Panic
Off to the wilds of Northern BC. In two hours. Herding two and 1/2 kids by myself, as Seymour's in the vacation hours hole and can't join us for a couple of days. I am brave and strong and have done this many times! But, Aiiigh! There are still errands to be run and much packing to be done. FUCK.
I believe this may have to be a coffee day. Sorry, little nugget. We are at 18 weeks, you and I; I'm guessing you're strong enough to take one or two caffeine jolts.
My crew and I return on the 11th. I will be offline during the interim. But before we go, I'd like to profess my undying love for Jo the airport chauffeur, Badger the genealogy wizard and bringer of bleach, and Ep the house, cat, plant, and fish tender. My friends rock the Casbah.
Goodbye/Au Revoir! (got to get ready to be in Canada).
6.30.2004
6.29.2004
Blogging Through a Block, for Leelo
Something that may come as a surprise to those who slog through these pages on a regular basis or know that I previously made my living through the craft: I hate writing. I really do. It hurts! Ouch. Like pulling fingernails. I don't get how Jo and Badger can sit down and shoot out those beautiful, streamlined, crystalline, seemingly effortless paragraphs, because I will remain forever trapped in thickets of unnecessary articles and adverbs.
But being given free license to ramble on--now, that is something altogether different. That's why I don't consider my blogging Writing. If I did, I'd be paralyzed. I'd have to ask Ep to edit me before posting--but since she would get apoplectic about my abuses of grammar, verb tense, and punctuation (specifically parentheses), no entry would ever get published.
Having this blog outlet can be helpful when I find myself up against a deadline. For example, I am supposed submit an explanatory paragraph or two for an upcoming Leelo's Day photo exhibit. I was supposed to get these paragraphs to photographer JM several yesterdays ago, since he will be installing the show next week while I am frolicking on Lake Warshington.
And I tried to start the paragraphs several times, over several days. I really did. But I never got past staring at a blank page. Then it occurred to me that if I wrote them here, I might actually produce something.
So, here goes. I'll let JM chop them into suitable shape for the show. And I won't tell him that I blogged them first, because he dismisses blogging as equivalent to scrapbooking. The twit.
---
Leelo is a three year old autistic boy. These photos are glimpses from a typical day in his life.
Leelo has marked deficiencies in his speaking, listening, and social skills. These are common characteristics in autistic children, and occur because they lack their peers' innate ability to learn through observation.
To help him better learn how to communicate--to be in our world as well as his--Leelo spends several hours a day working one-on-one with specially trained therapists.
Some people think this type of therapy is too intense for such young children. I wish these naysayers could come observe Leelo, and see the obvious delight he gets out of being taught how to learn, out of his guided playgroups, and out of life in general.
Something that may come as a surprise to those who slog through these pages on a regular basis or know that I previously made my living through the craft: I hate writing. I really do. It hurts! Ouch. Like pulling fingernails. I don't get how Jo and Badger can sit down and shoot out those beautiful, streamlined, crystalline, seemingly effortless paragraphs, because I will remain forever trapped in thickets of unnecessary articles and adverbs.
But being given free license to ramble on--now, that is something altogether different. That's why I don't consider my blogging Writing. If I did, I'd be paralyzed. I'd have to ask Ep to edit me before posting--but since she would get apoplectic about my abuses of grammar, verb tense, and punctuation (specifically parentheses), no entry would ever get published.
Having this blog outlet can be helpful when I find myself up against a deadline. For example, I am supposed submit an explanatory paragraph or two for an upcoming Leelo's Day photo exhibit. I was supposed to get these paragraphs to photographer JM several yesterdays ago, since he will be installing the show next week while I am frolicking on Lake Warshington.
And I tried to start the paragraphs several times, over several days. I really did. But I never got past staring at a blank page. Then it occurred to me that if I wrote them here, I might actually produce something.
So, here goes. I'll let JM chop them into suitable shape for the show. And I won't tell him that I blogged them first, because he dismisses blogging as equivalent to scrapbooking. The twit.
---
Leelo is a three year old autistic boy. These photos are glimpses from a typical day in his life.
Leelo has marked deficiencies in his speaking, listening, and social skills. These are common characteristics in autistic children, and occur because they lack their peers' innate ability to learn through observation.
To help him better learn how to communicate--to be in our world as well as his--Leelo spends several hours a day working one-on-one with specially trained therapists.
Some people think this type of therapy is too intense for such young children. I wish these naysayers could come observe Leelo, and see the obvious delight he gets out of being taught how to learn, out of his guided playgroups, and out of life in general.
Where Did This Girl Come From?
A big entry on Miss Iz; turn away now if you've a sensitive stomach. Those who see me in daily life have heard much of this already since I am a one-note player piano.
Saturday afternoon was spent celebrating the marriage of our friends Lewis and Darling. They irked everyone by eloping six months ago, so this party was meant to placate the masses, and provide a general excuse for a hootenanny. (They eloped because they're both in their 70s, and have so many friends and (in Darling's case) relatives that they didn't see how they could have an uncomplicated wedding.)
It was great to see and chat with friends we don't get to see all that often. Lewis's perplexing son Spot and lovely daughter-in-law Roon were there, as was, in a surprise visit from Oahu, our friend Twister. All boisterous, gleeful 6'4" of him.
I assumed Twister was here for Pride weekend, but that was a happy coincidence--his official mission was coaching a student at a Stanfford diving competition. He says he comes this way often with his students, so I'm hoping we'll get to see more of him in the future.
One of the hootenanny highlights was an honest-to-gosh group of folkies--these boys used to play with the Smothers Brothers, etc. Sure, go ahead and mutter A Mighty Wind under your breath; you're not the one who experienced their sublime rendition of Scotch and Soda.
They wrapped up with a crowd pleaser, "This Land Is Your Land." Iz loves this song, and sang along at the top of her lungs. The crowd was mostly sixty-somethings, so her voice stood out. The band, tickled to see such a wee girl grooving to their old time tunes, pointed to her, and said "take it away, honey!" And she did! In front of fifty strangers, she stood up and sang a whole solo verse--clearly, in tune, and totally unabashed.
I'm telling you, I don't know where this girl came from. At her age, I would have picked death first. Seymour, outgoing as he is, also lacks that particular nerve.
Afterwards, the band came up to Seymour and Iz, and demanded that we put our girl in some sort of music lesson posthaste. They also complimented her on her big blues, and asked her where she got them since Seymour and I don't have them. "Well," she said, "My parents are blue-eyed carriers." Guffaws all 'round.
It is incidents like these that make me worry less about shoving her up with the slightly older kids next year. That, and, having gone to the bookstore looking for bribe material for tomorrow's trip, and finding the loathsome Summer Learning series. I looked over the huge, thick, boring book bridging the summer between first and second grades, and found perhaps two items Iz would need help with: upper level addition, and upper level telling time. The rest of it was, for her, basic.
Of course, this is the same girl, who, when presented with a book and told that it explains the difference between igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic rocks, gets so excited that you'd think we'd offered her a pony.
Her book hunger edges into karmic retribution territory (I was infamous as a child for playing with visiting friends for five minutes but then retreating to my room to read). Last week I made the mistake of taking her to a mommy/daughter lunch directly after she'd picked up a big stack of books from the library, and so had a quiet lunch by myself while Iz pored over Fabulous Poisonous Animals and occasionally treated me to tidbits such as how black widow spiders like to spin their webs over outhouse seats. (As if worrying about Flukie lurking in the outhouse wasn't enough.)
I've decided to see if we can use her book-love to help her learn other skills as well. Outgoing five year old girls like Iz are, in my experience, generally quite rude. Mostly because they're so excited about what they're excited about, and can't wait for their turn to speak or to summon up the polite way to make a request. So, I've come up with a politeness scheme to help her become less of a verbal battering ram.
Every time she makes a polite spontaneous, non-premeditated request, she gets a point. If she interrupts or is otherwise blatantly rude (we are not being draconian), she gets a point taken away. When she gets a set number of points, she gets a book. The number of points increases each time. We are not using a chart; I'm having her do all the addition, subtraction, and tracking in her head.
So far, this is working beautifully! With us. She's having a rough time remembering to be polite in more general social situations, but it's only been a few days.
There are only two downsides. One is that she finishes her books instantly (so much for my break). She does retain the information, though ("Okay, so what city was Teddy Roosevelt police commissioner of?" "New York City." "Who were the White House Gang?" "His Kids.")
The second is that she's been turned onto, and is constantly requesting, these horrible, horrible, horrible Junnie Bee Jones books, in which the kids are smarmy, smart alecky, and have no concept of proper English. As Ep said, this is the literary equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. GAAAAAH!
Still, she's enjoying having goals during this otherwise formless part of the summer. And we're enjoying the torrent of questions that comes out when she's not reading, even though, again, we sometimes wonder where this girl came from that she can even conceive of such things.
A few evenings ago, she and Seymour were having some daddy/daughter time. Out of the blue, she initiated the following conversation:
"Daddy, is Leelo always going to be autistic?"
"Well, he's going to get a lot better, but yes, probably."
"What causes autism? How did he get it?"
"Well, sweetie, we don't know yet, but we're pretty sure it's genetic."
"So is the new baby going to be autistic then?" (?!?!)
"It's possible, but chances are that it won't. It's really unlikely."
And there you go. Recording for my journal, and wondering what the upcoming years with this girl, and her brother, are going to be like. Maybe this new baby will be easy? I will cross my fingers.
Off to panic and pack for tomorrow's trip.
A big entry on Miss Iz; turn away now if you've a sensitive stomach. Those who see me in daily life have heard much of this already since I am a one-note player piano.
Saturday afternoon was spent celebrating the marriage of our friends Lewis and Darling. They irked everyone by eloping six months ago, so this party was meant to placate the masses, and provide a general excuse for a hootenanny. (They eloped because they're both in their 70s, and have so many friends and (in Darling's case) relatives that they didn't see how they could have an uncomplicated wedding.)
It was great to see and chat with friends we don't get to see all that often. Lewis's perplexing son Spot and lovely daughter-in-law Roon were there, as was, in a surprise visit from Oahu, our friend Twister. All boisterous, gleeful 6'4" of him.
I assumed Twister was here for Pride weekend, but that was a happy coincidence--his official mission was coaching a student at a Stanfford diving competition. He says he comes this way often with his students, so I'm hoping we'll get to see more of him in the future.
One of the hootenanny highlights was an honest-to-gosh group of folkies--these boys used to play with the Smothers Brothers, etc. Sure, go ahead and mutter A Mighty Wind under your breath; you're not the one who experienced their sublime rendition of Scotch and Soda.
They wrapped up with a crowd pleaser, "This Land Is Your Land." Iz loves this song, and sang along at the top of her lungs. The crowd was mostly sixty-somethings, so her voice stood out. The band, tickled to see such a wee girl grooving to their old time tunes, pointed to her, and said "take it away, honey!" And she did! In front of fifty strangers, she stood up and sang a whole solo verse--clearly, in tune, and totally unabashed.
I'm telling you, I don't know where this girl came from. At her age, I would have picked death first. Seymour, outgoing as he is, also lacks that particular nerve.
Afterwards, the band came up to Seymour and Iz, and demanded that we put our girl in some sort of music lesson posthaste. They also complimented her on her big blues, and asked her where she got them since Seymour and I don't have them. "Well," she said, "My parents are blue-eyed carriers." Guffaws all 'round.
It is incidents like these that make me worry less about shoving her up with the slightly older kids next year. That, and, having gone to the bookstore looking for bribe material for tomorrow's trip, and finding the loathsome Summer Learning series. I looked over the huge, thick, boring book bridging the summer between first and second grades, and found perhaps two items Iz would need help with: upper level addition, and upper level telling time. The rest of it was, for her, basic.
Of course, this is the same girl, who, when presented with a book and told that it explains the difference between igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic rocks, gets so excited that you'd think we'd offered her a pony.
Her book hunger edges into karmic retribution territory (I was infamous as a child for playing with visiting friends for five minutes but then retreating to my room to read). Last week I made the mistake of taking her to a mommy/daughter lunch directly after she'd picked up a big stack of books from the library, and so had a quiet lunch by myself while Iz pored over Fabulous Poisonous Animals and occasionally treated me to tidbits such as how black widow spiders like to spin their webs over outhouse seats. (As if worrying about Flukie lurking in the outhouse wasn't enough.)
I've decided to see if we can use her book-love to help her learn other skills as well. Outgoing five year old girls like Iz are, in my experience, generally quite rude. Mostly because they're so excited about what they're excited about, and can't wait for their turn to speak or to summon up the polite way to make a request. So, I've come up with a politeness scheme to help her become less of a verbal battering ram.
Every time she makes a polite spontaneous, non-premeditated request, she gets a point. If she interrupts or is otherwise blatantly rude (we are not being draconian), she gets a point taken away. When she gets a set number of points, she gets a book. The number of points increases each time. We are not using a chart; I'm having her do all the addition, subtraction, and tracking in her head.
So far, this is working beautifully! With us. She's having a rough time remembering to be polite in more general social situations, but it's only been a few days.
There are only two downsides. One is that she finishes her books instantly (so much for my break). She does retain the information, though ("Okay, so what city was Teddy Roosevelt police commissioner of?" "New York City." "Who were the White House Gang?" "His Kids.")
The second is that she's been turned onto, and is constantly requesting, these horrible, horrible, horrible Junnie Bee Jones books, in which the kids are smarmy, smart alecky, and have no concept of proper English. As Ep said, this is the literary equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. GAAAAAH!
Still, she's enjoying having goals during this otherwise formless part of the summer. And we're enjoying the torrent of questions that comes out when she's not reading, even though, again, we sometimes wonder where this girl came from that she can even conceive of such things.
A few evenings ago, she and Seymour were having some daddy/daughter time. Out of the blue, she initiated the following conversation:
"Daddy, is Leelo always going to be autistic?"
"Well, he's going to get a lot better, but yes, probably."
"What causes autism? How did he get it?"
"Well, sweetie, we don't know yet, but we're pretty sure it's genetic."
"So is the new baby going to be autistic then?" (?!?!)
"It's possible, but chances are that it won't. It's really unlikely."
And there you go. Recording for my journal, and wondering what the upcoming years with this girl, and her brother, are going to be like. Maybe this new baby will be easy? I will cross my fingers.
Off to panic and pack for tomorrow's trip.
6.28.2004
Inspiration
I don't know about you, but I love Jackie Chan. Sure, he's made some unpardonably silly movies, but he remains cheeky! I recently read an interview with him in which he summed up my general approach to life:
Interviewer: In a fight between you and Ahnuld, who would win?
Jackie: Well, he is stronger, but I am tricky and can run away very fast.
There you go.
In other news, I started feeling those first little kicks and head-butts this weekend. So I guess this really is real. Perhaps I should start investigating things like, erm, cribs. And I will. After we get back from Canada/Seattle, in two weeks.
I don't know about you, but I love Jackie Chan. Sure, he's made some unpardonably silly movies, but he remains cheeky! I recently read an interview with him in which he summed up my general approach to life:
Interviewer: In a fight between you and Ahnuld, who would win?
Jackie: Well, he is stronger, but I am tricky and can run away very fast.
There you go.
In other news, I started feeling those first little kicks and head-butts this weekend. So I guess this really is real. Perhaps I should start investigating things like, erm, cribs. And I will. After we get back from Canada/Seattle, in two weeks.
6.25.2004
6.24.2004
Autism and Mercury, Yet Again
One of those days. Craziness! Instead of my ramblings, I'll treat you to a thought-provoking article on why we can't yet discount the autism/mercury connection, from the wonderful Wampum folks.
One of those days. Craziness! Instead of my ramblings, I'll treat you to a thought-provoking article on why we can't yet discount the autism/mercury connection, from the wonderful Wampum folks.
El Suspiro de la Monja
A few weeks ago I recycled box upon box upon box of old papers. I sifted through them first, and found some fairly amusing drawings from my school days. Maybe if I took another lecture-heavy class, I'd be inspired to draw more?
This one was my favorite. Now you know what nuns think about when they're praying: Klingons, ¡por supuesto!
A few weeks ago I recycled box upon box upon box of old papers. I sifted through them first, and found some fairly amusing drawings from my school days. Maybe if I took another lecture-heavy class, I'd be inspired to draw more?
This one was my favorite. Now you know what nuns think about when they're praying: Klingons, ¡por supuesto!
Back in the Office
I got booted off the computer for two days. My brother the pilot, his girlfriend, and 14-week-old baby Picard (cute!) arrived for a surprise, whirlwind visit, and replaced our computer chair with a porta-crib (our quarters are teeny). Seymour had the laptop at work, so I was an analog girl until the guests left this A.M.
Still battling bronchitis. GO AWAY! says I. This sucks, especially the part with the spasmodic cough that leaves me gasping and hitching. I don't want to go to the Dr. because she will most likely throw drugs at me, and I've not taken so much as a Tylenol since getting knocked up. Badger, veteran of many an interminable bronchitis bout, had much good advice about steam and garlic, etc.
Meanwhile I feel oozy and lightheaded, my chest hurts, I'm very tired, and I am wondering if I can beg yet another night off from beleaguered Seymour. I am also thinking that people who get sick more frequently than I do are probably not so whiny and wimpy about it. I just want to sleep!
Leelo is sick too, with a lingering cold. For him, being ill means crap crap crappy ABA sessions. He seems a bit better, and he still did have some good progress such as multiple pees in the potty, but before today he was all vocalizations, jumping, and poor eye contact. The eye contact got so evasive that Therapist L had to resort to basic holding-cheesy-puff-at-eye-level tactics to gain compliance. The therapists haven't needed to to do that for months.
Now of course I am fretting about whether or not the illness and behavior are stemming from the dairy reintroduction we implemented twelve days ago. Aiigh! Why do these things always happen simultaneously? I am forcing myself to be rational, and acknowledge that if he is still "off" after the cold goes away, then we will have reason to worry.
Seymour has asked that we ban P33-W33 Herman for the time being. "He's Leelo's favorite!" I whine. "Yes," says Seymour, "but P33-Wee constantly demonstrates random vocalizations, hand-flapping, and the sort of spazzy behavior we're trying to help Leelo contain."
Oh. Fuck. He's right.
I've pawned Iz off on neighbor Tea and her babysitter. Let's see how the boy likes DS9 repeats. (In case you think I'm an unsalvageable dork, please let it be known that I'm not the one who named my daughter Ezri. That was one of my fellow churchgoers.)
I got booted off the computer for two days. My brother the pilot, his girlfriend, and 14-week-old baby Picard (cute!) arrived for a surprise, whirlwind visit, and replaced our computer chair with a porta-crib (our quarters are teeny). Seymour had the laptop at work, so I was an analog girl until the guests left this A.M.
Still battling bronchitis. GO AWAY! says I. This sucks, especially the part with the spasmodic cough that leaves me gasping and hitching. I don't want to go to the Dr. because she will most likely throw drugs at me, and I've not taken so much as a Tylenol since getting knocked up. Badger, veteran of many an interminable bronchitis bout, had much good advice about steam and garlic, etc.
Meanwhile I feel oozy and lightheaded, my chest hurts, I'm very tired, and I am wondering if I can beg yet another night off from beleaguered Seymour. I am also thinking that people who get sick more frequently than I do are probably not so whiny and wimpy about it. I just want to sleep!
Leelo is sick too, with a lingering cold. For him, being ill means crap crap crappy ABA sessions. He seems a bit better, and he still did have some good progress such as multiple pees in the potty, but before today he was all vocalizations, jumping, and poor eye contact. The eye contact got so evasive that Therapist L had to resort to basic holding-cheesy-puff-at-eye-level tactics to gain compliance. The therapists haven't needed to to do that for months.
Now of course I am fretting about whether or not the illness and behavior are stemming from the dairy reintroduction we implemented twelve days ago. Aiigh! Why do these things always happen simultaneously? I am forcing myself to be rational, and acknowledge that if he is still "off" after the cold goes away, then we will have reason to worry.
Seymour has asked that we ban P33-W33 Herman for the time being. "He's Leelo's favorite!" I whine. "Yes," says Seymour, "but P33-Wee constantly demonstrates random vocalizations, hand-flapping, and the sort of spazzy behavior we're trying to help Leelo contain."
Oh. Fuck. He's right.
I've pawned Iz off on neighbor Tea and her babysitter. Let's see how the boy likes DS9 repeats. (In case you think I'm an unsalvageable dork, please let it be known that I'm not the one who named my daughter Ezri. That was one of my fellow churchgoers.)
6.22.2004
Autism Notes From Field and...Pool
On Sunday we went to young Xander's 5th birthday party. At a gym, with trampolines and big pits of block sponges and balance beams and climbing areas--pure heaven for both my children. It is no coincidence that this ideal party was hosted by dear MB, also mother to Leo's autistic peer Sophie (a/o to Jo's Sophie).
I noticed that one little boy, Drew, was sporting a floral headband. Yay for his parents in letting him wear whatever the hell he wants, I figured.
It turns out that Drew, all 5 and 1/2 years of him, was autistic. I would never, ever have known that something was up had MB not specifically mentioned it, and introduced me to his rightfully pleased mother.
MB said that Drew has been in an ABA program for two years, and that he was not speaking at all when he began. That blew the top right off of my head, because I had assumed he was neurotypical (NT) based on language skills and eye contact that were indistinguishable from those of his peers.
Once I'd been clued in, I spent a lot of time observing him (easy to do, since he was in Iz's group). I noticed that he asked more questions than the other kids, and also needed occasional reminders to stay in line, etc., but nothing outside the bounds of NT kids--many of them are like that, too. Amazing.
I also noticed how quickly he obeyed any direct request or command. An ABA child, for sure. He also happily joined in when Iz was commanding Leelo to pretend to laugh. "Pretend to laugh!" Drew repeated, in perfect form. (Leelo, flummoxed at being given instructions from two people at once, got overwhelmed and ran back over to the balance beam.)
Now I want MB to write me a list of Drew's exact symptoms prior to ABA so we can tell ourselves that our children will end up just like him!
---
Yesterday afternoon was Iz's first swimming lesson of the summer. I wasn't looking forward to it, because I needed to bring Leelo along, and had no idea what to do with him during that half hour.
Turns out I needn't have worried--this place has a Leelo's-thigh high toddler pool, and our boy was happy to frolic there indefinitely.
The frolicking was convenient, because it gave me a chance to talk with another mom who happened to be there. Diana has a six-year-old with Asperger's, a preschooler who seems fine, and an vaccine-free toddler. (Diana's refusal to vaccinate her toddler got her bounced from the pediatric practice of our wonderful Dr. G. Fark.)
It was interesting to hear about her Aspie son Matt, a child on such a different part of the spectrum. Matt's issues are purely social, e.g., he doesn't understand that it's not okay to punch another kid in the face for knocking down a block tower. He will follow instructions to apologize afterwards, but doesn't really get why he's saying "sorry."
She has been through hell for sure, since other parents (I've heard them), the teachers at the two schools Matt got kicked out of, and even psychologists have tried to pin his problems on shitty parenting. Thankfully she found an organization that, through over twenty hours of testing, was able to pinpoint her son's condition and get him into an appropriate school.
Which makes me wonder if being able to pass as NT, as Matt does, is such a great thing for kids like Leelo and Sophie and Drew. Both Diana and Matt get constant grief about his behavior from snippy strangers, who of course can't understand why such a big, obviously intelligent boy would act like that.
Matt is lucky to have such an intrepid mom--she refuses to keep him shuttered up at home, even though going out means intensive surveillance on her part. I hope to continue to observe and converse with her, as she seems an excellent role model.
On Sunday we went to young Xander's 5th birthday party. At a gym, with trampolines and big pits of block sponges and balance beams and climbing areas--pure heaven for both my children. It is no coincidence that this ideal party was hosted by dear MB, also mother to Leo's autistic peer Sophie (a/o to Jo's Sophie).
I noticed that one little boy, Drew, was sporting a floral headband. Yay for his parents in letting him wear whatever the hell he wants, I figured.
It turns out that Drew, all 5 and 1/2 years of him, was autistic. I would never, ever have known that something was up had MB not specifically mentioned it, and introduced me to his rightfully pleased mother.
MB said that Drew has been in an ABA program for two years, and that he was not speaking at all when he began. That blew the top right off of my head, because I had assumed he was neurotypical (NT) based on language skills and eye contact that were indistinguishable from those of his peers.
Once I'd been clued in, I spent a lot of time observing him (easy to do, since he was in Iz's group). I noticed that he asked more questions than the other kids, and also needed occasional reminders to stay in line, etc., but nothing outside the bounds of NT kids--many of them are like that, too. Amazing.
I also noticed how quickly he obeyed any direct request or command. An ABA child, for sure. He also happily joined in when Iz was commanding Leelo to pretend to laugh. "Pretend to laugh!" Drew repeated, in perfect form. (Leelo, flummoxed at being given instructions from two people at once, got overwhelmed and ran back over to the balance beam.)
Now I want MB to write me a list of Drew's exact symptoms prior to ABA so we can tell ourselves that our children will end up just like him!
---
Yesterday afternoon was Iz's first swimming lesson of the summer. I wasn't looking forward to it, because I needed to bring Leelo along, and had no idea what to do with him during that half hour.
Turns out I needn't have worried--this place has a Leelo's-thigh high toddler pool, and our boy was happy to frolic there indefinitely.
The frolicking was convenient, because it gave me a chance to talk with another mom who happened to be there. Diana has a six-year-old with Asperger's, a preschooler who seems fine, and an vaccine-free toddler. (Diana's refusal to vaccinate her toddler got her bounced from the pediatric practice of our wonderful Dr. G. Fark.)
It was interesting to hear about her Aspie son Matt, a child on such a different part of the spectrum. Matt's issues are purely social, e.g., he doesn't understand that it's not okay to punch another kid in the face for knocking down a block tower. He will follow instructions to apologize afterwards, but doesn't really get why he's saying "sorry."
She has been through hell for sure, since other parents (I've heard them), the teachers at the two schools Matt got kicked out of, and even psychologists have tried to pin his problems on shitty parenting. Thankfully she found an organization that, through over twenty hours of testing, was able to pinpoint her son's condition and get him into an appropriate school.
Which makes me wonder if being able to pass as NT, as Matt does, is such a great thing for kids like Leelo and Sophie and Drew. Both Diana and Matt get constant grief about his behavior from snippy strangers, who of course can't understand why such a big, obviously intelligent boy would act like that.
Matt is lucky to have such an intrepid mom--she refuses to keep him shuttered up at home, even though going out means intensive surveillance on her part. I hope to continue to observe and converse with her, as she seems an excellent role model.
6.21.2004
Excellence, Followed by a Glimpse Into My Mean, Petty Little Heart
Lovely moment this morning: Iz and Sophie on the swings, discussing how they will be able marry each other easily, since they're not sisters. Yes, little girls, by the time you're of age, I hope and suspect this will be true.
I cajoled them into choosing Hawaii as the wedding site. "The Big Island!" says Iz. They want to have the ceremony on the side of a volcano "But not too close!" says Sophie "We don't want the volcano to explode on our heads!"
---
Yesterday's sermon, our minister's last for six weeks (what?!), had some excellent points. About how we must strive to gain more knowledge about the positions of those whose viewpoints we oppose. Not merely to snoop for the next argument's ammunition, but rather to grok.
(I will try harder. But it is difficult to imagine how I will keep my temper under wraps and my mind open during an upcoming vacation with a brother who works in the DOD, and refers to Rummy as "...a very rational man. Perhaps too rational.")
She also said that if we tried to understand people more, we'd have fewer conflicts on personal and international scales. Modified quote: "We can't go to war against the Malians! I know those people!"
Then she said that she'd fielded a lot of questions about the homeless ministry from a few weeks back, and wanted to let us know what their mission is. Which is...to bear witness. To listen to people, provide eye contact, give voices to the voiceless. But most assuredly not to "fix" homelessness.
(Right. Because there are enough people working to fix homelessness already.)
I am so going to whatever passes for hell in UU land. None of her pleas for compassion and empathy can pierce this spiteful, callous breast. I am too busy focusing hate rays at our neighbors, who told us that they couldn't afford to go in on fixing our jointly-owned, falling down fence. At the time, they had just started driving a brand new Swedish SUV. Perhaps that tapped them out, I figured.
Two weeks ago, they installed a huge new redwood playset. We've got a similar though smaller one, purchased with the last of the loot from my Silicon Valley carpetbagger days. I know how much those fuckers cost. About as much as a really nice fence, even if you install the playset yourself.
This weekend, they started installing a new pergola. Not a cheap little $1400 jobbie, no sir. This is a massive structure, with at least twelve timbers that Ep's Clyde and I estimated to be 20' long. I don't know what you know about wood, but that is edging into astronomically farking expensive territory. Clear heart, or salvaged only. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of non-fence dollars.
(Assholes, snarls the hellbound petty little asshole next door.)
The sweetness and light will resume pouring forth tomorrow.
Lovely moment this morning: Iz and Sophie on the swings, discussing how they will be able marry each other easily, since they're not sisters. Yes, little girls, by the time you're of age, I hope and suspect this will be true.
I cajoled them into choosing Hawaii as the wedding site. "The Big Island!" says Iz. They want to have the ceremony on the side of a volcano "But not too close!" says Sophie "We don't want the volcano to explode on our heads!"
---
Yesterday's sermon, our minister's last for six weeks (what?!), had some excellent points. About how we must strive to gain more knowledge about the positions of those whose viewpoints we oppose. Not merely to snoop for the next argument's ammunition, but rather to grok.
(I will try harder. But it is difficult to imagine how I will keep my temper under wraps and my mind open during an upcoming vacation with a brother who works in the DOD, and refers to Rummy as "...a very rational man. Perhaps too rational.")
She also said that if we tried to understand people more, we'd have fewer conflicts on personal and international scales. Modified quote: "We can't go to war against the Malians! I know those people!"
Then she said that she'd fielded a lot of questions about the homeless ministry from a few weeks back, and wanted to let us know what their mission is. Which is...to bear witness. To listen to people, provide eye contact, give voices to the voiceless. But most assuredly not to "fix" homelessness.
(Right. Because there are enough people working to fix homelessness already.)
I am so going to whatever passes for hell in UU land. None of her pleas for compassion and empathy can pierce this spiteful, callous breast. I am too busy focusing hate rays at our neighbors, who told us that they couldn't afford to go in on fixing our jointly-owned, falling down fence. At the time, they had just started driving a brand new Swedish SUV. Perhaps that tapped them out, I figured.
Two weeks ago, they installed a huge new redwood playset. We've got a similar though smaller one, purchased with the last of the loot from my Silicon Valley carpetbagger days. I know how much those fuckers cost. About as much as a really nice fence, even if you install the playset yourself.
This weekend, they started installing a new pergola. Not a cheap little $1400 jobbie, no sir. This is a massive structure, with at least twelve timbers that Ep's Clyde and I estimated to be 20' long. I don't know what you know about wood, but that is edging into astronomically farking expensive territory. Clear heart, or salvaged only. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of non-fence dollars.
(Assholes, snarls the hellbound petty little asshole next door.)
The sweetness and light will resume pouring forth tomorrow.
Less Poking
Leelo is off accupressure as of Saturday's nightmare session. He will no longer sit still, and I no longer have the strength or stamina to wrestle him into compliance. Whew! I am happy to axe that hour of driving from our schedule.
I think we've gotten all he needed from the sessions, anyhow--Leelo seems fully clear of the food allergies that brought us there in the first place.
One of the funnies about this practice is that the woman who owns it is married to our DAN doctor. She is not the only accupressurist he recommends; our choosing her was chance. But their never-discussed partnership brings about the occasional weird event chains, such as my getting a call from her receptionist this morning, recommending that I go see the DAN doctor. Apparently he wants to put me on a homeopathic treatment regimen to counteract the food allergies he suspects I am passing along to my kiddies in utero--including this new one.
The ookiness, to me, is that I haven't spoken to him personally since I got knocked up. And Iz isn't allergic to anything except clean up time.
Whoops--Iz just smushed silly putty into Sophie's hair. Shit. I can't imagine an outcome that does not involve scissors. Thankfully Sophie oozes style and confidence, and can carry off any hairdo.
Leelo is off accupressure as of Saturday's nightmare session. He will no longer sit still, and I no longer have the strength or stamina to wrestle him into compliance. Whew! I am happy to axe that hour of driving from our schedule.
I think we've gotten all he needed from the sessions, anyhow--Leelo seems fully clear of the food allergies that brought us there in the first place.
One of the funnies about this practice is that the woman who owns it is married to our DAN doctor. She is not the only accupressurist he recommends; our choosing her was chance. But their never-discussed partnership brings about the occasional weird event chains, such as my getting a call from her receptionist this morning, recommending that I go see the DAN doctor. Apparently he wants to put me on a homeopathic treatment regimen to counteract the food allergies he suspects I am passing along to my kiddies in utero--including this new one.
The ookiness, to me, is that I haven't spoken to him personally since I got knocked up. And Iz isn't allergic to anything except clean up time.
Whoops--Iz just smushed silly putty into Sophie's hair. Shit. I can't imagine an outcome that does not involve scissors. Thankfully Sophie oozes style and confidence, and can carry off any hairdo.
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