BTS*

*Back to Sanity

Some days I wake up and just know from the minute my foot hits the floor that it's going to be a great day. The first day of school....I have learned to love this event. It is a holiday greater than Christmas because it marks the beginning of the return of my sanity and sense of competence as a parent, my wholeness as a human being.

Ian was tough to awaken, and as in all previous years, I had to help him dress and get going. Once his traditional school-day breakfast (waffles, turkey bacon, and chocolate milk) was placed before him, he did something completely unheard of. . .he ate all of it without prompting. When Steve finally came in to join him, as is customary to keep things moving along steadily, Ian had finished and placed his dishes in the sink, also without needing to be reminded or helped.

Steve and I were both amazed, almost to the point that we wondered if someone had replaced our son with another during the night. We were proud, yes, but each of us had other feelings about it too. I was relieved that there was no battle, and Ian could go to school having seen his parents beaming with pride at how grown up he was getting. There was a little pang of sadness, too, at leaving behind the very little boy who needed so much help in previous years. The child in my kitchen this morning has become so much more than I imagined would be possible when we first learned of his autism at age four, and even as recently as the bi-polar diagnosis this summer. Steve felt a little sad, too, that his breakfast buddy had finished so quickly. This is the first time he has been in town on the first day of school, and he wanted to enjoy the excitement of the morning. Jury duty awaited, so he finished getting ready, without having to walk Ian through hair combing, teeth brushing, and shoe tying.

At school he was a little nervous, but tried to hide it. A good friend who has been in class with him through kindergarten and first grade arrived at school at the same time as we did and accompanied us to the second grade wing. Ian was thrilled to find the two of them seated next to each other in the same class. I can say many positive things about our teachers. One that immediately came to mind this morning is their ability to recognize the need for familiarity on the first day.

Although his special ed teacher is new to our school this year, she is a seasoned teacher who understands autism. Because we met last week, she was already aware of the things that set Ian off, and she was prepared. I left the room holding Ainsley's hand, feeling confident that Ian was going to have a great day.

Once back in the crowded hallway, Ainsley wanted to visit the kindergarten wing. I wanted to let her, but I also knew that if we headed in that direction she would not want to leave. Like most kids her age, she wants desperately to go to school with her big brother. She was so sweet. It really made my heart swell to know she is eager to start her school career.

At home I rushed through the house for the next hour, making coffee, cutting fruit, setting out muffins. I had invited thirty or so moms over to celebrate the beginning of the school year, and almost all of them were coming. By 9:30 the house was filled with ladies chattering about what teachers their kids have, whose youngest started kindergarten, and how relieved we all were that summer break had ended. There was no guilt in anyone's voice for feeling that way either. We all had put in a full three months with our kids - the first month of which it rained the entire time - and we earned this time of normality.

One woman brought her autistic son, who will be starting eighth grade in a few days. He was so adorable. Every time the doorbell rang, he would run to answer it. Although his eye contact was non-existent, he would shake everyone's hand and introduce himself. A few ladies were a bit thrown by him, but it was nice to see how they relaxed once they understood that he was only being friendly. Eventually, he went upstairs with Ainsley and the other 4 year-olds, and discovered Ian's Thomas the Tank Engine set. I laughed when he brought Diesel downstairs to play with. It's a universal truth - Thomas and Friends are a hit with autistic kids of all ages. Gotta love that wooden railway.



Coffee and muffins rolled into lunch time for a few of us. We started in with Belinis around noon, and by 1:30 those of us who were still celebrating decided naps were necessary before we had to go pick up our children. It was a wonderful first day! I think Ian did pretty well, too.

Countdown to Second Grade

In just four more days, Ian will be a second grader. He is excited and a little scared. The routine of a school day helps him feel settled, and this summer has been far from routine. This week has been one of the most difficult ones of the last 3 months, and I am very much to blame.

Steve went to Chicago on Sunday for two days of meetings. Normally, I don't sweat it when he leaves town. I know I won't be able to sleep, so I rent chick-flicks and eat popcorn in bed. Ainsley usually finds her way to me in the middle of the night, snuggles into my spot on the bed, pinning me between her little body and the dog's. It's a nice way to rest, as long as it's temporary.

Steve's absence made me exceptionally irritable. Maybe it was because the kids have been testing the limits to the extreme, and I knew I had to handle it completely alone for a few days. No tag team parenting to keep me from losing it. This was not a good situation for any of us given the end-of-summer tension in the air.

Monday morning was all out of whack. Ian was hyperactive, belligerent, and disrespectful. He has been hitting Ainsley a lot lately, and that morning he added me to his selection of punching bags. No matter how many times I said "stop", he just laughed and kept going. I began doling out the punishments as fast as he could throw a punch. By the time he left for camp, he had lost two weeks of computer use. That didn't stop him from socking our 4 year-old neighbor a few times on the way to camp. This was so unlike him.

A few hours later a teacher from the camp called. Ian was sobbing. He said he was in pain and was tired. He had been to the bathroom several times, had refused to eat lunch, and was asking for me. We spoke briefly on the phone. He begged me to come get him as fast as I could. I could tell he was terrified about something. So, I drove as fast as I could get away with to find out what was wrong.

When I arrived, he was still sobbing. I took him into a darkened room that had a rocking chair in it. He sat in my lap with his head on my shoulder, and we rocked for about 20 minutes. Slowly, he came around and was able to tell me that he missed me terribly and was afraid I was going away forever. How he'd come to that conclusion was beyond me at that particular moment, so we just hung out together for the next fifteen minutes until camp let out.

Once home, he was back to badgering Ainsley and practicing his left jab on me. By 4:00, I'd had it. This must stop immediately! I marched him to his room and told him he had 15 minutes to think about his behavior, then we would talk. As I turned to leave the room, I saw the prescription container lid we use to hold his pills when it is time to take them. That morning's dose of Concerta and Zoloft were still in the lid. I had remembered to bring them to him when I woke him up, but I must have been distracted and forgot to give them to him. OH. . .MY. . .GAWD!!! He'd had an ADHD tirade/panic attack. I felt three inches tall.

I suppose it could have been worse. This could have been the first day of school. There is no telling how that would have turned out, but knowing how good his teachers are, they could have handled it remarkably well. Considering his Spanish camp teachers know very little about him, I think they were pretty amazing at dealing with him under these circumstances. There is something about seeing strangers cope so well with my challenging kid that shakes me out of my pity party.

Tuesday wasn't much better as far as either child's behavior goes, but at least I had my head on straight. Maybe a day without meds takes two to get back into the swing of things - I don't know, but I wasn't willing to let him get away with much. I also didn't yell, even though I wanted to; but I made it very clear that Ian and Ainsley could choose to follow the rules and be rewarded for good behavior or they could choose to ignore my requests, suggestions, and requirements and experience the consequences. They chose the latter. Not a good choice.

Today was a much better day. Ian and I were on the same page and moved steadily and smoothly through the day; Ainsley was still staring at the cover trying to decide if she wanted to read this book. Hopefully, tomorrow, she will choose to jump ahead to the next chapter with us.

Lucky Bead. . .Parte Tres. . .Y Final

The bead is free at last!

Tonight as the kids were going to bed, I remembered the antibiotic drops for Ian's ear. Three drops in and three minutes of lying still. It was Ian's job to remember the instructions given by the ENT in his office this morning. After the gooey medicine settled in, I thought I could see the bead. With flashlight in one hand and tweezers in the other, I set out to nab that little bugger.

Ultimately, it took the entire family and about 15 minutes of negotiating with Ian to get it out. We settled on $10 if he let me attempt to remove the bead and $20 if I was successful. He fought, we cajoled, he covered both ears, we pleaded, he had second thoughts - and third - and fourth, we held his hands and promised that if he said he was in pain we would stop immediately. All the struggling and rolling him over on his side worked in our favor by bringing it even closer to the surface. Finally, I saw that it was so close I could grab it. No more negotiating - I dived in while Steve and Ainsley held Ian still. It came right out a little slimier than it was when it entered, but it was OUT!

Now, you may question my willingness to bribe my son into letting me perform such an intricate surgical procedure on him. The way I see it, that $20 investment just netted me a savings of $300 in out-of-network insurance co-pays, a little more self-confidence for my son, and the knowledge that he can trust me to keep my word. I'd say that's worth an Andrew Jackson.

Lucky Bead. . .Parte Dos

I've always been proud of Ian for being thorough. It's an Aspie trait to learn things in great detail, to do things over and over, to become completely immersed in an area of interest. Ian has this mastered. So why should this trait falter when it comes to sticking a bead in his ear? It didn't.

The Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist thoroughly examined the bauble-stuffed canal. He irrigated it assiduously. Specs of god-only-knows-what filled a basin, which I held next to Ian's face while warm water flooded his ear and dripped down the lobe. Finally, he examined the red and black spherule under a microscope and concluded that it was definitely stuck.

Well, duh!

So, tomorrow we'll be spending some time at a surgical center having the bead removed with benefit of anesthesia. It's always something.

Lucky Bead. . .Parte Una

Glorious is how today started out. Everyone was up by 7:10, dressed by 7:20, and in the kitchen eating breakfast by 7:25. I made lunches and packed back packs, while Steve helped the kids brush teeth and hair. By 8:40 we had them both off to Spanish camp. Such organization! Such cooperation! Such excitement! Such quiet in the house! It was a beautiful thing.

Steve started working in the office and I headed out to run errands all morning. Alone is the only way I can accomplish that in plural. I had saved so many appointments and necessities for this particular Monday because I knew it would be one of the few remaining days of summer to accomplish back-to-school tasks. I zipped in and out of stores, found bargains galore, and felt satisfied with my progress for the morning. At 12:05 my cell phone rang.

Steve explained that the camp had called because Ian stuck a bead in his ear. He wasn't complaining of any pain. It was their policy, however, not to remove objects stuck inside children's orifices. Good policy, I thought. Then I turned the car north and headed for the camp.

"Oy! Dios mio!" (pretend there are accents in the right places) I thought out loud. A bead. In his ear. What on earth possessed him?

When I arrived, one of the counselors greeted me at the door. She seemed very embarrassed about the whole thing. I suppose she was afraid of what I might think about the camp and their safety practices if this could happen in the first 3 hours of the first day. Honestly, I was calm because this really wasn't that big of a deal, and it wasn't surprising that one of my kids would do such a thing.

She very kindly explained that the kids were stringing beads and were told that these particular ones are good luck in Peru. She handed me one of the beads so I would have something to show the doctor. Then she asked Ian to tell me why he stuck it in his ear.

"Well, I decided I wanted to have good luck all the time, not just for one day. So I put it in my ear to keep it forever." Sounds like a perfectly rational explanation to me, coming from my son.

"Ian, I think if that bead were going to bring you good luck, it could do it just as well in your pocket as in your ear," I suggested.

"Yeah, you're probably right, Mom," Ian agreed.

The counselor suggested that the pediatrician could probably get it out without any difficulty. I agreed, but said I thought he might learn the lesson more effectively if he had to spend some time in the ER. If I could just find my Swiss Army knife - it has that great set of tiny tweezers that are perfect for a job like this. Unfortunately, it went AWOL a couple of weeks ago, so that option was out.

As we prepared to leave, she remarked how calm I seemed about this. "No broken limbs, we're good," I said with a smile. "We've been through much worse. By comparison, this is a mosquito bite."

On the way home I realized that the ER would probably cost a small fortune and would take the rest of the day. That is more expense and frustration than I was willing to endure to teach Ian a lesson. So we headed to the pediatrician.

Ian immediately made friends with an older girl named Molly. He tried to play a simple game with her, but she wasn't too sure it was o.k. Her grandmother went over to them, and prompted her to introduce herself. Then Ian told her his name. The grandmother explained that Molly was autistic. I smiled and said, "So is Ian. That's probably why they have gravitated to one another." The next thing I knew, the grandmother and I were chatting about care giving and the need for respite. She obviously had her plate full with Molly. I said I would help her locate a place where she could take Molly for a few hours a week, just so she could get a break. I almost offered to do it myself, but she would probably think that was kind of strange. As the nurse was calling us back, I handed her my phone number and told her to call me in a couple of days. Surely, by then I could find something for her.

First the nurse examined him. I could tell by the look on her face it wasn't going to be fun. Then the PA came in. She is a kind, gentle person, and Ian likes her a lot. After a little looksie, she tried to remove the bead with a tiny plastic hook. Ian was a champ, but the bead didn't budge.

Next she soaked the bead in drops containing glycerin, hoping to float the bead out. Nope, nada.

Then, she dug at it with a metal instrument that resulted in only one thing . . . piercing screams from my child.

Finally, the pediatrician came in to give it a try with very long tweezers. It took the PA and me to hold him down, and that was with me lying beside him on the table, wrapped around him so he couldn't move. Walls shook. Windows rattled. Files fell from shelves. Patients in the waiting room looked at each other and ran out the door. The bead just bobbed in his ear and mocked us.

I loosened my arms just long enough to let Ian breathe. He jumped off the table and crawled under it where he couldn't be reached. There was no way he was going to let any of us touch him again. Dr. B and the PA left the room so I could coax him back out. When he realized it was only the two of us, he emerged and sat crying in my lap. This was getting tougher than I had anticipated. I knew I could get through it, but I wasn't so sure about Ian. He relaxed enough to stop screaming and told me his ear was really hurting.

"I know, baby. Let's just take a minute and catch our breath," I said. Instinctively, Ian took a long, cleansing breath and concentrated on slowing his motor. He rested his head on my shoulder while I rocked him. "Honey, we have to try one more time."

"NO!!!! Please, no!" he begged through tears.

"Just one more try, and then we'll quit. When we leave here, I'll take you to get ice cream. OK?" I felt terrible about using food as a bargaining chip, but it was all I could think of that was close to the doctor's office and on the way home. He never really agreed, but the 3 of us got him back up on the table and gave it one more shot. This time, Dr. B used a tiny looped instrument that looked like it could work. Ninguna tal suerte. (No such luck.)

The PA whispered to me as she left the room, "You are amazing! How do you stay so calm and so strong for him?" I shrugged because I can't imagine it any other way.

After cleaning Ian's ear, Dr. B handed me a card with the name of an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist on it. "You have an appointment with him at the hospital tomorrow at 11:30. I've already talked to him, so he knows what to expect."

I smiled and gave her a look that said, "Does he really know what is going to walk through his door tomorrow?" She smiled back, knowing exactly what I was thinking.

At home, Ian exited the car and went inside. As I gathered my belongings, I noticed something red between my armrest and the floor. I reached down and stretched my fingers, grasping it between two of them. My Swiss Army knife. "Two hours ago we had a chance. He'll never let me near his ear now. You big chicken!"

Music, Like Wine and Chocolate

You may notice a new feature to my world of Asperger's survival. . .music. I have been searching for months how to pull this off. It isn't just to be clever . . . or annoying . . .(if my dad is currently being bombarded by Aerosmith or the Dixie Chicks, my phone will be ringing soon).

Music has always been a great source of focus for Ian, even inspirational at times. When I was pregnant with him, I listened to music constantly. A few weeks before he was born, Steve and I attended a jazz concert that had Ian tumbling, snapping his fingers, and tapping his toes in the womb. He wore himself out in the first half, fell asleep during intermission, and slept through the night - which was the last time that happened for about 7 years.

These are all songs I love. They are made better only by listening to them while enjoying a delectable slice of chocolate cheesecake with a glass of Messina Hof Papa Paulo Port. I hope you enjoy them, with or without the calories.

Telling Ian About War

Grown-up television programs, like the News, are not viewed by the younger half of our family. They are too violent. Enough turmoil exists within these walls. There is no need to add more. This week it was unavoidable.

Late Monday night I received a phone call from my parents. Any phone call from them that comes after 7:00 p.m. should be considered a warning that something bad has happened. My cousin, a Marine serving his 5th tour in Iraq, was seriously injured when an IED (improvised explosive device) detonated in front of him. His best friend, a fellow Marine, was killed.

It was difficult to sleep that night, or any night since. I have been haunted by a terrible ache that has been reawakened, one that I first felt the night I went into labor with Ian. Steve and I watched the movie Simon Birch. After the conclusion of the story, I wondered if my child would be born normal or if he would have a birth defect that would present challenges he could not overcome. It was a sense of sudden panic that this fully developed baby in my belly might not be perfect. As I lay in bed crying, feeling completely unprepared to become a parent, my water broke.

Those insecurities were quickly replaced by the excitement of knowing I was in labor and would soon see my son. Twenty-four hours later, as I nursed my newborn, neither of us had a clue what was going on two floors below us in the Emergency Room of the Bryan, Texas hospital. It was just the two of us in a dimly lit, quiet labor and delivery room, getting to know each other as only mother and baby can.

The next morning when I turned on the television to watch the news, the ache returned when I learned that during the night, the Texas A & M bonfire structure had collapsed, killing 12 students and injuring 27 others. They were kids - teenagers and young adults in their early 20s. I cried as I watched the families and friends mourning helplessly. To myself I wondered, "How long will I get to keep this precious baby? 18 years? 25? 30? Will I see him marry and raise kids of his own? How long will he be mine to hold?"

A few months ago I was told by a life insurance company that I could add Ainsley to my policy, but not Ian. When I asked why, I was told it was because as he enters his teens, he will be a high suicide risk. Great. Now people who have never even met my son are laying odds on the probability that he will take his own life before he reaches adulthood? The ache was back again. It was beginning to sink in that our life as a family might not go the way we had planned.

My cousin, Kathie, has probably wondered if her plan to see all of her children live long and happy lives would come to fruition. It is her son, Brad, who underwent at least 5 surgeries this week to save his life after shrapnel entered his body and severely damaged his stomach and intestine. She agonized from Monday to Friday evening when she finally got to see that her child of nearly 24 years was still alive, and he was safely back in the U. S. It has been a heartbreaking week for all of us knowing that another soldier's parents were waiting to see their son come home in a casket. This is not the way it's supposed to be.

How do you explain any of this to a 7 year-old? Every sentence creates new questions that often have no satisfactory answers.

"Why did Brad go to Iraq?"
"Why is there a war?"
"How did Brad get hurt?"
"Why would someone do that to him?"
"Why do people get killed in a war?"
"How will we know when the war is over?"
(It would have been easier to tell him where babies come from.)

Ian has mulled these questions for several days and still seems perplexed by it all. He knows where Iraq is, he knows where Brad is now and where his home is, he knows where we are. It is all too complicated. Ian has concluded that "War is stupid." Right now, as far as I am concerned, that is an acceptable position to take.

As a mother, I cannot hope that my son will go to war. In fact, we should all hope that the armed forces will never want him. It takes him forever to make a decision. If he ever pulls the pin on a grenade, he and everyone around him will be toast. Thanks to ADHD he will get distracted by something and forget he has the grenade in his hand; or his sensitivity to loud noises will cause him to shield his ears from the impending explosion using the device as an earmuff. Thinking quickly on his feet is not Ian's forte. They would probably kick him out of boot camp for insubordination. I threatened today to send him to military school for arguing with me so much, then laughed in my head at the thought of him doing the same to someone in command of a military establishment.

For this characteristic, too, I shall be eternally grateful, even when he is driving me crazy.

The Little Man

Ian adores the librarian at his school. It could be because she is the keeper of the hugest collection of reading material he can wrap his mind around. It could also be because she knows which are the best dinosaur books to read. It could be because she has remembered his name every time he has walked into the library for the last two years. Most likely though, it is because she is a sweet, loving person who shares his passion for books.

And she is not coming back to school this year.

The going-away party was Tuesday. When I told Ian it was time to go, he was in the bathroom with the door closed. I peeked in to see if he needed help getting ready. There he was, standing in front of the mirror, wearing his blue suit. The white long-sleeved shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar, but every button was off by one, leaving the collar hanging crooked around his neck. As he stood there looking in the mirror with tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth, he fumbled with his clip-on tie. He had taken it upon himself to dress up for the occasion, to show Mrs. J his appreciation by looking his spiffiest!

"Do I look dapper, Mom?" he asked, as I re-buttoned his shirt.

"You sure do, sweetie."

"Do I look distinguished?" he inquired again, while I worked on the tie.

"Absolutely, positively distinguished," I said proudly.

"Well, then, I'm ready. Let's go to Mrs. J's party," he concluded.

Ian did look great, but he felt something was missing. After looking over the toys scattered in the play room, he selected Spencer, the sleek silver train engine, to accompany him to the event. I often wonder if Thomas and company are going to go with him to the Prom. For now, it's o.k. that he wants to take them everywhere he goes. It gives him a sense of comfort to hold the train pieces when he is in unfamiliar or stressful situations. Party = many people = noise = stress.

He was such a gentleman, too. All of the teachers there commented to me how adorable he looked. Mrs. J was especially charmed that he had done all of that just to say good-bye to her. She told me he is one of her favorite students. She took a picture of him in which he was trying to look extremely cool. This can be challenging when one has cookie crumbs all over the front of one's suit.

All-in-all, I think Ian handled this good-bye very well. He seemed somewhat sad that he would not see Mrs. J and longer, but I could tell he was trying to be happy for her. He made it through this challenging social situation with very little difficulty. That may be because it took place in the library, a location that makes him feel extremely comfortable. I wonder if they do birthday parties.