Working with Oliver

My son was diagnosed with autism about a year ago.  At the time he was already part of a state-sponsored program, receiving in-home therapy from a speech pathologist, an occupational therapist, and a special educator.  His diagnosis didn't change much in the way of his treatment, aside from adding another educator and increasing the frequency of the home visits. After over a year in the program, Oliver has made tremendous progress.  His speech is still delayed, but is becoming more clear, appropriate, and frequent.  He initiates social interaction, tries to make jokes, and is more flexible when faced with unexpected changes.  I'm increadibly proud of him and his accomplishments.

That is why I get so aggravated by the casual manner in which people react to his changes.  Things like, "I knew he'd talk when he was ready," or "He's just lazy" or "You are too easy on him" are so dismissive of all the months of hard work put in by Oliver, his therapists, and Zak and me.  We have been proactive in seeking treatment and doing everything we could to make it as effective as possible.  We don't just work with him on his letters or his numbers, we've taught him how to sign, to communicate with pictures, and now to finally speak.  We work with him on his manners, being considerate of others and their feelings, and appropriate social interactions.  For parents with a typically developing child, these tasks may be part of their routine too, but I don't really know.  I only know what it's like to be Oliver's mom.

We had to learn how to teach him, how to communicate with him.  He's working on processing the world the way typical people do, but it's still a challenge.  He's not unintelligent by any means.  His problem solving skills are downright uncanny.  He thinks outside the box and finds ways to acheive goals in a manner different from the accepted norm.  But he still struggles with some sensory issues and inappropriate reactions.  It's taken me some time to realise that his tantrums are now normal.  He gets upset when he is told no, but his recovery time is much faster.  He no longer hits or reacts violently when extremely upset.  He just cries and crumples to the floor, very similarly to the other toddler meltdowns I've witnessed in the grocery store or the library.

I don't know if Oliver's initial diagnosis was wrong.  At the time, it seemed to fit the way he reacted to the world.  And I don't know if early intervention will have the same results for every child with autism.  But I do know that thanks to his teachers, therapists, and the strategies they have given us,  we have formed a fantastic team to facilitate Oliver's growth and development. 

He doesn not act like the same child from a year ago.  He used to be unable to sit and play for longer than 30 seconds.  He ate crayons instead of drawing with them.  He had no concept of pretend play, was intolerant of changes in routine and attempts to redirect him.  He could say "hi" and "bye" occasionally but not when prompted.  Now he plays with his trains for hours on end.  He sits at a table and draws or colors, scribbles on a chalkboard, and is learning to write his name.  He can put together a puzzle with multiple pieces, match colors and objects, and respond correctly to questions.  He can speak in five word sentences and engage in a conversation.  What he says is not always clear, but he is more patient and tries to find other appropriate ways of getting his point accross.  He follows directions and can be redirected to a different task when necessary. 

All of this did not happen overnight.  It took a lot of patience and understanding on our part, a willingness to learn how his mind processed the world around him.  It took a lot of patience (a virtue uncommon in most 2 year olds) and perserverance on his part as well.  He stuck with the work, became more tolerant, and thrived in his environment.  He continues to work hard, losing patience soem days, but for the most part, he keeps at it.  His language is developing and becoming clearer.  We have started working on goals for typically developing preschoolers like counting, identifying letters, colors, and objects, and potty-training.  We hope to start him in preschool in January.

If you see Oliver one day, please remember that he is the way he is because we all worked hard to get there.  He didn't just wake up one day and decide to talk, or suddenly become a 3 year old with an insane work ethic.  It was a gradual process that has changed our lives forever.

(Mis)Adventures in Gnocchi

After weeks of drooling over a recipe, I finally settled in to make gnocchi for the first time.  Of course I decided to make it for company, and the recipe only yielded servings for 2-3 people as a main course.  So I made 3 batches of it, albeit unintentionally.  I had intended only to make 2 batches, but ran into some problems when it came time to pick potatoes.

You see the recipe called for 2lbs of potatoes.  I had purchased a 5lb bag, and figured I could just use most of the bag and leave 2 or 3 out.  However, the recipe really calls for 3 cups of potatoes, but you don't measure them til after you microwaved, baked, peeled (while hot), riced, and spread on a cookie sheet to cool.  If you have more than 3 cups, you're supposed to discard the remains. 

I emptied my bag of potatoes into the sink and discovered my first of many potato hurdles.  These suckers were enormous!  If I kept out 2 or 3, I'd probably only have 3lbs of potatoes, and for my purposes I needed 4 (or so I thought).  I considered using them all, but decided against that as I really didn't need the extra pound.  I'd finally settled on 7, when I realised that my microwave would only hold 4 potatoes at a time, and tossing in 3 potatoes could really screw up the cook times.  So I used all the potatoes save 1, which I scrubbed and set aside for a baked potato for my husband some time in the near future.

Having microwaved and baked said spuds, I got down to peeling them with a paring knife.  It was surprisingly easy, with the exception of the scalding steam each potato emitted as its peel fell off.  But the recipe said peel when hot to allow release of steam and prevent a build up of moisture within the potato.  So I peeled and scalded, peeled and scalded, until they were all done.  Of course this brought me to the ricing stage.

I knew before I started that I hadn't a ricer, but I did a little research and found I could use a sieve and get the same effect.  So I brought out my little metal mesh sieve and began pressing potato through it.  Contrary to what I thought (and every indication I'd gotten beforehand), passing a potato through a sieve is not a simple or easy task.  It's actually quite labor-intensive as is evident by my now broken (and possibly unfixable) sieve.  While the mesh was separating from the handle, I tried valiantly to continue as I had no back-up plan, and consequently gave myself several pricks and slices with thin metal thread.  Thankfully I will not be playing with lemons anytime soon.

With my ricer substitute now in ruins, I was at a loss.  I decided to step out of my kitchen for a break, and then discovered the disaster that my living room had become.  My 3 year old son had climbed up and gotten down my stationary organizer and strewn its contents all over the floor.  I really hadn't realised til I was picking up and reorganizing my stationary that I have quite a lot of it.  And the cards had to be rematched to their envelopes (and of course they aren't a standard size).  I finally cleaned up that mess, settled my son on the couch for a nap, and decided to tackle the potato problem with a grater.

Just for the record, grating cooked potatoes is a very messy experience and gets particularly sticky once the gluten forms its nice little molecular chains.  But I pressed on (pun absolutely intended!) and finally triumphed over the ricing fiasco.  By this point, the potatoes were mostly cool, very likely well past the 10 minute cooling allocated by the recipe, so I rushed right on to the measuring.  That's when I discovered that I had 9 cups of potatoes.  In case you don't remember, I really only needed 6.  How I ended up with what my recipe said would amount to 2 batches of gnocchi (by following its initial potato measuring system) I haven't the foggiest.  Nevertheless, there I was with enough to make 3 batches of gnocchi.

So I mixed the first batch and rolled out the dough as described.  The only hitch at this point was getting nice, even ridges in the gnocchi, which the recipe promised would help hold the sauce.  It said to roll the gnocchi onto a fork.  There was even a picture of how to do it.  But it didn't work!  My gnocchi ended up turning into noodles following the recipe's guidelines.  At this point, I figured I'd made enough adjustments independently, so I threw caution (what was left of it) to the wind and pressed instead of rolled.  And I must say, by the last 3 pieces of the final batch, I had it down to an art.

Thankfully, all my efforts were not for naught.  It was received to rave reviews by friends and family alike.  Needless to say, it will be some time (possibly years) before I attempt this recipe again.

Regression

When you have a child with autism, the little victories are hugely gratifying.  By the same token, the little outbursts seem humongous, and you begin to doubt that anything you are doing is making a difference.  Some days are wonderful, but those other days...well, they make you want to throw in the towel, especially when there are a bunch of them strung together.  And you catch yourself praying that this tantrum will be the last one of the day, of the week.  But you know it's not.  

If he starts with a tantrum in the morning over breakfast, every meal or snack will be a battle.  And God help you if you want to get him dressed and out the door.  Oh he'll agree to go out, but of course will refuse to put on shoes and a coat.  And once he's crossed the threshold, good luck catching him.  Then there are the screaming fits in the middle of the grocery store, when he hits you and you try to calmly restrain him but he gets even angrier and bites you.  And you know that he's overwhelmed and stressed and having a bad day, but everyone around you is giving you that look:  the one that makes you feel like you're wearing the scarlet letter of parenthood - the bad mother who can't control her child, the one who's obviously taught her child that it's okay to act like this in public, who must hit her child otherwise how would he know how to do it.  And you want to just have a meltdown right there with your child, because you're both so confused and frustrated.

But you keep going, finding the strength somewhere, to cross the items off your list, check out, and load everything into the car.  He's still crying and you still want to join him, but you get yourselves home again, and let him run off some of his seemingly boundless energy.  As soon as you call him to come in, he takes off in the other direction.  You finally coax him in the house with the promise of Thomas and Cheerios, and he comes running to you.  For a split second, you feel a surge of hope, that he's running up to give you a hug.  But no, he just runs around you, shouting, "Thomas!  Thomas!  Watch Thomas, please?"  And you're so grateful to hear him talk, to request something so clearly, that you just scoop him up and cover him with kisses while you put Thomas on for him to watch.

He settles in on the couch, and you curl up with a book next to him, while he watches Thomas.  He sings with the songs, and jumps up when Thomas comes on screen.  But after awhile he becomes so enthralled with the story, that he calms down and scoots over to you.  And he lays his head on your arm and absently pats your hand.  And that's when you realise that everything is going to be fine.