent Peale when I say it but sometimes I really do think 'yes' is the key to life. And what I wouldn't give to hear that little word from my little man.
Saying "YES" to life is something I thought I had learned throughout my twenties. This was absolutely necessary, by the way, because there was a time when I was a real mess: a complete bundle of stress and anxiety. Luckily though I learned a thing or two and now I also have Nik who is my best role-model. His natural ability to accept new challenges, changes and to just generally go with the flow and have fun was one of the things that attacted me to him most. So I'm well into my thirties now and thought I had a pretty good handle on this business of life. But lately I'm wondering if I have closed myself off too much from 'YES' and have retreated to a place where fear of the unknown rules the roost.
I'm afraid of a lot of things these days. I'm afraid that I'm not doing right by Oliver. That I'm not doing enough or the right things or enough of the right things. I'm afraid that I'm not doing everything I can to help Oliver have a happy rest of his life. I'm afraid of how the rest of the world will treat him when he is eventually thrust from our protective arms. And it is too much of looking questioningly, fearfully, into the future that gets in the way of being fully in the now, in this moment and saying 'YES' to what it has to offer. Of letting be, of going with the flow, of having fun.
Here is a real concrete example. Oliver has a few, shall we say, favorite activities that bug the heck out of me. He likes to walk backwards with his eyes closed over the same path in the back yard. He also likes to run while vigorously shaking his head from side to side. And then there is this loud buddhist-monk-like chanting thing that he does frequently throughout the day (and night -- but that is another story). Well, I know that each of these things is useful somehow to Oliver. They provide comfort or help to ground him somehow. Or maybe he just enjoys the way they make him feel. But these are also the very things that cause other children and adults to stop what they are doing and stare. For people to take a second, reappraising, diminishing look at my Oliver. They are things that will serve to isolate him further in the future. And so I find myself shushing and interrupting and redirecting -- so much so that now the "No, no, no, no!" is coming from me.
Acceptance and patience are two parts to saying "Yes!" to the here and now, neither one of which are particular talents of mine. I think this each night when I sit looking at Oliver's sleeping self and tell myself that I have to do better. Because I'm fairly certain that accepting things about Oliver that I find annoying or that I don't understand and instead patiently helping him to acquire the tools he needs to feel secure and to succeed is the right way ahead. But it is hard hard hard for me to remember this sometimes when all I want him to do is stop making that noise because I said so and I'm his mother and I already gently distracted him from it a million times over the past four hours.
Acceptance and patience are two things that Oliver needs from me -- from his family, from all of us. But giving these things to him demands that I stretch and push against myself constantly, all day long. It is hard work this business of changing, of bending, of flexing. But why shouldn't I have some of the hard work? Flexing, bending, changing: isn't this what we demand from Oliver all day every day? We're a team, Oliver and I and Nik and Sam and R.T. And all I can hope for is that each of us rises to these challenges that we never expected to face. That we each say "YES!" and embrace fully what is before us today without undue regard for the unknowable future.
And that, my friends, is my challenge to each of you. May you say "Yes" to the challenges before you today, accept what might be hard or scary or uncomfortable, and go forth with your own little team into the bright future.
Saying "YES" to life is something I thought I had learned throughout my twenties. This was absolutely necessary, by the way, because there was a time when I was a real mess: a complete bundle of stress and anxiety. Luckily though I learned a thing or two and now I also have Nik who is my best role-model. His natural ability to accept new challenges, changes and to just generally go with the flow and have fun was one of the things that attacted me to him most. So I'm well into my thirties now and thought I had a pretty good handle on this business of life. But lately I'm wondering if I have closed myself off too much from 'YES' and have retreated to a place where fear of the unknown rules the roost.
I'm afraid of a lot of things these days. I'm afraid that I'm not doing right by Oliver. That I'm not doing enough or the right things or enough of the right things. I'm afraid that I'm not doing everything I can to help Oliver have a happy rest of his life. I'm afraid of how the rest of the world will treat him when he is eventually thrust from our protective arms. And it is too much of looking questioningly, fearfully, into the future that gets in the way of being fully in the now, in this moment and saying 'YES' to what it has to offer. Of letting be, of going with the flow, of having fun.
Here is a real concrete example. Oliver has a few, shall we say, favorite activities that bug the heck out of me. He likes to walk backwards with his eyes closed over the same path in the back yard. He also likes to run while vigorously shaking his head from side to side. And then there is this loud buddhist-monk-like chanting thing that he does frequently throughout the day (and night -- but that is another story). Well, I know that each of these things is useful somehow to Oliver. They provide comfort or help to ground him somehow. Or maybe he just enjoys the way they make him feel. But these are also the very things that cause other children and adults to stop what they are doing and stare. For people to take a second, reappraising, diminishing look at my Oliver. They are things that will serve to isolate him further in the future. And so I find myself shushing and interrupting and redirecting -- so much so that now the "No, no, no, no!" is coming from me.
Acceptance and patience are two parts to saying "Yes!" to the here and now, neither one of which are particular talents of mine. I think this each night when I sit looking at Oliver's sleeping self and tell myself that I have to do better. Because I'm fairly certain that accepting things about Oliver that I find annoying or that I don't understand and instead patiently helping him to acquire the tools he needs to feel secure and to succeed is the right way ahead. But it is hard hard hard for me to remember this sometimes when all I want him to do is stop making that noise because I said so and I'm his mother and I already gently distracted him from it a million times over the past four hours.
Acceptance and patience are two things that Oliver needs from me -- from his family, from all of us. But giving these things to him demands that I stretch and push against myself constantly, all day long. It is hard work this business of changing, of bending, of flexing. But why shouldn't I have some of the hard work? Flexing, bending, changing: isn't this what we demand from Oliver all day every day? We're a team, Oliver and I and Nik and Sam and R.T. And all I can hope for is that each of us rises to these challenges that we never expected to face. That we each say "YES!" and embrace fully what is before us today without undue regard for the unknowable future.
And that, my friends, is my challenge to each of you. May you say "Yes" to the challenges before you today, accept what might be hard or scary or uncomfortable, and go forth with your own little team into the bright future.
Monday, July 10, 2006
We're Back!!
You know how it is when you come back from vacation feeling like you need a vacation? Well, that was not this vacation. Everyone should have a mother-in-law like I do. She truely took care of us as only a mother can and gave Nik and I the opportunity to focus on the children and re-lax-ation!!
Oliver and Sam did incredibly well, even on the long days of transit coming and going. We ate a ton of chocolate and ice cream. I started running again. We did some hiking. Ate some more chocolate and ice cream. Went swimming just about every day. And in general had a fantastic time. Now let's just hope it won't be another two years before we have another vacation!
More later on the vacation but in the meantime I thought I would post some pictures.
Sam learned to love food on this vacation: especially the abundant fresh strawberries.
The view from the top of the world (or at least the top of Europe)!
Oliver and Sam did incredibly well, even on the long days of transit coming and going. We ate a ton of chocolate and ice cream. I started running again. We did some hiking. Ate some more chocolate and ice cream. Went swimming just about every day. And in general had a fantastic time. Now let's just hope it won't be another two years before we have another vacation!
More later on the vacation but in the meantime I thought I would post some pictures.
Sam learned to love food on this vacation: especially the abundant fresh strawberries.
Oliver eating Chocolate on our excursion to the alps.
Outside Grandma's house.
In Liechtenstein's capital of Vaduz Oliver made some friends with the local wildlife.
Oliver with a wildflower in the Alps.
Hiking with Poppi.
The view from the top of the world (or at least the top of Europe)!
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