You guys all have really awesome kids. You're doing really awesome jobs. Reading this stuff really warms my heart and lifts my spirits-- and some days they can really use the lifting.
My four-year-old son is definitely going to struggle. I worry about the kid. I see as much misery in his future as in my past-- maybe worse, because I at least had the benefit of not being diagnosed and depersonized. I got to be a smart little girl with limitless potential, even if I was weird and messed-up and bad and hell-bound and nobody really liked me. It could go so much worse for him if he doesn't manage to fly under the radar, and I'm terrified for him.
He's really struggling with self-regulation and anxiety right now. It's going to be a long, slow road. It is with any child; it's going to be longer and slower and bumpier with him.
But he tries. He really, really, really tries. We're really not getting anywhere with the self-regulation thing (but what do I expect, really-- he's four-going-on-five, for Christsake). But about four days a week, he looks at me and says, "I'm doing better today, Mom." Actually, I guess we are getting somewhere. He doesn't get near as mad near as often when I make him sit down and get calm.
He's scared spitless of so many things. Bridges. Aliens. Asteroid impacts. The dark. Strangers. On and on and on and on. But he TRIES. He really, really tries. When he's really, really, really scared, he grabs my hand and shakes and takes one grudging step at a time-- but he puts one little square foot in front of the other one and he goes. Which is more than I did when I was four.
Going to the dentist has always been a bastard. Most of them see us once and then won't even work with him, and we've got the holes to prove it. We usually don't even make it to x-rays before he falls apart sobbing, they give up (or worse), and we end up slinking out the door.
A few weeks ago, we finally found a good one. He walks in the door holding my hand, going, "I'm scared, Mom. But I won't let being scared tell me what to do." And, as long as I stay and nobody tries the fake-cheerful honey-sweet voice (which really freaks him out), he LETS THEM CLEAN HIS TEETH!! ! We're still not ready to fill cavities with him conscious, but it's a HUGE step and I am SO proud of him.
We walked out on the pier last night (he has a love/hate relationship with it-- he loves the beach and fishermen and boats and he wants to go, but he's terrified it will fall into the water). He actually looked when I showed him how thick the planks were (although he went nuts when I made the mistake of explaining that "composite" is plastic-- "But my toys that break are plastic!! !"). He actually walked all the way to the end of the thing, and sat next to me on the bench asking questions about what would happen if a (monster, giant, rocket, asteroid, tree) landed on it. Asking them calmly and listening to the answers.
He walked halfway back without even holding my hand. He was too busy laughing because his little sister hiked up her shirt and mooned about 30 people (it was a long shirt and I didn't realize she'd shed her shorts in the car).
He really cares about his sisters (even though he's horrible to them sometimes-- they're siblings, and believe me, it's mutual). He kisses them goodnight, kisses their boo-boos, lectures them about what he's learned ( a little professor with a broken volume knob). He's been very involved in putting together his little sister's third birthday party-- and he's actually thinking about what SHE'D like as much as what HE wants to see.
He's absolutely in love with the idea of the new little one. He hugs and kisses my belly and calls the giant lump by name. He sits there and pats my belly and tells her about all the stuff he's going to teach her "when [she] doesn't just sleep and poop and cry all the time." He really will, too-- he was really good with the going-on-three-year-old when she was tiny (until she learned to bait and badger and tease-- now she runs rings around him and they fight all the time).
I don't blame him for getting mad at her. I'm 34, not 4, and sometimes she baits ME so badly I have to walk away to keep from retaliating (retaliating in meanness isn't the same thing as discipline). It's not just Aspies-- she has that effect on everyone she spends a lot of time with. That's who she is. But she's really smart, and I think she's going to be athletically adept, and she'll be a sweet child in another year or two once she develops the self-control to begin learning not to goad people for the joy of it, just because she can.
People are probably always going to come hard to him, but he's going to be really very good with animals. He is exceptionally gentle with our dachshund mix and really good with Grandma's itty-bitty mini doxie. He keeps trying to teach Grandpa's horrible, ill-tempered, high-anxiety miserable doxie to trust him, despite the fact that he's terrified of the miserable creature (hell, I've spent two months doing PT with the stupid obese wiener, and I'm still afraid of him-- his temperament just sucks that much!). Seriously-- If I knew the dosages, I'd be tempted to slip the dog some anxiety meds (or flat-out sedatives). I liked that dog SO much better on tramadol. I hate that dog-- but the kid won't give up on him.
And he's sensible about it-- sits back away and holds out his hand and talks in a low, steady, firm voice. He listened so seriously when I taught him what to do. I think he's going to have my dad's gift with animals. Which really warms my heart.
Maybe someday I'll get him to go 60 seconds without talking. I know I should be thankful he's hyperverbal instead of delayed or non-verbal. I know I should. I try to be. I am. I really am. I've been hyperverbal, voluntarily silent, and had very low verbal abilities at different times in my life. I know it could be soooo much harder-- this is definitely the lesser of a bag of evils. Really infinitesimal in comparison-- and I AM grateful. I AM grateful. I AM grateful.
But I also remember being hyperverbal (I still have to work really hard to restrain it--actually I'm failing right now, obviously) and I know how much hurt and trouble it can cause. I know how irritating he is to other people-- and how judgmental and foul they can be because of it-- and I ardently want him to learn how and when to shut up before he gets the beating-down that I did.
Or, worse-- medicated out of a lot of his functionality because it's more convenient to have him docile, quiet, and miserable-but-unable-to-articulate-it. I know how quick people who underestimate the limitations of their knowledge can be to use antipsychotics as an umbrella treatment for everyone on the spectrum, and I'm terrified for him because of it.
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"Alas, our dried voices when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar." --TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
19 Apr 2012, 8:12 pm
