"Hey, about your old Vespa…"
~ Autism's Upside ~
Depending on how you choose to look at it, plate spinning can be both stressful and fulfilling. Even on her most hectic days, my Mother chose to stare down stress with a "glass half full" optimism that enabled her to tackle any challenge that came along. As the youngest of her five children, I created many of these challenges, especially when my siblings would accuse me of being her spoiled-rotten favorite (although the entire universe knows it was really my brother).
Mom would blithely mediate any disagreements by airily reciting, "You're all unique and I love you all the same." She said it so often, I wondered at times if she really meant it.
These days, I hear myself reciting these same words to my own children, not to quiet accusations of favoritism, but to let them know that I truly love each of them because they are so very different—an especially potent message for our boys because one of them happens to be autistic.
Born with beautiful curly hair and sparkling eyes, we knew from the onset that he was different from the rest. It wasn't until he turned two, and was not yet speaking, that we learned just how different he would be. At the urging of his pediatrician, my husband and I arranged to have him evaluated by a specialist.
At our appointment, I heard myself reasoning, "He has three older brothers. Of course he doesn't speak. He can't get a word in edgewise." Nonetheless, we watched as the clinician observed him and attempted to interact.
Within ten minutes, she blurted out the diagnosis as casually as if she were reciting her food order at a drive-up window. "He's got autism coupled with sensory integration issues."
We promptly enrolled him in an early intervention program and moved on with our lives, rejoicing in even the smallest achievement. We quickly discovered, however, that others decided to go the "glass half empty" route.
Well-meaning observers would try pointing out things like his aversion to crowds. I'd smile and counter, "He's a Libra. What do you expect?" When he had difficulty coloring or trying to write his name, I'd remind anyone within earshot that he is left-handed, the only one of my bunch.
Nine years and several stellar teachers, therapists, and support staff later, our son has gone from being a non-verbal, eye-contact-averse, wheel-spinning toddler to a very verbal, smart, happy, soon-to-be sixth grader. Being a member of a plate-spinning household has also served him well. While we may be short on time, we are long on routine—a necessity for those affected by autism. And, by virtue of living in a house with a wide age range of siblings, his social skills are tested and honed daily.
Conversely, there are times when we must stop spinning our plates long enough to view the world through his eyes. What we see is an entirely different universe that's sometimes worrisome, often no different than ours, and usually nothing short of wonderful.
If you can look beyond the way he sometimes speaks too loudly, gets too close, or hugs too tightly, you won't find a more loyal, generous, and kind spirit.
Is he my favorite? They all are, of course.
~ Music to My Ears ~
Modern day plate spinners have highly evolved survival skills. Generations of parents have toiled in the workforce while raising their families. Ultimately, this has resulted in our ability to simultaneously use all five senses to accomplish superhuman feats like making it through the day in one piece. How else would we be able to negotiate video game privileges with a bored child over the phone while texting a message to a colleague as we're watching a web-based presentation during which we pick up the acrid scent of popcorn scorching in our office microwave just in time to savor the taste of the few remaining bits that didn't burn?
Technology aside, the same holds true at home. Next time you're seated around your kitchen table at dinnertime, pay attention to the way in which you use your senses. Can your taste buds detect if anyone has slipped sugar in your saltshaker (or vice versa)? Do you watch to ensure that the vegetables you dished out are actually making into your children's mouths instead of their napkins? Does your nose pick up the smell of rolls burning in the oven while your ears register the sound of the smoke detector going off? Did you feel that kick on your shin that was mistakenly delivered by one child but meant for another?
In my world, sensory overload is a common occurrence. Sometimes it stressful, but on the upside, it gets the blood pumping. And, while I can usually spin right on through it, one of my sons absolutely cannot manage it. He has Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism.
When my son was diagnosed, my husband and I were told that he would never blend seamlessly with his peers. Undaunted, we made his continued improvement a goal. With the support of behavioral specialists, we focused on increasing his tolerance to sensory stimulation, helping him build an arsenal of coping mechanisms to get him through situations that he finds stressful. Fortunately for him, dinnertime at our house provides the perfect opportunity to hone his newfound skills.
Sitting at the table with his four siblings, it's not uncommon for several conversations to be going on at once. The noise level naturally escalates as each person strives to be heard. And, as the boys have grown, our once enormous kitchen table has become increasingly snug, especially for my son—our only "leftie."
We had an opportunity to gauge just how far he has come at a recent family celebration. In the past, when we would dim the lights, bring out the cake, and break into a chorus of "Happy Birthday," he'd clasp his hands to his ears and run from the room crying (not unlike my reaction to turning forty). On this particular night, however, he joined right in, loud and clear.
Now that's music to my ears.
~ Running with Asperger's ~
It's not easy being the younger brother of three cross-country athletes—especially when you have Asperger's Syndrome (often referred to as "high functioning autism").
But, such is the case for my fourth son.
Eligible to join the cross-country team at his middle school last year, he did try it. Once. After that first practice session, he was unable to shake the self-imposed pressure he felt to perform.
Eager as we were to have him tread in his older siblings well-heeled footsteps, we recognized that he just wasn't ready.
"Maybe next year," we thought and hoped.
Relieved, he immersed himself in his classes, thriving in the well-structured environment that his support staff, themselves bursting with expertise, compassion, and rigor, provided.
With that school year behind him, like his peers, he looked forward to summer break—a time to recharge his batteries. His oldest brother, though, had other plans, seizing the opportunity to "get some miles on his legs." Hitting either the local college track or the local nature path just about every day, son number four steadily increased his endurance, if not his speed.
Before we knew it, we were restocking school supplies and meeting new teachers. And again, we raised the possibility, asking our son if he would like to give cross-country a go.
After much hand-wringing, he reluctantly agreed. When we assured him our only expectation was that he do his best, even if that meant finishing in last place, he readily agreed.
The season got off to a quick start. After only two practices with the team, he found himself lining up with the rest of the sixth and seventh grade boys at his first meet. Not sure what to do with the strange mix of nervousness and excitement that he was feeling, he stood twirling a curl that hung at his forehead—his current soothing gesture.
We hung back, hoping for the best, and watched as the first clump of boys darted past in a blur.
"Where is he?" we wondered. My first thought was that he pulled himself out of the race. I hiked the video bag over my shoulder and was about to set out to find him when we saw him making the first turn, shuffling along. A relieved laugh escaped me. There he was—the little engine that could.
Lap after lap, same thing. The first clump would rush by and several minutes later, he would amble by. Alone.
At the fi
nish line, the fastest blew through, victorious. One by one, the rest followed, winded and sweaty. With much of the last lap hidden from view behind trees and bushes, we were left to wait and wonder. Where is he? Will he finish?
We didn't have to wait long. In the distance, we saw the red sleeves of the T-shirt he had worn under his jersey, ever so slowly coming closer.
As he approached the shoot, the cheers started—not just from us, his parents and little brother, but from other parents and members of his team who had already finished.
Maybe it was the physical exertion. Maybe it was the sudden attention. Or, maybe it was the yelling that to him, unable to discern the emotion behind it, was just too loud. Whatever it was, it brought tears to his eyes as he crossed the finish line. His official time hovered right around twenty-five minutes. He didn't see the smiles that were big enough to crack our cheeks. He didn't see our own tears that we blinked back as he approached.
He just wanted to go home.
After he cooled down, though, it began to soak in. He did it. He ran a race and he finished. Maybe running wasn't so bad after all. Maybe he wasn't so different after all.
Every race since then, his time has improved substantially, clocking in at just over seventeen minutes for his last finish.
So thanks to his coach and all of the adults and friends who have cheered him along this season. The difference you have made in this young man's life is one that will endure the test of time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Don't Sweat the School Stuff
~ Back-to-School Countdown ~
Flipping the family calendar to August invariably triggers a chorus of groans. And not just from my boys. While they have school to look forward to, I get to celebrate the fact that I am one year closer to getting that AARP membership. Oh joy.
While not especially thrilled at the timing of my birthday, I did snag some unusual gifts. Take, for instance, the year I got two new white uniform shirts and a forty-eight-count box of Crayola crayons. Not exactly the new Partridge Family album I wanted, but still.
At the time, I thought my mom had it in for me, but now I see the genius in her plan. Combining a birthday with school supplies was just more evidence of her master plate-spinning prowess. If I had any doubts about her motives, she would cleverly distract me with a beautifully decorated bakery cake. Man, she was good.
Since my boys' birthday's fall everywhere but August, and I don't possess anything close to my mother's dizzying multitasking capabilities, I am left to my own devices. Here, then, is my countdown to school.
4 weeks before—If you have student athletes, make sure all of their medical forms are up-to-date. If not, many urgent care clinics can do sports physicals, but may charge more. In a pinch, try convincing your child to try out for a spring sport instead.
3 weeks before—If your child is in need of a new backpack or lunch bag, start looking now. Chances are, if you wait, your son may be stuck with "Hello Kitty" slung over his shoulder and your daughter will be forced to have lunch with the likes of Hulk and Bob the Builder. In any event, look forward to their middle school days when you can ditch lunch bags for brown bags and their backpacks become design-free.
2 weeks before—Print off your child's supply list from their school's website and get shopping. Granted, these items can be pre-purchased as a fundraiser in some districts, but for those of you who like the thrill of the hunt, now is the best time to take advantage of office supply and discount store sales. Remember to plan wisely, though. Gas prices being what they are, what you may save in getting a five-cent Pink Pearl eraser at one store may not be worth having to drive across town for the two-dollar pencil box to put it in.
1 week before—Take your kids in for haircuts now to avoid that "new-haircut" look on their IDs and in their school pictures. It's sweet when they're young, but just not cool when they're older.
1 day before—Forget about school and focus on enjoying the last day of summer break with your kids. Splash around in the pool with them, grill their favorite foods and challenge them to a firefly-catching contest before bed. They're not getting any younger, you know, and neither are you.
~ Fall Fundraising Fiasco ~
Like construction trucks in the summer, bright yellow school buses can be the bane of a commuter's drive. Try as I might, I inevitably get stuck behind one as it darts in and out of rush hour traffic. OK, maybe "darts" isn't the right word. Perhaps "lumbers" would be a better fit.
Nonetheless, if it weren't for the fact that I have school-aged children, the appearance of buses is a sure sign that school is back in session.
But, just in case you missed it—perhaps you take a train to work, are able to work from home full-time, or happen to work on a remote space station, there is another surefire way to tell that the new school year has started—fundraisers.
You won't have to look far to find this clue. It's probably lying in wait in your office kitchenette right now, ready to pounce.
You'll walk in, innocent, your mind fuzzy from inhaling school bus exhaust fumes on your way into work. Groping for the coffee pot, you'll see it—a brightly-colored order form taped to the cabinet door, directly at eye level. You'll squint, noticing a little yellow sticky note affixed to it. Reading the rushed, but legible, handwriting, you'll discern that no child could've written it. But it doesn't matter. The message is clear.
"Please, please, please buy these candy bars, cookies, popcorn, kitchen gadgets, magazine subscriptions, or (in my case) wrapping paper to support my child's school, sports team, scout group, band trip, or other extracurricular activity."
If you read between the lines, you can also see, "My child's happiness, self-esteem, and ultimate fulfillment of their destiny on this planet—along with their ability to earn cool prizes like limo rides or pizza parties, is riding solely on your willingness to fork over some $$$."
No pressure.
On the contrary, everyone knows that there is an unspoken quid pro quo rule in the world of fundraising that often belies office politics.
Stressed and still caffeine-free, you realize you have two choices: 1. You can whip out your checkbook, pour your coffee and toast your own generosity or, 2. You can look the other way, vowing to pick up some Starbuck's on your way into work the next day, cursing your coworker's attempt to parlay your hard-earned dollars into funding a good cause.
It's your choice.
Sure the kids aren't doing the legwork, but as a working parent of school-aged, fundraising children, I must admit that the last thing I want to do after working all day is walk them door-to-door for donations.
Besides, why in the world would I subject them to the sting of rejection inherent in signs that read, "No soliciting" or in comments like, "I gave at the office."
Taking my child's fundraising packet, I slap a sticky on it with my name and office extension, and shove it in my briefcase.
I just hope he saves a spot for me in the limo.
Whoops, there's the doorbell. Gotta go!
~ College Countdown ~
Facing the glass door that separated me from the high school counselor's office, I tapped on it, smiling politely. When she looked up at me and frowned, I knew she had no intention of letting me in. Beginning to panic, I spoke loudly through the glass. "I'm sorry, but my son is scheduled to meet with a college representative tomorrow. There must be some mistake. He was in Kindergarten just last week!"
"What?" my husband mumbled, in bed beside me, squinting at the time flashing on our alarm clock before dozing off again.
Wide awake, I lay there trying to replay the past twelve years. Had I not been so busy spinning plates, maybe I would've been better prepared to face the fact that my oldest child was several short months away from leaving the nest. Not one to wallow in regret, with all of the college visits, applications, personal essays, and meal plan choices facing him, I decided there was no better time for him to test-drive his own plate-spinning skills.
Since attending a college
fair, my son is getting more mail than Santa at Christmas. Rifling through the brochures, however, does little to facilitate his decision-making process. With the ACT registration deadline beginning to take shape on his horizon, my husband and I suggested that he pick a handful of colleges to see in person. After carefully checking his schedule, he registered for several open houses, some near, some far—all squeamishly expensive.
We tossed him a brand new plate emblazoned with "Apply for Scholarships."
The first open house we attended was at my alma mater, a downstate campus he's visited before while accompanying us to homecoming games and relatives' graduations. After hearing the Admission Director's presentation, visiting with the academic representatives within his area of interest, and peering into an actual dorm room inhabited by a real live college student, he was sold. No need to look any further. This was where he wanted to go. Whew! What a relief, I thought.
Then came the next open house.
At a completely different campus, my son quickly became enamored by the newer dormitories, historic buildings, and proximity to downtown. This, now, was where he wanted to go. Well, good, I thought. All part of the decision-making process. How about one more, just for comparison's sake? Reluctantly agreeing, he chose a small private college nestled in the suburbs. Approaching the day with a less-than-rosy view of the place, he joined a campus tour led by a vivacious upperclassman named Kristi. By the time the tour was over and we were enjoying the complementary catered lunch under lovely white tents situated in the middle of their diminutive "quad," he was busy re-shuffling his choices.
At our high school's "senior parent night" last Spring, the counselors recommended that incoming seniors have three to six schools to which they would want to apply come September. That way, they reasoned, when the college representatives come to visit, they can be sure to introduce themselves. I think he'll be ready. And so will I.
The Plate Spinner Chronicles Page 4