Significantly Disabled: A Funny Story

Want to hear something funny?

I've been doing a lot of advocacy work in my community around Inclusive Education. It's a subject that deserves a post of it's own. Or several, really. But this post is more of an interesting aside.

You see, in order to advocate well, I've been reading a lot of documents, reports and studies related to educational outcomes for kids with disabilities. Several months ago I was reading something that described a kid very much like the boy who lives in this little green house. The author used the boy like Oliver as a case study for his central thesis. The paper concluded that this other child -- the one so much like my own -- and others with significant disabilities, could benefit from being included with their non-disabled peers in the general education classroom.

Huh.

Now here's the funny part of the story:  My boy is thirteen years old. And after thirteen years together, after traveling far and wide with him, after riding our bikes for thousands of miles together, after swimming and surfing and camping together, after doing a million small, daily things together, for the very first time ever, upon reading this study, I came to understand that by any commonly accepted measures, he is considered Significantly Disabled.

This kinda blows me away -- almost like somebody told me he had a third eye somewhere that I didn't know about.

It blows me away because I would never, not in a million years, describe him that way because I don't think of him that way. Oliver is just Oliver. And yes, autism is a central part of who he is. But significantly disabled? What does that even mean?

So it got me thinking.

One of the benefits of stepping outside of the system and homeschooling for so many years is that we were free to create opportunities and experiences for our boy. We made sure that we always found ways for him to be competent and successful. We didn't put him in situations where his challenges weren't compensated for by his strengths or supports. So, while of course the challenges of his autism have always been a central consideration, even a significant consideration, they were just part of the balancing act.

But the balance has been precarious this year.

School has not been smooth sailing for my boy -- hence all of my advocacy work. In fact, since the beginning of the new year, I have been spending a tremendous amount of time at school with Oliver. Many, many times we have considered taking him out altogether and retreating to a place where balance is more easily within our grasp.

So when I read those words, Significantly Disabled, it was like that feeling you get when you first try on a pair of glasses with your new prescription and everything shifts slightly into focus. Because over the last few months I have watched my boy flounder and fail in a way I'm not used to seeing. And now I understood: in a classroom where he is consistently asked to overcome his challenges in order to succeed, where they are not also pitching to his strengths. ... well, he is indeed significantly disabled.  In fact, I don't think I've ever seen Oliver as disabled as I've seen him in the classroom this year.

Huh.

What a revelation.

Now I finally understand some of those awkward silences around the table during school meetings. All along we've been talking about two different kids.

Significantly Disabled.  The difference between an adjective and a verb never felt so personal -- or so powerful -- before.

I will never adopt this lens of disability based on what a person can't do. I won't think of my boy as less able than I know him to be and I won't use those words to describe him to others.  But, wow: What a lesson about words and context! And also about why people -- educators, doctors and therapists -- have the perspective they do and why advocacy is so, so important.

For a very brief moment I saw my boy through their lens -- but I like my vision better. And it's a vision that's worth fighting for. And so is he.

My Boy -- Riding the City Streets of Savannah

Upside down and feelin' alright

I wanted to write something here each day this week. But honestly, the world feels upside down at the moment and I have trouble finding the words. I am truly "filled with astonishment and perplexity," as the Thesaurus tells me. I am dumbfounded.

On Tuesday I had the following conversation with the boy (and by conversation, I mean that we wrote back and forth. No words are actually exchanged):

Me: Oliver, I think I found a piano instructor for you. You can start next week. Do you still want to learn to play?
Oliver: Yes!
Me: Is there any particular kind of music you would like to learn?
Oliver: Dobussey.
Me: Where did you hear that?!
Oliver: On the radio.
Me: Do you think it will be hard?
Oliver: Yes.
Me: Well, I think you are going to be a wonderful musician!
Oliver: Thank you.

So there are moments like this punctuating our day nearly every day. It seems difficult to believe that not very long ago I wasn't sure that Oliver knew his last name or how old he was. I wasn't all that certain that he even knew the alphabet. Oh sure, he could sing the alphabet song, but from one day to the next he couldn't seem to recall the names of letters or the sounds they made on the printed page.

Perhaps the most meaningful moments, though, are the ones that help me understand how to help him. Today, for instance, we had the following exchange:

Me: Oliver, why are you so upset?
Oliver: I'm mad.
Me. Why are you mad?
Oliver: I don't want to type anymore. It's hard!
Me: Do you think it will get easier with practice?
Oliver: Yes.
Me: So are you willing to practice again later?
Oliver: Yes.
Me: What do you want to do now?
Oliver: I want to read a book.
Me: With me or by yourself.
Oliver: By myself.

Of course, I probably could have figured out that Oliver was upset about the typing. He had worked hard and needed a break. But it felt so wonderful to be able to say something that directly, for sure, addressed what he was feeling: This typing thing is hard!!! And I could reassure him: Don't worry, it will get easier! In the past I might have made all kinds of assumptions about why he was upset and what would make him feel better: a snack, a walk, some other activity. But I had no way of knowing if I was even close to addressing the real issue. But now he can tell me: I just want to be left alone.

And here's another little bit to the story that I love -- He lied! He did not want to read a book. He just wanted to be alone and zone out on his bed but I'm assuming he thought that it would be more acceptable to me if he, you know, took a book with him! 

So, yes, the world feels pretty upside down at the moment. It's not all rosey. There are some bumps along the way. We've all got nine and a half years of learned behavior to consider and reconsider. But overall, I'd have to say that upside down feels pretty alright.

Finding our words

I'm struggling to find the words to describe how things are unfolding with Oliver. Let's be honest: it is nothing short of amazing. Here was a boy with few words. 100 maybe? 200? They were the ones he needed. He could say: "Can I have some water?"  with support but usually the single word "Water!" was enough to get what he wanted.

Within the space of three weeks I now find myself having complex conversations with this same kid. Where did I put all those exclamation points? Cause that's a sentence that certainly deserves one!!

And what do we talk about? Everything. And nothing much. Turns out they are pretty much the same thing. Think about the conversations you had with your spouse and your kids this morning. You traded all the information you needed. You talked about your thoughts, ideas, feelings and opinions. The weather. Lunch plans. What to have for breakfast.  But it all probably didn't amount to much. Most of the time we lead pretty mundane lives. So maybe that's why I sometimes forget to use my exclamation points -- because in some ways it all seems so normal.

And yet? Wow!!!! Our normal at the moment is so profound! All these years I had tried to get inside Oliver's head, to figure out his thoughts, ideas, feelings and opinions -- but really, there is just so much 100 words can convey. And now? He can tell me that the kid at the park shouted at him to go away and that it made him feel bad but that he just ignored it. He can tell me that he likes swimming in the ocean and that he also likes oatmeal but he is kind of sick of it right now and definitely doesn't want to eat it for breakfast again.

And he can tell me that he also knows how to add, subtract and multiply because: "I saw it in one of RT's books. .... when I was about five." And when I stare at him in wonder and disbelief he can also say "I'm just really smart, Mom." 

He can also tell me that he prefers writing because when he speaks he has a hard time finding his words. And these days I kinda have a glimpse into how that feels.

ps: If you're reading this, don't feel shy about leaving a comment! I'd love to hear from you. Blogging is lonely with no comments!!!

There's more than one way to read a book

The more time I spend with Oliver trying to figure out what he knows the more amazed I become. Amazed isn't even the right word. There is no word big enough to describe what it feels like to "discover" anew this kid who has been by my side practically every day for the past nine and a half years!

It seems that the boy has a photographic memory but I'm still not clear what that means in terms of what he understands about what he is viewing. If you hand Oliver a book and open it to any page he can summarize the content after a mere glance at it. I wondered what kind of texts this would work with so I have given him a variety of things from books of children's poetry to dense children's encyclopedias about dinosaurs. In every case he has been able to summarize or paraphrase what he has seen.

So, why am I only now discovering that my boy can read? It's a question I've been thinking about and trying not to think about for the past couple of weeks. I feel a huge sense of failure for not realizing this sooner. In our homeschooling this year we've focused on the Bob Book series and truthfully I felt so good about Oliver's growing ability  to read these. Now I see that his real work wasn't in reading the books, it was in reading them aloud. How frustrating this must have been for him!! His ability to read far exceeds his ability to speak. Even now, once he writes something he cannot usually go back and read aloud what he has written. Speech and decoding written language apparently call on two different parts of the brain. I'm only just beginning to understand this.

I'm also a bit amused and chagrined to think of all the times I wished that Oliver would just sit and look at a book. Many, many times I scolded him for not really looking at a book when I asked him to. I can hear myself now: "Oliver, will you please just look at this book for five minutes while I (insert some inane cleaning activity here)?!" Then I would become frustrated as I watched Oliver flip through a book at the speed of light. He probably wondered why it takes everyone else so LONG to look through a book!

Making up for lost punctuation!!!!

I wrote yesterday's post at the end of a long, tiring day. I promised myself that I would finish it before going to sleep and ended up staying up much later than usual to do it. Pushing the publish button for the first time in so long felt strange. And exhilarating. Discovering what is going on inside Oliver is like winning the lottery, Christmas morning and sitting at the top of a very tall roller coaster drop all at the same time. Nik and I have been looking at each other in wonder a lot lately. "Did he really just write that?" "Can you believe he knows that?" "Wow!!"

 But when I re-read the post again just now I wondered where I put all the exclamation points? I mean, let's face it: that form of punctuation was made for stories like the one I am telling. So to make up for yesterday, let me just say: We are having conversations with my boy!!!!!!!!!! He taught himself to read!!!!!!! He can write!!!!!!! At nine he has finally found a way to communicate!!!!!!! There should be something better than an explanation point for those sentences, don't you think?

So anyway, we are having lots and lots of conversations around here. I'm constantly shoving a piece of paper and a marker in front of my boy. Frequently he writes things like: "Go away now!" "Leave me alone!" "I don't want to write anymore!!" and "I just want to play Doodle Jump." But there are also wonderful conversations like this one:

Me: Oliver, tell me about your day.
Oliver: It was a great day.
Me: Why? What was so great?
Oliver: I rode my bike with Papi and we went to Fridleys Gap for a hike.

Or this one:
Me: Papi wants to go for a bike ride. Do you want to go?
Oliver: Yes.
Me: Where would you like to go on your bike?
Oliver: One of JMU or EMU
Me: Would you like to go just with Papi or with the whole family?
Oliver: With the whole family.
Me: Then you'd better ask Sami if he wants to go.
Oliver: Sami, will you go for a bike ride with us?

Just everyday regular dialog between a mom and her son. Nothing profound is being said but the saying of it is the most profound thing I've ever experienced.

Flying by the seat of our pants

Whoa! Lookee here: A blog! With my name on it! Imagine that!

For the first time in, well, fifteen months, I'm staring at my little expanse of blogspace here and thinking of all the things that I could say to fill it up. I've got quite a story to tell. It's epic. Profound. Life-changing. You might not even believe it. There are times when I'm in a state of sheer disbelief, myself.

So that's what I'm going to do: tell the story. At least the parts of it that I know. You see, it's still unfolding and every day things are both a little more fantastic and a little more clear. But it has not yet ceased to be amazing. And I want to tell it because I think maybe what is happening inside the walls of our little green house might be useful in some way to other people.

A year ago, I quit the blog. It wasn't anything I'd thought about. I didn't sign off in any thoughtful or dramatic way. I just quit writing. I suppose I expected that I would post again one day but for one reason or another I just didn't.

Writing about our journey with autism had always helped me process the experience, to sort out the complicated mix of thoughts and emotions. But in that year prior to my last entry, I was having trouble figuring out how to write about something. Twice that year, I had been gently told by people whom I trusted (our developmental pediatrician and the school psychologist) that I should start facing the fact that Oliver was intellectually disabled and that -- I'm paraphrasing here -- I shouldn't expect very much from him. You see, at the age of eight Oliver was still only able to communicate at the most basic level. And he was never able to demonstrate much intellectual ability through any kind of testing. I went through a bit of a crisis at the time. It wasn't that I would love Oliver any less if he had a greatly diminished capacity to learn, it was more that I just didn't believe it -- despite the fact that there was so much that Oliver could not or would not do. But for the first time in the five years since we learned of his autism, I started questioning what I believed to be true about Oliver: was all my faith, hope and optimism built on the blind love of a mother? It was a rough couple of months for me. I was a complete fool.

Somewhere along the way, mid-year perhaps, I came to my senses and just decided to let it all go. The tests, evaluations and learned opinions of professionals had never really been of much use to us. In the end, we just have to go with the boy in front of us and help him achieve to the best of his potential. Even if they are right, I decided, it doesn't change a thing about how we think about today and tomorrow.

I'm not even sure how to continue this story. Because, you see, one thing almost certainly doesn't lead to the next in this amazing tale. Telling you of our homeschooling efforts, for example -- the weeks and weeks of labored progress with the Bob Books series and my excitement over Oliver's slow but growing phonemic awareness  -- would only be a red herring. So instead, I'll just tell you the story of the day at the end of March 2012 when I put the pen in Oliver's hand. I needed to do something different that day. I was bored with all the things we had been doing and thought we might work on copying. Oliver was pretty good at tracing shapes and letters, but he has never been able to draw one on his own. If you put a writing instrument in his hand and asked him to draw a square, he might start off accurately but then inevitably end in random scribbling, not able to finish the shape.

But on this day, something slightly different happened. I wrote out 6 or 7 letters of the alphabet and told him we would practice writing them. I left my hand cupped around his to help him remember to rest his hand on the paper as he wrote. And do you know? The boy seemed to write beautifully and with great ease. I wrote out the numbers one through ten and he did it again. I wrote out: "My name is Oliver," and he did it again. I was buoyed and excited but I didn't want to push it. But each day I challenged him a little bit more.

After two days, I realized he didn't need to copy my sentences. If I kept my hand very lightly cupped over his, he could write whatever I asked him to. Soon, I was writing out questions, helping him read them aloud, and growing more and more astonished that he could answer my questions in writing with perfect spelling, perfect grammar. Not long after that, I realized that Oliver could read much, much more than he could say. It was a Saturday morning when we had the exchange pictured below and our lives have not been quite the same since.

I'm not sure where all this is going. It feels pretty remarkable. Three weeks ago I wasn't even sure if Oliver knew his last name. Two days ago he read a book about dinosaurs and explained to me, in writing, what the word extinct means.

The funny thing is, as I reflect on it tonight, our life hasn't really changed all that much. Suddenly we know that Oliver knows a good deal more than we thought he did. Each day we're astounded by what he is able to communicate through writing. It feels pretty good to have my belief in Oliver finally validated in a way that the rest of the word values even though I wish I could say that I don't give a shit. But we still feel like we're flying by the seat of our pants with this little guy.

Lucky for us, he sort of seems like he knows what he's doing and is very tolerant of his befuddled parents.

Learning by cleaning

So, one of the really great things about RDI is that it has made us very conscious of the many ways that we can involve Sami and Oliver in the everyday, mundane details of life. Over the years, I confess, it hasn't always been fun to involve the kids in the shopping and the cooking and the cleaning and all the other errands that pile up each week. But spending that time together, doing things together, modeling my thinking for the kids and helping them find many ways to participate in our lives together has ultimately been very rewarding. The real goal of working through all this stuff with my kids isn't about teaching them how to do the laundry or make a bed -- it's about executive functioning: what do you do when you are faced with something that isn't working out as we expect? How do you know when you've done something good enough? How do you plan? How do you evaluate and choose between two things that are similar? In RDI, this is what we call apprenticeship in thinking and now that the kids are getting older I can clearly see how it is benefiting both of them; each in their own way.

But the side benefit is, of course, that they were also learning to be independent. With Sami, I suppose he would have managed to pick all this up along the way, regardless of my efforts. But Oliver? He is eight and working independently is just not one of his strong suits -- to put it mildly. This weekend, however, I began to take note of just how far he has come in this, too. Shooing the kids into their room to clean up, I suggested that Oliver pick up the items on the floor and Sami make the bed. At first, Oliver kind of wandered around in a not very directed kind of way and I figured he probably needed some more help so I said: "How about if you start with the cars, Oliver." And then? I stood back and watched him put every car in the right spot. Then he moved onto the books and finally the random toys laying in a heap. Meanwhile, Sami made the bed and they finished up by working together to stack the giant cardboard blocks and then vacuuming. All without a word from me.

Now I know that two kids, five and eight, cleaning their room together might sound like no great shakes to some. But if you only knew how many times I wondered if I would have to stand forever beside my boy, telling him the next thing to do, then you would understand why a little piece of the dread I carry around with me when I think about what the future might hold for my boy evaporated.

And it helped that my house was spotless by the end of the day.

Echoing Oliver

I wish you could hear Oliver talk. I wish you could hear the way he manages to get it all out, but slowly and only with me asking him and then repeating each and every word as he says it. It is laborious. A process every time.

"Oliver," I say as he hands me his plate with half a sandwich still remaining, "is there something you want to say?"

"I. don't. want. to. eat. that. I'm. finished."

Or, when he gets up half-way through the video game he is playing with his brother and I call him back: "What's going on little man?" and he says: "I. don't. want. to. play. anymore."

At dinner when he hungrily looks up from his nearly empty plate there is: "I. want. to. have. some. more. noodles." And later: "I'm. full."

He can say it. The words are there, but he waits to hear my words echo back to him. If I don't he loses steam and trails off into nothing.

I encourage and cajole. Anything to get him to turn his thoughts from silence into words.

Yesterday when we were out raking leaves and despite the cold Oliver took off his sweater. In the spirit of letting him decide for himself I didn't interfere. Then, a half-hour later he picked up the sweater from where it had landed on the back deck and handed it to me saying (without the need for me to repeat it back to him): "I'm cold. I want to put my sweater on." Just like that; full of the glory of pronouns.

He's still mostly quiet and, like almost everyone else in the house, lost in the wake of the verbal typhoon that is Sami. He is pointing now, to everything, with ease and without prompts. We play the pointing game every time we go to get Sami from school and the words are there. "I see a big truck." "I see the sky." "I see a house." I wish someone could tell me what his language would look like in a year, five years or ten. But for now it feels like we're getting somewhere.

For now I let it be enough.

A bedtime story.

As the boys are ready to snuggle down into their giant shared bed, with me in the middle, I remind them:

"Don't forget to pick out a book for me to read."

Oliver and Sami both make their way over to the crammed bookshelf. Oliver looks for 2.3 seconds and chooses an old favorite. Sami takes longer, looking for a book about submarines that I don't remember.

The boys finally take their place on either side of me, I draw the comforter up high and tuck it in under all our chins, for the house is chilly with November, then I begin to read. After just three words Oliver begins to get up. I stop him and ask:

"Don't you want me to read the book?"

"Yes," he replies. But I know I haven't asked the right question because "Yes" doesn't tell me what is on his mind.

Then he offers: "I want to go downstairs."

"Why?" I ask.

"Why." He repeats back.

So I help by getting him started: "I want to go downstairs and get. ..." I lead, even though I know I'm not supposed to lead him in this way.

But he finishes my sentence with: "A ball." Only I can't be sure if that is what he said because Ls are hard and I scratch my head trying to think of what he could mean.

"What?"

Then he says: "Read the book." Ah, I think, he meant book, not ball. He was looking at a book about museums earlier and we left it by the couch.

"OK, sweetie. Go ahead and get the book but be quick. It's late."

And he is off and I hold my breath hoping that he doesn't get distracted once he is downstairs. Hoping that he remembers where the book is in the living room. Hoping that he comes right back upstairs so I don't have to call him. I hate calling him. I hear his feet on the steps. At eight he weighs eighty pounds and has never walked anywhere lightly. "Please," I pray silently to myself, "let him have the book." Let him have the book.

And then he rounds the corner into his room and I see he is holding a large blue ball. He carefully places it near the edge of his side of the bed and climbs back under the covers saying, "Read the book."

Okay, then.

It all began with the bubble wrap

Remember awhile back when I posted this link to the bubble wrap website? Oliver had taken quite a liking to it and I predicted that soon he would have the mouse/cursor thing figured out. I had, from time to time, tried to get the boy to use the computer but learning how to use the mouse or track pad did not come easily to my boy who really struggles with eye-hand coordination. But I was right about the bubble wrap and learning this skill opened up a whole new world in terms of computer-based learning.

We own a couple of copies of Rosetta Stone language learning software -- I'm perpetually trying to learn German (and I'm actually making headway these days, danke!) so that one day I can actually converse with my mother-in-law. And RT studied Spanish throughout high school. If you aren't familiar with Rosetta Stone, it is marketed as the "Dynamic Immersion method." And now that I'm using the new, online learning system, I have to say that it is pretty remarkable. You never really have a grammar lesson but you are gradually introduced to more and more complex language through reading, writing, speaking and visuals. (And the pictures? They are goregous!) So, for a long time, I thought it would be cool to see how Oliver would do using the English learning software. But since he didn't have the cursor thing worked out it didn't make sense to try.

Last Friday we finally sat down to try. And do you know what? I was amazed at how Oliver breezed through the initial parts. Intuitively he knew what to do each time a response was required from him -- either speaking or matching a picture to a verbally given description. The verbs and the colors are easy. He does have trouble distinguishing between, for example, "woman" and "women", "he" and "she" but does usually get "they".

What is really cool about the program is that it gives me another little window into what Oliver understands and what he doesn't. Also, it was gratifying to see that he picked up the system right away -- no explaining necessary. Some of the content is hard for him but he LOVES sitting at the computer and going through the lessons. And every time he gets one right his face just completely lights up and he turns to me as if to say: "See, Mom? I get it! I know the answer!"

Kind of makes me realize for about the one thousandth time that usually it is all about how we ask the questions!

Why I'm glad my friends are so insightful

Recently a friend and former teacher came to visit just as I was putting away the homeschool lesson for the day. Oliver and I had been working hard on one-to-one correspondence for a number of weeks and still, he wasn't getting it. I was having a hard time not being frustrated, mindful that I can't teach effectively once I start in with the pessimism: "He's NEVER going to get it!" But still, after trying everything I could think of to get the concept across I felt myself heading in that direction. Dangerous territory for the whole family! I said as much to my friend and her reply startled me with its clarity. In essence she said: "Then put it away. If you are trying so hard and he isn't getting it then he isn't ready. Do something else for awhile and come back to it. He'll get it eventually but don't make yourself -- or him -- crazy." I think I really needed for someone to say this to me because taking the long view of things often gives us such needed perspective.

Her advice made a lot of sense to me and it is something that I practice regularly with Sami without even thinking about it. You know, with Sami it is pretty easy to trust in the developmental process. Not ready to potty train? Fine. Let's give it some time. Tying your shoes? Reading? Who cares! We'll try again in a couple of weeks. And really, it has been as easy -- as not worrisome -- as that.  With Oliver, however, trusting in the developmental process hasn't been so worry-free. But after years and years of mothering Oliver you would think that I might be just a tiny bit more relaxed about it. After all, I've seen astonishing growth in my boy. I've seen his plateaus followed by bursts of development over and over again. I spend a lot of time being amazed by him. He and Sami just have a different rhythm to their forward momentum.

So we abandoned our lessons for awhile. I still incorporated numbers and counting into everything we did but I didn't try to sit down with him and match numbers with quantities again. Until today. Today was Sami's first day of school and so I figured it might be a good time to break out the numbers and counters again. And do you know what? It was like he had been doing it all along. He still had trouble remembering some of the names of the numbers, thanks to his aphasia, but he very clearly matched them with quantities. And each time he counted out the right quantity he proudly turned to me and said: "You did it!"

"No," I reminded him: "YOU did it!"

A couple of nights ago I listened to a speaker who reminded the audience that we cannot "pour language into our kids." This has kind of stuck with me because I like the image and because it is so true for just about everything. I mean, as much as we might like to, we can't pour anything into our kids (and here I'm also thinking about Resident Teenager!). Language, development, learning, reason. ... these are things that our children have to come by naturally through the course of living. What we can do is support them (with the right environment and teachers and all that), pay attention to their own individual rhythms, create lots of learning opportunities, and find a way to trust in the process.

And sometimes, I remind myself, the process of living and learning can even stretch well into a person's fortieth year!

Why I love biking with my boy and a video

It occurs to me that I've written a lot here about riding bikes lately. Maybe that is because it has become a very big part of our family identity and maybe it is because I continue to be thrilled each and every time I go for a ride with my kids -- Oliver in particular. It is also a little bit because everyday I appreciate that I can share this thing that I love with my boys. I don't take that for granted.

One thing in particular that blows me away each and every time we ride is how it highlights Oliver's abilities. I spend too much time thinking about dis-ability and our daily rides have become a powerful reminder that there is so much my boy can and will do in this life. For example, Nik and I communicate to the boys while riding using lots and lots of gestures: over here, go that way, turn here, get up on the sidewalk, ride on the street, come this way, stop, go, go slow, stay steady. ... it is endless and varied and amazing that Oliver flawlessly reads our non-verbal communication. Watching his ability to shift focus between the road ahead and his riding partner, making adjustments along the way, makes me endlessly proud. Incidentally, both of these things -- maintaining coordination with a partner and reading non-verbal communication -- are RDI learning objectives that we have worked on, they didn't come naturally or easily for my boy. But now they are like second nature. How cool is that?

I've been teaching a friend's child to ride, just a little bit each week, and wanted to post a video showing what it looks like when a child is just starting with the gliding technique. I got several comments and e-mails after my last post from parents whose kids were not gung ho about learning.  The boy in this video is really very anxious about getting on the bike. He likes it a bit more since we took the pedals off-- at least he is willing to get on the bike -- but declares he is walking the bike, not riding, which I think makes him feel more confident. No matter -- he is still out there, still trying and I know he will get it eventually. The other boys demonstrate the gliding technique, which I included to show you how much fun this can be!

Optimistic, thrilled, apprehensive and old all in one post

Summer is my season. I love these long days, nights with the windows open, crickets singing, fans blowing. I love sticky feeling of sweaty boy skin and feet green from fresh cut grass. All of it. I love all of it. And at this moment in time, this day, this week -- life is just so, so sweet. I know: you could just gag, right?  Well, maybe it is the vitamin D talking (or the Newcastle) but summer makes me feel so downright hopeful. Optimistic. Joyful.

Anyway, between the homeschooling, the garden, and the other outdoor stuff, it is shaping up to be quite a summer. Most days end with a bike ride. After dinner, when it has cooled off a bit, we head to a nearby park and ride the mountain bike trials. This is a relatively new thing for us and it has me feeling both thrilled, apprehensive, and old.  You see, Oliver is a shining star on the mountain bike trails. He so deftly and athletically picks his way over the obstacles that he totally leaves the rest of us in the dust. It is amazing to behold. That's the part that has me thrilled. I'm apprehensive because none of us can keep up with the boy and the paths have many twists and turns so that he could easily become lost. Luckily he has had the charity to wait for us before making any turns thus far. And Old? Well, did I mention that I can't keep up?  This is not an exaggeration. Granted, I'm the only one not riding a mountain bike (I have a hybrid), but I can't blame it all on the bike. I've become cautious. It won't be long now before Nik and the boys start suggesting that I stay home in the evenings.

How did it come to this?

On the homeschooling front, we made these cool sensory writing bag things today:

You just fill a gallon-sized ziplock bag with a mixture of tempra and finger paint and use it to trace letters and numbers with your fingers. The paint is solid enough that it holds the shape of whatever you draw. All was well and good until I heard Sami shrieking from the playroom as I was cooking dinner. When I went to investigate I initially had a heart attack as it looked like he was covered in blood. Then I discovered that he had only been writing too energetically and the ziplock had split open, covering him in red paint. I quickly then sealed Oliver's bag with plastic tape, knowing that he would do the opposite of scream if his "accidentally" split open.

We also had a bit of impromptu phys ed when the kids tried to break out of rest time. Behold: