Santa Claus Came to Town

You know how everyone warns you not to go crazy buying gifts at Christmas because the kids would rather play with the box than the toy? That is certainly true of preschoolers whose imaginations are bigger than their desire for a Furby. But maybe lesser well known is how much this applies to my son with autism and his insatiable love for trains.

In buying Rowen Christmas gifts, I'd fantasize about expanding him into something new and different. A scavenger hunt game, perhaps? Or maybe a magic kit or dotter art? I'd pass up the trains, feeling a twinge of guilt because I wasn't giving in to the one-way mind that autism creates. I knew he'd love them, but even at that he seems to be less mesmorized by them and just resigned to the fact that trains are his safety net rather than a true love. The imagination in autistic children can often be less attractive than the comfort of predictability. Trains go 'round and 'round.... and 'round. And 'round again. Pretty predictable.

So when my hyped-up for Christmas son opened all his gifts with a waiting look for his $3.99 magnetic steam engine, we knew we should have stuck to the plan. At least we could have gone out to a few dinners with the money we would have saved. I am not giving up on focusing him in on the other things we got him for Christmas ("hey Rowen, wanna do some dotter art?"), I am just aware of the push-back I will get.

And speaking of focus, we recently learned that Rowen has been on Strattera, a medicine used for focus, through the study at The Ohio State University we've been participating in. For 10 weeks we popped him full of pills, not knowing whether he was chewing on plastic alone, or a drug meant to increase his attention. I was shocked when they said he was on it, because we have seen little improvement in problem behaviors.

It's a very tough thing to have to think about putting your 6-year-old son on medication, let alone actually doing it. It's something we've struggled with greatly. But we've come to the point where we have to intervene with more than what we are already doing, which is a lot to say the least.  Sometimes I am still at a loss when the autism monster grabs Rowen and turns him into a living, breathing, fiery dragon ready to pounce. Rowen describes it as a bad computer in his brain that takes over. He goes on a red-faced, yelling rant and then calms to an apologetic Rowen. Do we ignore? Do we punish? Do we reward good behaviors even more? How do you change these behaviors in an autistic child?

I may not be perfect at putting the puzzle together, but I do know that we are definitely missing a few pieces. Rowen's physical body seems to be crying out at times and I am just not sure how to help him. A psychiatrist looked at him the other day and the first thing he noticed was his allergic shiners (darkened under-eyes that indicate allergies). He said they were the worst of any autistic child he's seen. Paired with his constantly dilated eyes and pale ashen skin, I have so often felt like I am missing some obvious clues. He's had allergy testing with little answers to show. Even so, I am adding zinc, iron, and allergy meds to his daily regimen. Now my 6-year-old takes more pills than your grandmother does. It sucks. I wish I knew the answers, because I'd dive in head first to help Rowen. Instead I am guessing and feeling more and more dejected.

As I always say though, I won't give up. I never will. My rampage to help my child will go on and on until someone (maybe it will be me?) puts the puzzle together. I guess I'm finding first-hand why the symbol for autism is a puzzle piece. How fitting. No pun intended.

Tranquilizer Darts Anyone?

Oops, I did it again. I took my kids out in public. We'll just chalk that up to one of the more stupid decisions I've made as of late. Play dates always sound so harmless, until I come along with my kids. I should wear a sign on my head that says "Don't approach me, you will just regret it."

Rowen made a friend at school. When we were asked to meet up with them at the mall play place, I wish I would have had that sign on my head. When I told Brenner about our impending date, he said he gave it a few weeks before they'd find us out. Crap, he was right again.

It's not even Rowen at this point. It's the legacy that autism leaves to the next generation that has come up to bite me.

It's Lane now.

Sure, Rowen always has his moments, but the last two play dates we went on were demolished by my prize-fighting 2-year-old.

Date #1: Attempted biting plan thwarted by mom. Still got incredulous looks. Ended up biting Rowen's friend anyway, leaving marks that Dracula would be impressed with.

Date #2: Bit a child who ran screaming to his mom. After scolding Lane and dishing out the usual suspects (a talking-to, time out, etc.) I set him loose only to push down her other child (a barely walking baby who screamed to high heaven). As she comforted her baby and I tried offering my apologies, I barely got a response. I know what she was thinking. What's wrong with you, lady? Why did you think you could bring your kids out in public. Go home. And go home we did.

I have to add that we had already been getting looks because Rowen hauled up in the top floor of the monster-sized play place with another boy screaming to everyone that Rowen was sick and was going to throw up. When I asked him though, Rowen said he just had a little cough. Things didn't look good though with his little sidekick acting like I sent my son to play with their kids toting a stomach virus. Incredulous stares as usual. I think I should get a patent and start getting paid for them.

So I swooped up my kids and avoided eye contact all the way out. The tears started to flow and I couldn't stop them, even in front of my kids. I didn't mean to affect Rowen like I did though. He was worried and gave me a hug and started crying too. Not just crying though- in his room hitting the bed, he didn't know what to do with it. I explained that sometimes moms and dads cry too but that I would be just fine. Maybe a little white lie, but what was I supposed to say? Mommy has been having chest pains and thinks that nothing short of a horse tranquilizer will calm her down anymore? Sometimes honesty just doesn't sound as pretty.

I do wonder if my anxiety is the latest monster in our house. It's growing and growing and I can almost hear the autism monster cackling and rubbing it's hands together in pure satisfaction. Poor Brenner was coming out of surgery last week for a deviated septum-black eye and all- and I told the nurse I had to sit down or I'd pass out.

Stupid autism monster. It's definitely changed me. It keeps evolving itself. Now it's in the form of imitation from little brother. It's like it gave birth to another baby autism monster (disclaimer: I am not calling my kids monsters... autism is the monster here. They are as much victims as we are. Actually more. Much more.).

I wish I had some cute little quip to end this but I just don't today. Instead I have a crappy headache from crying and am still freaking out about my own surgery next week. I was praying last night though (and while I was surprised God remembered me- Hey God, I swear I'm still here-) He told me He was there too. It's something I think I need to lean on a little harder these days.

He is Listening

Maybe I'm a little overwhelmed with life right now to be blogging so much. Usually something hits me once a month or so, but lately it's been flowing like honey.

I had to share the divine intervention that gave such comfort the other day, and hasn't left my brain since. First, I guess I have to share the embarrassing- ok mortifying- incident that got the ball rolling. It was not so divine in and of itself, but nonetheless notable.

We started going to church Saturday evenings to alleviate the anxiety Rowen feels from the bigger, Sunday morning crowds. We walked in this past week to our pastor greeting us. The big smile on his face and desire to get through to Rowen was evident. He knew about Rowen's diagnosis, but that doesn't tell anyone how to handle him. He did what most kind-hearted people would do- he talked to my son. I held my breath though, because I knew by Rowen's head-down reaction that it wouldn't go well. Pastor prompted him, "hey little guy," he said, waiting for a response. I steeled myself for the outburst that came right on cue.

"BUTT HEAD!" Rowen shouted at him, face grimaced. I turned in slow motion (at least that's how it felt) to see a look of, well, terror on my pastor's face. The couple he was standing by looked away too, and so I did what I always do. I made some stupid joke and ran off. Not sure if we'd go to Hell for calling our pastor a butt head, I figured I'd better waste no time in repenting.

I stayed with Rowen in his class for awhile until miraculously he let me go. There are moments he surprises me, and that was one of them. Usually he holds onto me for dear life, but something other-worldly must have been prompting me to get to our service because Rowen gave me the go-ahead.

I slipped into the back of the congregation alone, trying to pay attention. I have to admit, my thoughts were elsewhere. How embarrassing it is to have a son that attacks everyone. How would I explain to our pastor that we hadn't taught Rowen that he's a butt head. In fact, we really like him! So absorbed I was in these thoughts that I barely felt the tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a young, sweet faced man in a wheelchair putting his hand out and whispering, "Hi, I'm Charlie." I gave him a handshake and returned the greeting.

He stopped for a moment and then said, "I don't know what this means, but I have to tell you that He is listening." I think the world stopped for a moment. What had I been thinking of? Oh, "butt head," that's right, I remembered. Tears stung my eyes and as he started off and I said, "actually that means a lot."

I turned my head and then back again, and truly he was gone. I'm not saying he was some sort of angel, but I was a little mesmerized by the fact that he slipped away so quickly out of my sight. He is listening.

I thought of these words last night when Rowen had a severe panic attack. Yes, my 6-year-old son had a full-on, knock-down panic attack. I am a psychotherapist and work with this often, but I have to be honest and say I've never thought much about seeing something like that in a child. Through his tears he screamed, "help, mommy!" and "I want to die," over and over. I held him tight and patted his back hard until it left a half-hour later. When Rowen passed out exhausted after, I knew He was still listening even in the middle of the chaos. I know He's listening because I still feel some sense of peace through something so terrible. Seeing your child so afraid and out of control is horrible. This child who has the best memory around couldn't even remember some of what had happened the next day. It truly took it out of him. But I'd fall apart if Jesus wasn't in the trenches with us. He was there listening when no one else was; giving us comfort when we needed a Savior to pull us through. And that's why I know it's true. He really is listening. He always is.

Halloween: Version 2.0

When I think of Halloween as a kid, I remember dumping my candy loot out on my granny and grandpa's table and attacking the chocolate bars. I'd feed my sugar high into oblivion and bask in the greatness that was trick-or-treat.

I think a lot of parents (myself included) want the same air of excitement that we had as kids for our own brood. The wonder of Christmas, the mystery of the Easter Bunny, and the sugar coma that came from knocking on doors with an excited demand for candy. All such things are embedded in our child-like psyche that feed the wonderment of the soul.

I too had such hopes for my kids, but I noticed a change in my push for it this year. I usually get so excited for trick-or-treat, I think my husband might have to sedate me. This year, however, it's finally sinking in that the excitement of Beggar's night did not befall my first born quite like it did me. I had to stop myself and ask why my other-worldly hype for the candy holiday was more than subdued this year. I think I realized that Halloween: Version 2.0 had to take the place of my original.

Rowen does not love trick-or-treat. And while it may seem a little silly that it makes me sad, I fully admit that it does. He does not enjoy putting on a costume, though I notice he likes to dream about it. He does not like people seeing him, so my idea of a ghost costume to cover him up didn't even do the trick. He instead opted the last two years to man the candy table with dad for the other ghosts and goblins looking for their own sugar rush. Of course, his version included screaming and running inside every time someone came to the house. At least he kept coming back outside- a testament to his desire to be involved, but a sad reminder that he can't get past his fears.

At the end of the night, a little girl came to the house and instead of saying the traditional "trick-or-treat," she peered inside and squeaked out a timid "Hi Rowen." It was a girl from his class at school- a sweet little princess awaiting a reply. Of course Rowen was so taken aback by it, he instead pulled out his classic scowl and ran away. After she was gone, the scene turned very sad. I saw Rowen bury his head in the couch and say over and over, "I'm an idiot!" It was hard to watch. After calming down though, he said he wanted to talk to her the next day at school. It's always there- his desire for friendship- he just takes more time than the average joe to find it.

So while it is a bit of a let down that I can't pass along a time-honored tradition to Rowen, I have to realize that those memories are mine- not his. It's a good reminder that we all do things our own way, and I can't expect Rowen to take on my version of Halloween. Rowen was more than happy to rely on his 2-year-old brother to scour the neighborhood for candy to share with him. He was more than happy to run away from the trick-or-treaters and make big fun out of being a little silly I guess. I think he had a good time in his own way. A few bumps along the way just propel him to keep working at it. It will happen. His way. His time.

Jackets, Coats, and a Side Order of Fear

There have been a lot of tears at our house revolving around the inevitable kindergarten experience that Rowen must endure. We had one such incident this morning when Rowen tried desperately to put on his light jacket in an effort to thwart the intense change-up of wearing a heavy coat. He has a hard time with change, and this includes what he wears. I must say he does an impressive job of giving change the middle finger by wearing shorts and t-shirts year-round. Yes, he knows that in order to keep Children's Services off our doorstep he has to wear the socially normed "long sleeves and pants" outside the house. Once he is home though, it's summer time for him.

We have had many-a-talks trying to soothe him about other fears he has at school. He is desperately afraid of being left behind by the other kids. He asks me to pray every day that his friend will sit with him at lunch. We have recently added to prayer that he could get his coat on fast enough beforehand so they won't run off to lunch without him. He even asked- well made- his teacher pray the same prayer with him at school. Out of the mouths of babes...

I've long ago learned that his rough exterior at times is a defense mechanism to keep his fears from bubbling. The autism monster often takes aim, and Rowen is just trying to dodge the bullet. Sometimes the meltdowns are from being so desperately afraid that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Sometimes he is so full of fear that he doesn't know how to self soothe- though I see him try. And sometimes, he's just being a total goober and mouthing off. What 6-year-old doesn't though, I guess. Sigh.

It's sad to see him so afraid. This morning, touched down by the coat incident, I felt desperate myself. I was desperate to take it from him, to control it in some way but sometimes the autism monster just wins. Life isn't fair that way I guess. I must have heard the questions, "mommy, do you think the other kids will think my coat is ugly?" and "mommy, will the other kids be wearing coats just like this one?" a hundred times through his red-faced tears. It doesn't matter how many times I answer the question, it doesn't give him what he's looking for.

Rowen wants so badly to fit in, but autism has it's way of making sure that becomes nearly impossible. I think he knows he's a little different and tries to iron those differences out so no one will see him. He feels more at ease being the invisible boy but it goes against his desires for friendship. It must be a tough road to walk. I know I feel self-conscious at times, but this is game on to an entirely different level.

So every time he flips out Jersey Shore style, I have to ask myself what he is afraid of. That usually does more good than giving into my own frustrations. When they said parenting is the hardest job in the world, I never realized to what extent. There's so much on the line here. We'll get it right though. It just takes some work. And maybe a hand grenade to autism. Who's with me?

Planet Autism

We've all heard that men are from Mars, women from Venus, and Tom Cruise is from, well, some other planet. But many of us non-Top-Gunners are finding ourselves these days on a place called Planet Autism. I packed up and moved there a few years ago and haven't returned since.

Planet Autism is filled with therapies, doctor visits, moody kids, and a harried mom who missed the "soccer mom" boat and landed herself instead in the "therapy mom" boat. It's the much lesser known brand of the all-American mom, but the boat is filling up fast. It's a one-way ticket to Planet Autism. All Aboard...

I look at my calendar every day to tell me where I am going. It's been a little bossy lately. Don't let the picture of the pretty little palm trees swaying in the breeze fool you. My calendar is relentless. Last week I had an appointment every day; a few days there were a couple I had to bounce between in the same day. Lest we forget I had two kiddos being dragged to each appointment that had some sort of promise of making our lives better. I started to feel like the girl in The Exorcist. Somebody needed to stop my head from spinning or it may well have shot off my body into outer space. Hey, maybe at least I'd meet Tom Cruise.

Thank goodness for Brenner, because he did just that. No, he didn't get me Tom Cruise's autograph, but he did stop my head from spinning. He told me I was doing too much and I was taking our poor kids down with me. I fought back for a minute or two, but quickly caught on that he was right (please, don't anyone tell him I said that).

Taking a hiatus from Planet Autism is darn near impossible though. I live with therapists and doctors who almost come from different planets themselves. The pill-poppers are fighting the integrative doctors like the confederates did the union. I don't know how much it matters though because Lincoln still gets shot in the end.

So I guess it's up to me to end the madness. I was told tonight to go with my instincts. I think my instict has told me lately that I suck. I need to make some changes and let my kids be kids again. Sure I need the help and will still paint my address on Planet Autism, but I need to find a healthy balance before my head starts spinning again.

So maybe I will hit the sack and sleep on this one... balance myself out with a little shut-eye for now. Or maybe I will crash in front of the tv for a few. I have the sudden urge to watch Jerry Maguire.  

Vacation Or Something Like It

We recently embarked on one of the most apple pie of American traditions that is the family vacation. In other words, we packed our car to the gills, hauled our kids out of bed before the crack of dawn, and began what would be a 12-hour road trip to meet with the sunny South Carolina surf.

Like any other family, we had big dreams for a week together at the beach minus the daily grind of our Ohio reality. And it truly has been good so far. We made it here in unrecord time, but with little incident- and alive to boot. That's saying something.

Of course, we are well aware that a stowaway was on board. Packed neatly among Rowen's super hero underwear and trunkful of stuffed animals was the trusty autism monster waiting to pounce. And pounce it has, but we have also seen the sunny side of an all too quirky boy that never ceases to make us smile.

Spotlight first on our little, eh-hem, ok gargantuan stowaway. He's crept up on Rowen more than once, an infinite number to be exact. Rowen's latest hang-out is on the pool steps, grimacing at any child who dares enter the pool. I stand by like a hawk, trying to contain his outbursts. Heaven forbid a little girl said hi to him, to which he jumped out of the pool and screamed that everyone in the pool was "old." After feeling the incredulous looks from onlookers, I grabbed Rowen and we made our exit: autism monster in tow.

The autism monster also steals away our sense of normalcy when it comes to all the exciting things we dream of seeing Rowen do. Not that there is a rite of passage that says little boys must ride go karts or play miniature golf to be in the club, but it would be nice to see Rowen bump up his repertoire of activities. Talking to a mom at the pool today about taking her boys to a go kart track, I wistfully thought of how neat it would be to do things like that. In her world, that stuff is exciting and fun for her kids. Normal. In ours, it's something that doesn't exist.

After a few days of playing the pool troll though, Rowen finally made that breakthrough that I know he's always capable of. After sneering at two little boys all morning and yelling at them for splashing, he suddenly turned the dial and decided to be friends with them. It was like a light switch. Not surprising to me though (the light switch goes on and off at a nauseating pace) but probably super crazy to the boys who'd been a target of Rowen's patented "mean face" a moment earlier.

I let out a sigh of relief, knowing my hawk duty was a little lighter. Though it's hard to see this all happen, it was sweet as honey when Rowen turned to me and excitedly yelled, "Mom, it looks like I made a new friend!" Pleased as punch with himself, he finally got the autism monster to sink back in its black hole so he could emerge triumphant. And emerge he did, with a desire to be liked by these boys and the excitement of new found friendship that comes with it.

Though he went a little Sopranos on one of the boys when he pointed at him and demanded that he play with him again (while making very specific plans on when they would meet again), I thought he chalked one up for himself: Rowen-1: autism monster-0.

So we won't be miniature golfing anytime soon, but Rowen does love digging for clams and trying to catch fish in the ocean (ok, so he yells that he wants to kill all the fish if they don't let him catch them, but whatever). So I think we are surviving. And if I write another blog post in a few weeks, you'll know we also survived the 12-hour car ride home. Hopefully sans the autism monster. A girl can dream, can't she?

The Boy in His Shadow

Let's just get the Jaws theme music going again. It's sort of our family anthem.

Duh-nuh. Duh-nuh. Dun-nuh-dun-nuh-dun-nuh

Got it? Now picture walking toward my 2-year-old's room with the ominous tune going. Approaching the door, I think my happy thoughts until (pause for dramatic effect) I see it! Duh-nuh...

No, there wasn't a dead body lying in the middle of Lane's match box cars. Instead it was (pause again) a line of blocks. Yes, you heard me right: a line of blocks. Can you believe it?

Ok, clearly it's an overreaction on my part. But when kids start lining things up in this house OCD-style, I'm ready to call in the troops.

I never knew the signs of autism, or paid much attention really, when Rowen was little. Now if I see my second-born even remotely showing an autistic trait, I see it from a mile away. Hence, the overreaction. But sometimes I wonder if I should have "ridiculous over reactor" or "complete tool" written across my forehead. Ridiculous over reactor for obvious reasons from the here-to-mentioned. Complete tool from the very blatant autism traits that Lane possesses but I still have a hard time seeing.

Lane is speech delayed. This is one of the first signs of autism. Let alone the fact that he is a boy (1 in 54 boys now has autism) and that he is the sibling of a child already diagnosed (26-percent chance). He doesn't have some of the other monster signs of autism like poor eye contact or difficulty seeking affection, but then again neither did his big brother.

One of Rowen's first signs (though I didn't realize it at the time) was his aggression. At 2-years-old, putting him into a roomful of his peers was like throwing a piranha into a tank of baby gold fish. As always, my disclaimer is that he is much improved from those days, but I do see Lane following in some of those footsteps. Trouble is I can't tell if it is from imitation or something worse.

Lane bites. All kids go through a biting stage. Lane pushes. All boys are rough-and-tumble. Lane seems to be having more trouble with transitions. Don't all toddlers? Lane is also a big-time hand flapper. Well, shoot.

And of course, who can forget that I've caught him lining up his toys like a little Howie Mandel. Well, crap, that just pushes him over the edge then, right?

So what is a mom to think? I know I sound absolutely crazy to some, and to others I make perfectly crystal clear sense. I just don't know which camp I fall into.

I see Rowen struggle and I hope and pray for him as well as for Lane. This world is hard enough, let alone the isolation and difficulty that autism presents. Sometimes I just wish I had a darned crystal ball. But other days when I have more clarity (and sanity) I realize that each day with my boys is to be cherished as it is: as the crazy, my-hair-should-be-gray-soon day that it is. And with love for any which way these beautiful kids come.

Autism Lesson #46: Never Run at a Funeral

The boogie man is back. I shouldn't complain though, right? Out of the 5 1/2 years Rowen has been here, he slept through the night most nights in his bed for the past 6 months or so. We thought the alleged monster had gone on to frighten some other sweet, cherubim-like child out of his wits. But now, the boogie man is back in town and Rowen is back to sleeping in our room.

Some nights we are successful in scooping him up after he falls asleep and putting him in his bed. We'd get a few hours of peace before he comes in our room screaming. Last night was not such a night. I attempted the scoop-and-drop maneuver, but crashed and burned when Rowen woke up and realized my evil little plot. "I DON'T WANT TO SLEEP IN MY BED! I HATE YOU! I'M NEVER GONNA LOVE YOU AGAIN!..." And his impressive repertiore of kindergarten obscenities goes on as he flops on the floor to grind his point in the ground. Ahh, peaceful good night...

He finally relents and falls alsleep in the sleeping bag beside our bed. A few hours of moonlit quiet later, he awakes to complete the tantrum before I even open my eyes. I just can't keep up.

Keeping up (sigh)... like the time when, at 2-years-old, he broke stride in church and I gave chase in my sweaty work-out gear after just finishing a class. Even then I couldn't keep up. I should have read into the metaphor then. I remember as I was running I started to look around and noticed some well dressed people staring at me in all my sweaty glory. I turned my head and realized I had just chased my wild child right past an open casket. I pulled off the scoop manuever and ran out the door, vowing to never again show my face in public. Or at least at another funeral.

Rowen is constantly on emotional and sensory overload. Once it starts adding up: game over. It's hard to always know the triggers or keep up with how he will handle it.

But in the few sleepy moments of peace I had before drifting off, I looked at my boy in his sleeping bag and throught ahead to his future with autism. Will it take away his ability to be happy and successful in whatever he chooses? Will he get married someday and be happy? Will he come home to see his mom for some home cooked spaghetti and meatballs? In those few moments, I felt a welcomed twinge of peace. Of course he will.

I know I can't always keep up with a loving, sweet, and wild boy with autism, but I will enjoy those moments Rowen is with me. Not autism. Rowen. Like earlier in the day when he told me it was the best day ever as he skipped rocks across the water. Yes, the best day ever. I thought so too.

And The Winner Is...

You know those moms who seem to sit idly by and stare into space while junior proceeds to rip Nana's new carpet off the floor with tantrum-like strength? It's like a tornado whips right past her face and she looks like she's still making her grocery list in her head.

Yeah, I want to scream at them too. Maybe even punch them in the face a little.

Problem is, I may have made the cross-over myself. I think I am her.

Let me put it this way: there are days when autism wins. I give up. Today is one of those days. Rowen could explode in front of me and my expression would seem to glaze over while my mind tries to go to a happy place. I know all the tools but accessing them every moment of every day is exhausting. I don't mean to say I've given up on Rowen, because that will never happen. I guess I give up on myself sometimes. I. Can't. Do. It. Today.

Today Rowen was trying to write his name upside-down and the fear started to grow. I feared he would mess up and then all hell would break loose. As he wrote the letters, my nerves started to rev up like Paris Hilton would feel if you took her credit card away. R... phew. O...phew again. W... ok maybe he will make it home here. E...

THWAP! (Sound of Rowen hitting the floor in an Incredible Hulk tantrum, face as red as a tomato after messing up the "E".)

Here's where the documentary film crew would pan in on mom. The overwhelmed, oh-my-gosh-he's-doing-it-again mom who despite all the fabulous tools in her arsenal, just checks out. Sure I try to soothe him and talk him through it, but it's a delicate balance between that and wanting to explode myself.

It may not seem this way to some, but almost every moment of every day feels like I am on autism duty. There's not much of a break. Even Magnum P.I. would let the bad guy get away once in awhile if he was chasing bad guys 24/7/365. Did I just say Magnum P.I.? I meant to say something much younger, like Justin Bieber. Yeah, I totally love the Biebs. Is that how I'm supposed to say it?

So let's give a little slack to the mom that may or may not deserve a punch in the face for letting junior run the show. Maybe she's not the idiot mom we all think she is. Maybe she just needs a nap. Maybe she just needs a little break from autism. I know I do.

Church and Other Things

I watched the smiling faces of a half-dozen pre-kindergartners line the front row of chairs at their new church class on Sunday morning. I had walked my 5-year-old down to introduce him to this new venture as well, but his smiling face wasn't among them. While the music played and the kids clapped and danced, I sat with Rowen in the back of the auditorium crouched behind a curtain. He peeked through an opening only to scrunch up his face and scream how much he hated being there. Then he covered his ears and started making loud train horn sounds. That was my cue to hit the road.

Rowen may be standing next to a fun-loving group of kids, but in my book he's a million miles away. He went with me to the grocery store last night and as I passed through the check-out line, I noticed this in action again. Four kids were lined up on a bench, laughing and talking as you'd expect of any child. The only difference in this particular picture was a blond boy yelling at them, "stop looking at me" while making the meanest face he could. But what he didn't know is that to them, he was faceless. They hadn't even noticed him, but in Rowen's world he is always on the defense. Everyone is out to get him. It was the same at the park a few weeks earlier. Kids playing, friends laughing, and the playground buzzing. And my Rowen was climbing a tree by himself.

Sometimes I think Rowen doesn't get it. He seems oblivious, quite often. But a few nights ago he shared with me some things that a mother never wants to hear. He said through a tearful plea that he thought he was a bad child. Fighting tears he told me that he wasn't smart and that he was just a bad kid. I did everything I could to talk him out of it, but there was no changing his mind. Now I notice his prayers have included a request for God to not think he's bad.

Prayer. That brings me to a few things about Rowen that are priceless, despite the choke-hold autism tries to put on him. He and I had a date to the "meatball shop" (Fazoli's) the other day and he prayed for our meal so loud I think the cooks in the back could hear! He told me his meatballs were good, but that I was the best "cooker" in the world and mine were better. He also told me how the bell at the ice cream shop by the railroad track makes him think of me. And he also said I was the best mommy in the world.

He surprises me at times. In that same grocery trip, the lady behind the deli counter smiled at Rowen and asked how he was. I held my breath, ready to put on my famous eye roll, nervous smile, and pat on Rowen's head at his probable lashing out at her. But instead I turned to him and saw a smile form. "Good," he said quietly, face lit up. A small thing, but a mountain climbed in my book. Yes, everything is good. 

Welcome to Kindergarten!

Let's just start out with the Jaws theme music here, because that's what should have been playing in my head before I even got out of bed this morning. I should have known there was a land-loving shark ready to eat me alive before my feet hit the carpet. After all, it was the day of Rowen's kindergarten screening. dun-nuh... dun-nuh... DUN-NUH DUN NUH!

I'd been following the endless chatter of an anxious 5-year-old who would rather poke his cute little eyes out than go to a new school with new kids. It's a sad, sad thing to watch the anxiety of any child let alone the Biggie-sized version that my son falls prey to every day. Not to mention the ensuing result that has Rowen grunting and yelling angrily at me all the live-long day. That's when I find myself grasping the car keys and mapquesting the quickest route to Mexico.

So we walked in the school and I almost had a heart attack when I realized we'd be integrating into our new school along with other families. I guess it was wishful thinking when I pictured us going at it alone with some poor elementary staffer at whom Rowen would verbally attack. This is much better. Now Rowen can take his pick of who to target.

After finding a seat as far away from people as we could, the sweet principal began her talk with my 2-year-old screaming and Rowen sputtering, "Let's get away from these frickin' people!" Ok, so I need to stop using the word "freaking" because Rowen puts his own spin on it to sound like he's dropping the F-bomb all the time.

Because there wasn't a window to dive out of, I pulled up my big girl pants and tried to preserve any likeness of control I had. Unfortunately, that's like trying to douse the atom bomb with pepper spray. Not gonna happen. So I gathered up my things and strolled out of the room. After Rowen screamed a few more PG obscenities at the kindergarten aid ("I DON'T LIKE THAT LADY!!") I hurried out the door with the hopes that my fate might be met with a sniper rifle.

And to cap off the day, I lost it when I got home. Yes, this stuff is frustrating, but it's also very sad for Rowen. I cried the sobbing snot cry and Rowen met my tears with a retelling of a fact about strawberries. What can I say; others' emotions just aren't his forte. His world is different than ours. And honestly, it's hard to live in sometimes. But I do everyday. Sometimes I forget that I can't ask him what he wants for lunch when he is washing his hands because he just can't process two things together. And I certainly can't ask him to brush his teeth when he is flapping around like a spinning top out of control. These are the rules. We just need to find a good compromise on how a collision of our two worlds looks. I'm all ears.

The Autism Monster

Cake? Check.

Birthday candles? Check.

Overwhelmed and anxious boy from too much social interaction? Double check, and check please!

Planning a celebration for a few family birthdays along with my brother's big-time military promotion to Warrant Officer (bragging a little here), I knew that one piece of the puzzle would be questionable at best. The boogie man in our closet: the autism monster.

"Rowen, we are going out to eat next week with grandma, Richard, Jennifer, Matt, McKenna, Eme," (pause to take a breath), "Jason, Dawn, Alyce, Trent, Greg, Peter, Cindy, Marsha"-er wait a second.

So the list was long and I knew the questions would follow.

"Is Kenna going to wear a pretty dress? How many people are going to be there again? Where will I sit? Can I take my animals with me? I don't think there will be enough chairs."

I could see the anxiety arise as we crept closer and closer to the big day. It was as if Jaws himself would pounce out of the wall and eat us all alive.

I sat at the far end of the table with Rowen, joined by my brave sister who tried to chat Rowen up. Problem was, he wasn't buying. Just as the waitress leaned over to say hey, I could hear Rowen in my ear feeding the autism monster. By the time my short conversation with the waitress was over, I turned to look into the eyes of a different boy. His face was red and his expression was tight with anger. He clenched his teeth and started lashing out. It was a fast change as if crazy superman burst out of the phone booth in record time. Here was my Rowen, falling prey to autism.

Luckily, it passed without many even noticing. I guess that's the beauty of a loud, crowded restaurant when your child is about to explode and rocket to the moon. I am not proud of the way I handled it either. My own anxiety pops up to meet his and I start to lose it myself. You'd think I'd know better by now, but the frustration of the moment still sidelines me at times.

These outbursts have become less and less as Rowen learns to handle his fears, but that rare occasion when the autism monster pops in to say hello is still a little rough. But Rowen soon got over his fears and was able to finally enjoy the evening. And so did I.

Flippity-Flop

I hear the footsteps down the hall. I try to act busy and ignore the sweat beads forming on my forehead. I know it's coming and I can't make it stop. [Insert Jaws theme song here] It gets closer and closer and then it happens...

"Do you want to play trains with me?" Rowen asks.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! I've been hit! I stammer out an "Um, uhh, ummm..." and scrub the counter a little harder. *Sigh* I guess it's that time again.

I love my little train conductor to pieces and playing trains once in awhile is the stuff of bonding with my cute, smiling 5-year-old. But for the 500th time, I think I'll pass on the train playing and instead consider lighting all the toy trains in the house on fire.

As I sit on that idea for awhile, I must say that it can be very hard to see Rowen struggle at home with the normal play skills that come naturally to other kids. He can only come up with playing trains on his own. I almost never catch him spontaneously blowing up a Lego building or grabbing for a coloring book. It's trains morning, noon, and night around this place.

I constantly try to throw out ideas and push other areas of play, but I am usually met with a lot of resistance.

"Rowen, you want to go outside? I'm sorry, but it's not shorts and t-shirt weather. You have to wear a coat," I say.

"Nooooooo!!! I will wait until summer," he retorts. "I want my shorts and t-shirt!"

"Rowen, you want to color?" I ask.

"Noooooo!!! I'd rather flop around on the couch aimlessly." Ok, so maybe he doesn't actually say that, but that's what he does. Flop, flop, flop.

We are trying to get him to branch out, but the resistance often makes us want to throw in the towel. I often feel like a bad mother. If I do ANYTHING, Rowen flops. If I'm not engaging him with an iron sceptor, he flops. Floppity-flop-flop. You get the idea.

I hear of other moms doing their own thing on occasion throughout the day and I look at them as if their head just blew up in a cloud of smoke. Is that really possible? You mean junior just plays by himself sometimes? This novel idea makes my head spin. You can probably even see a little smoke.

So for the 700-billionth time I search the Internet for ideas on how to do a better job here. I haven't found an anti-flopping site, but I won't give up hope. I'm sure it's out there, right?

Speaking of flopping, I better get back to Rowen. The trains gave out in the few minutes I took to write this and you can probably guess what he is doing right now at my feet. I'll give you one guess...

The Invisible Boy

As we neared the park today, I could hear Rowen in the backseat saying, "I hope there aren't any kids there." He craned his neck and we rounded the bend in the road to see if there were other children on the playground. I spotted them first, and held my breath waiting for the reaction. I could hear the anxiety in his voice when he saw them and started to chant, "I don't want to go!"

Brenner and I pooled from our bag of tricks to reassure him. Though he wasn't buying, he reluctantly got out of the car and began walking. We reached the playground where a few kids were happily playing together. And then, Rowen became the invisible boy.

He started around the perimeter of the playground, his usual train whistle blowing loud. I saw him steal a glance or two at the other kids, but he kept going. He stopped short of a little girl, but never broke stride. He was a train, after all. Not a boy. Trains apply their brakes and stop, but they don't talk. They just blow their whistles and trudge forward.

I saw a few kids glancing his way with quizzical looks, but Rowen sure didn't notice. He was too scared to play with the other kids, so he lost himself in his train routine and became my invisible child.

I immediately pull out my crystal ball and see more of the same in the future. I know he has it in him to cross the barriers. He can when he feels comfortable. And that becomes an entirely different story of coaching him into the give and take of relationships. That's an emotional roller coaster that can easily take Rowen out for the count.

I often ask Rowen what makes him so scared to approach other children. He just says, "mommy, I'm shy." That's all I've ever gotten out of him, but then again it's enough. He wants to cross the barrier and be successful but he's often pulled into a world that most don't understand.

The other children left and Rowen became Rowen again. I looked up to see him on the tire swing, and then on the climbing wall with no one else but his daddy. He's Rowen's best buddy through thick and thin. They laughed away the chilly February day at the park and I felt a peace come over me. God would lead the way. He started with us as Rowen's parents, and I'm grateful for that. We must be doing something right... at least I hope so. I take comfort in knowing that God knows what He is doing even when I don't. Even through an invisible boy.

Goodbye Mr. Butt-Popper

Rowen has managed to string together several days of peace in our house. I am amazed at his ability to turn the cheek and give kisses to his brother rather than the sleeper hold. Our 5-year-old autistic son who can pull the bumper off your car in the parking lot while yelling "Mr. Butt-Popper" (don't ask... I don't know either.) over and over again has been showing his sweet side. It's the side of him that I miss horribly when his alter ego (Hitler, anyone?) comes knocking at our door at 3 a.m. He's been raking in the smiley faces on his sweet little preschool chart and holding down the number of times he calls me mean in a day. He may be down to a dozen or so lately. Big stuff around here.

Here's the best part though... drum roll please. He has slept through the night for about 4 or 5 nights consecutively! No, he's not 6-months old with a raging milk addiction. He's five. We've spent many sleep-deprived nights trying to soothe or otherwise sedate, er I mean lull him into sleep. His nightly routine was to come in screaming and kick daddy out of bed. If we didn't oblige, the wrath of Rowen would knock the sandman into next week. So daddy would drag his half-alive butt out of bed to sleep in Rowen's room next to Goldie Henry the fish (may he RIP after Rowen played hide-and-seek with him under his fish rocks).

Later we got a little savvy and put a sleeping bag next to our bed. Miraculously, Rowen would come in at night and slip into his sleeping bag without a word. To him it was like going to Disney World on acid. Best. Thing. Ever. Thank you Experienced Mom From Our Autism Group for the idea. It worked like a charm for awhile. It worked, that is, until Rowen decided to start sleeping in his room. I'm not sure what made him change his mind after his 1,915 days since birth, but who's really couting, right? Or better yet, who wants to jinx it? I do think the 15 blankets we pile on him at night (to mimic a weighted blanket) has something to do with it. So what if we have to ring him out of a pool of sweat in the morning? (Just kidding, Children's Services!).

Brenner and I have exchanged many "who is this and what have you done with my autistic child?" glances in the past few days. It's been refreshing. I've been refreshed. Heck, I've had sleep so I feel like I'm starting to resemble my human form again. Praise the Lord for a little reminder of my former life as a person who sleeps at night. It's good to be back. Let's hope it sticks.