Mama Bear

Pie for Grandpa

Mama bear — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 20:16:46 GMT

Once again Thomas has willed into existance something he wants very much...

Special Agent Oso (a kids' show that features a bear who is a special agent, a la James Bond) had an episode where a small child got to help make an apple pie for Grandpa. The little boy had to go to the store and get sugar, butter, and six apples... and then voila, there was a pie for Grandpa to enjoy for dessert.

First the lists started appearing on any scrap of paper my son could find:

sugar

butter

apple 6

Next, the four-days-long endless loop of "Are we going to the store to buy sugar, butter and six apples, Mom? I need to make a pie for Grandpa."

On days three and four we added the hat and shoes and the hand on the door to the garage -- "I'm ready! Let's go! We need sugar, butter and six apples. Mom? Mom! I'm ready!"

We decided to go ahead and make an apple pie on Veteran's Day -- since the kids and I have the day off, it seemd a perfect activity, with the added bonus of getting him to put the pie talk to rest. (Okay, okay, so it was to get him to stop, first, and to get the activity, second... but who's counting?)

All through the store he kept reminding me we were going to get sugar, butter, and six apples. (Even after we had counted out and bagged six apples, and I'd pointed out the bag of sugar and the package of butter at home.) The whole drive home he was intent on making that pie... and the whole time I brought in bags of groceries and unloaded them and put them away... and while I was peeling the apples... and while I was cutting the apples... and while he was measuring and stirring the spices and sugar and helping load the apple pie mixture into the pie shell... and while it was baking... and while it was cooling.

The pie is sitting on my counter now, waiting for Grandpa to come over.

Oh, and for the record, I happened to get some egg nog, too... because Mommy needs some egg nog. Can I get some egg nog? I'd like a glass of egg nog. Is it time for egg nog? Look! We have egg nog!

Where Are We Going?

Mama bear — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 03:10:21 GMT

Thomas loves to ask questions that really don't need to be answered, or have already been answered many, many, many times -- like the ever-popular, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" as we back the van down the driveway.

Last weekend he was on his "where are we going?" kick, and after answering the first 437 times ("Nowhere, Bud. We're staying here.") I gave up and answered, "We're going crazy, Thomas. Want to go?"

Thomas leaped up off the couch and shouted enthusiastically, "Alright!! Can I bring socks?"

"Is it Halloween? Is it Halloween?"

Mama bear — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 02:37:22 GMT

For four weeks now we've had an urgent interrogation each day: "Is it Halloween? Is it Halloween? I need a costume! I need a pumpkin! We need candy! Is it time for Trick or Treat?"

We've tried showing the calendar, but then a simple trip to the grocery store undoes all THAT good with a row of costumes, candy, wigs and decor. (Thanks, Raley's!)

We've tried all manner of, "Not yet, Bud," but clearly we are speaking some space gibberish, because all we get in return is, "But I need a costume!"

Finally I got an idea -- a wonderful, terrific, spookily perfect idea! I'll get a countdown going! He can't argue with the numbers -- bwahahaha! I thought I'd put it here for those of you who are confused each time you head out to buy groceries, too...

http://www.halloweencountdown.com/"> border="0" src="http://www.halloweencountdown.com/c/hc04.JPG">>

The Little Boy and the Sea

Mama bear — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 02:47:39 GMT

Last weekend I woke up full of vim and vigor, ready to tackle anything. The possiblities swirled around endlessly for about an hour, and then I just KNEW what we were going to do: We were going to go to the beach! I loaded up the thousand-and-one things you need to have a picnic at the beach -- towels, change of clothes, picnic basket, sunscreen, shovel, bucket, hat, camera, etc., etc., etc. -- and took my son and wonderful mother-in-law to the ocean for the day. (Matt and Megan were camping on their annual father/daughter trip.)

We are blessed to live a little over a half-hour away from the Pacific Ocean. If you've seen the movie The Birds, you've seen Bodega Bay (and the town of Bodega, which is acutally inland, but has the church and school building Tippi Hedron sees and we think is on the coast in the movie -- sorry, I just went into Sonoma County tourist info mode!)... Our favorite beach is in a semi-protected cove just south of Bodega Bay, right at the mouth of the bay. (It's our favorite because of its features, and because it's where Matt proposed on a long-ago Saturday in May!)

Doran Beach is a wide, flat beach with a long shoreline and very little riptide action. There are camping facilities on one side of the access road, and sand, picnic tables, and fairly civilized bathrooms along the day-use side. (My criteria for "civilized": they have flushing toilets and stalls that close.)

The minute we got to the beach, Thomas was insistant on getting down to the ocean. He was pretty sure we were going to surf -- after all, every depiction of the ocean he's seen has had nubile young surfers riding waves -- but the Pacific Ocean is pretty doggone cold this far north, and there weren't any surfable waves, either. (Whew!) We did go in the water -- up to our ankles, which quickly turned a violent red color as the skin protested the chill -- and let him feel the ocean's powerful momentum as the waves rolled back from the shore. (I had hand in a death grip, needless to say.) My son was impervious to the cold, but my mother-in-law and I were rendered breathless a few times -- "Ahhhkkk! That's cold!" After a few minutes, my mother-in-law turned to me and said, "You know, it doesn't feel so cold anymore!" I agreed, and informed her it was probably because we were losing sensation in our lower limbs due to the extreme cold. (Nanuck of the North I am not.)

Thomas was thrilled. He was fascinated with the foghorn, and the toot of distant fishing boats turning into the cove. He was excited by the sea gulls skittering along the water's edge, and by the crash of the waves. He loved the waves, he loved the cold, he loved the sand. He loved it all -- right up to the moment that he flung his shovel in the ocean and realized we weren't going to "go get it, please."

Oh, the misery!

There was much tearful pleading, followed by promises to be good, followed by more tears and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

The shovel floated, a tiny yellow speck on the heaving bosom of the mighty ocean, just at the point where the waves gathered and raced inland. We could see it, we could want to reach it, but it was just out of the range of possibility.

Tough love is hard, but there was no way I was going in the Pacific for a plastic shovel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mom take a step in the water, torn between her grandson's tears and the Pacific Ocean, and I told her (in the most loving way possible) that I'd have to think long and hard about going in after HER, so she'd better not try to get the doggone shovel, either!

Our watchful patience was rewarded about fifteen loooonnnnngggg waves later when the ocean finally gave back the shovel, and Thomas seemed to have a new-found respect for the wide expanse of water.

There was no wind to speak of that day -- a rarity at the coast -- and the sky was overcast and milky grey, echoed in the darker grey of the ocean. There was some sort of mass kelp suicide action going on -- each wave was almost solid with the stringy stuff, and as far as you could see the shore was littered with the greenish flotsam. When you stood in the path of a wave, the strings wrapped around your feet and tugged at you, leaving tendrils stuck to your legs and bits of leafy material wedged amongst your toes.

After the Shovel Incident we made our way inland a bit and began to work together on a giant sandcastle project, complete with towers, moats, fencing and pits (with a secret tunnel to go between them!) and got as thoroughly filthy as it is possible to get at the ocean -- sand in our hair, sand in our toes, sand under every nail and in every fold of clothing, no matter how small. Other beach visitors passed by walking dogs, chasing children, gathering shells; but our world was defined by a miniature keep and a bucket filled with damp sand.

After all that building, we were hungry for our picnic. Mom and I had Brie cheese and fresh French bread, salami, turkey slices, strawberries, and Hostess cupcakes (chocolate AND orange flavors!), and Thomas had his standby lunch of peanut butter sandwich and chips -- and then we had time to walk up the beach for a bit and build another castle a little closer to the water. One rogue wave came lapping right up to the moat, and Nona and Thomas took it upon themselves to guard the fort with outstretched arms and firmly planted feet: "Stay back, Ocean!" The seaweedy stuff made an excellent fence for Castle #2, and the bits of shell we'd found made the turrets seem to have windows to the sea.

As we drove away, Thomas began campaigning to return the next day ("Aw, c'mon, please??") -- a sure sign of a good time. That only lasted for a few miles, and then the benefits of being outdoors and running up and down the sand started kicking in... and he was content to look out the window, watching apple orchards flash past.

Our final stop was to pick up some freshly picked Gravenstein apples from a roadside stand just outside of Sebastopol, which I turned into a little over 20 cups of sliced apples for apple pies, crisps, or sauce. (If you haven't had a Gravenstein apple pie, think of your favorite apple pie recipe and imagine it five times as good... okay, now double that... and you're close to what we had!)

That night I tucked a freshly-bathed boy into his bed and kissed him goodnight, then fell into bed myself, worn out. When I closed my eyes I could still see the sea surge and swell, and my son's face as he took it all in. I could hear the crash of the surf and the cry of the gulls, and Thomas's sweet voice asking if we could come back tomorrow. I could feel the tug of the waves on my legs and the tug of my son's expression in my heart.

It was a perfect outing on a perfect day, and I will treasure the memories for many years to come. Plus, we still have the shovel! Whoo hoo!

Whassup?

Mama bear — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 15:09:53 GMT

Thomas got invited to attend a birthday party on Sunday for a friend of the family's little boy. On Saturday Will called to remind Thomas to wear socks, as the indoor blown-up playstructure playground that we were going to required them to be on the equipment. Will asked to talk directly to Thomas, so we handed our son the phone and waited to see what would happen.

Thomas was stretched out on the couch, watching Blue's Clues, and he casually took the phone as if he did this every day. "Hey, Will." There was a pause, and Thomas said, "Uh-huh." Another pause. "Bye."

A man of few words...

Quotable

Mama bear — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 15:35:18 GMT

A hideous virus went through our family like wildfire, knocking each of us out in turn. Thomas and Megan both ended up with secondary infections -- sinusitis, now being treated with the beloved "pink stuff" -- and while still feeling punkish Thomas climbed into my lap and rested his head against my chest. I asked him if his head hurt, and he nodded, touching his forehead, agreeing, "Squirrel in my head."

Low Tech Wonder

Mama bear — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 01:20:43 GMT

Thomas wandered through the dining room and discovered a board game set up on the table. With a cartoon-like sound of wonder he approached it and began to lift the edge, looking for something. His face puzzled, he looked up at me and asked, "Where's the ON?"

The (Hole?) Tooth

Mama bear — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:41:41 GMT

I love wiggly baby teeth... and the Tooth Fairy visits that follow the final wiggle.

Megan's wiggly teeth were short-lived, because she is too impatient; she ripped out her teeth the second they got the tiniest bit of wiggle to them, often leaving a gaping hole in her smile for months while the big tooth fought to catch up to the gumline. (One of her upper front teeth had a root on it longer than the tooth itself -- I swear, it nearly had strands of hair from the top of her head, it was so long! -- and she tore it out during a bizarre 102 degree fever in first grade. I have a picture of her with her eyes half-mast, face that shiny fever red, gum all gnarly, but tooth triumphantly in hand... you can almost hear the Ka-ching! of the Tooth Fairy in Megan's head.)

Thomas, on the other hand, is not interested in the final result. His bottom teeth started growing in before the baby teeth really began to wiggle; luckily they did start getting wobbly soon after we noticed the big guys, or I'd have lost my mind, I'm sure. The top teeth got wiggly at the same time, just over a month ago, and for weeks we watched with bated breath as Thomas would stop whatever he was doing to wiggle with single-minded determination -- is it time? Are they ready? Are they coming out? For weeks the answer was a deflated NO, even though the teeth were so doggone wiggly they crossed in front. (I took to referring to him as snaggletooth, and he'd grin so that one tooth would stick out over his lip to get me to laugh.)

Finally, over Memorial Day weekend, there was an Incident where two 7-year-olds bounced into a tent to bounce on a newly blown-up mattress and two 7-year-olds and one extra tooth came out a second later! Thomas was excited, but he was a little concerned: "Put it back, Mom! My tooth! Put it back!" The Tooth Fairy brought a special dollar, folded like a fan, and we all turned to watch Tooth Number Two with anxious eyes. It took another week -- God knows how, as it was held on by mere hope and prayers at the end, pushed out and sideways by the incoming big teeth so that it looked like he had three teeth in front, one triangular-shaped. (He was Carnie Boy, then, as in, "Step right up, three balls for a dollar, win a prize!")

Finally -- FINALLY!! -- the other night there was a surprised sound from the boy as he drank his nightly milk, and a race to the bathroom. "My tooth!"

Sure enough, there were just two big teeth in front, now, with that darling hole for a tongue to dart out between the fang-like next teeth over --and no baby tooth in sight! We asked him where it was, and he replied, "In my milk." We raced over and looked in his cup, but couldn't see anything; naturally, we got out the colander and poured the milk through, carefully scanning the liquid for the Tooth Fairy's booty. (Well, wouldn't YOU?)

It wasn't there.

We looked at Thomas, and he made a gesture to his mouth, then tried to force his hand down his throat to grab the disappeared tooth in his stomach!

I'm not sure he was convinced by our assurances that it was okay that the tooth was gone -- but soon enough it was bedtime, and that night the Tooth Fairy brought another dollar, this one folded like a paper airplane.

The dollar intrigued him the next morning, but he was still focused on that missing tooth... About an hour after he got up, he went to the bathroom and I followed him -- partly out of habit, and partly on a hunch. Sure enough, he pooped -- and then peered into the toilet, asking, "Get my tooth?"

No, we didn't... would YOU?

After School Special

Mama bear — Wed, 27 May 2009 23:32:03 GMT

Life with Thomas often reminds me of an after-school special -- you know, where there's this huge deeper meaning to the seemingly trivial parts of life, and you don't realize it until just before the final commercial break?

Recently we've gone through a deep Little Mermaid period at our house. We own the video, of course, and it's long been a favorite, but in the last few weeks it's been played approximately ten times and acted out a good hundred or so. The part where the Sea Witch tricks Ariel into giving up her voice, and Ariel sings "Ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ---!" is a particular favorite, follwed by a menacing chortle as Thomas "captures" the voice in some small toy. Thomas has also taken to dressing like a mermaid (not merman, mind you, but mermaid -- because he will correct you emphatically if you bring up the term "merman") by sticking his feet into a child-sized nylon guitar case and flopping around on the floor, singing the Little Mermaid song: "Someday I'll be... part of that... WORLD!!" This "big finish" is accompanied by the dramatic raising up of his torso above a surface -- the step into the kitchen, or the back of the couch, and a trimphant grin.

If this was an after school special, the meaning of Thomas's playacting could be seen as a desire to be part of the non-autism world; a deeper yearning for a world he can see, but not quite belong to. Talk about reading between the lines, eh? In real life, of course, it's merely a fun thing to play... and really, who wouldn't want to have mermaid legs for a few hours once in awhile? ... but there's always that little niggle of a thought at the back of my mind when I hear his little voice singing that phrase, his nylon mermaid tail flopping behind him.

"Someday I'll be... part of that... world!"

Psst! Want a Million Bucks, Buddy!

Mama bear — Sun, 17 May 2009 22:22:05 GMT

For the last two weeks or so our son has insisted on bringing a blanket or beach towel out to the backyard, where he spreads it carefully on the grass, and stretches out on it to "watch the fireworks."

Never mind that our town has -- due to budget concerns -- cancelled their annual fireworks display for the Fourth of July.

Never mind that it's still May, and July 4th is over six weeks away.

Never mind, in fact, that it's still daylight.

There's Thomas, squinting into the sky, patiently waiting for the colorful explosions to begin.

At first we tried reasoning with him -- the whole daylight, May, no fireworks this year thing, but with his autism and ADHD you may as well reason with the cat. ("Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, blah blah blah.")

Then we tried agreeing that fireworks were nice, and yes, we'd see them on the Fourth of July at Auntie Cari and Uncle Matt's house.

Finally we gave up and just nodded when he'd invite us into his little world, and we'd go out and stretch out on his blanket and squint into the blue sky. On Mother's Day he hit the jackpot and had everyone out there at one time or another -- Megan, Mommy, Daddy, Nona, Auntie, and Uncle Brendan. Even the cat wandered by and considered the blanket momentarily before coming to her senses and wandering away.

Last night right after we put the kids to bed (did you hear that sigh of whew! amen!?) and settled into the remaining hour of our day, we heard a strange sound. There was a dull boom, then a pop, and then another one, and another one. What the?

Peeking out the window I thought I saw a flash of light, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? Matt went upstairs and peered out our window, and reported that yes, indeed, there were fireworks going off!

We raced into the kids' rooms and grabbed them up, hurrying them into our room so they could see. For several minutes the four of us perched on the edge of our bathtub, admiring the bright bursts of color in the night sky and oohing over the more specatacular sparkly displays.

At one point we laughed that Thomas had willed these fireworks into being, just by sheer belief in their existence, against all reason. Then there was a small pause while we watched the colors explode some more, and I ventured a suggestion to Thomas: "Hey, Bud, can you start wanting a million dollars?"

Did You Hear That?

Mama bear — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 08:20:58 GMT

This morning Thomas and I toured a wonderful specialized school for autistic students, with an eye to possibly attending for next year. The director wanted to see Thomas and make sure he'd be a good fit for their school, and we wanted to see how Thomas felt about it, too. Paperwork requesting the transfer has been started, but it's still not clear if the deal is sealed, and I've been holding my breath and hoping for over a month.

The school is devoted to kids with autism, and it has amazing features that set it apart from regular ed classes or special ed classes across the county. There's an Occupational Therapist on staff, on the premises, with a room dedicated to Occupational Therapy -- where most schools have an Occupational Therapist visit once a week, and they use a spare portable room for that half-day of sessions, and see kids back to back to back. There are rooms left completely empty and bare, for kids to decompress in, should they need a place to get away from the overstimulation of a classroom. There's a vast network of staff to support one another and lend a hand if needed, rather than one teacher and an aide who have a working knowledge of autism, doing the best they can, while also attending to other developmental delays and difficulties. It's hugely expensive, and there are many more kids who would like to be in than they have room to accomodate... in fact, we looked at it as an option for Thomas last year, but there was one opening in his age group, and it got snapped up before we could get all the IEPs and other meetings lined up.

Today we started out in a big room where the kids can eat and also get some energy out with various equipment: a swinging board, a trampoline, an air hockey board, and a mosh pit like place where they can just chill. We quickly moved to the outdoor play space, which is a big covered patio and a newly-added climbing structure, and soon some big kids came out to toss a ball around.

"Hi! I'm Thomas! What's your name?" my son chirruped, unintimidated by their teenage size. They were more interested in their ball game, but they did introduce themselves. Thomas also approached the young gal who worked there and secured her name: Bree. A moment later Thomas was on top of the climbing structure, calling, "Excuse me! Bree? Come up here!"

The classroom for the primary grades was busy with work when we went in, but the kids were excited to see Thomas. The teacher, Miss April, was completely unflummoxed by my little whirlwind's addition to her space. There were introductions all around, and Thomas confidently and busily explored the space -- books, kids, the teacher's bell, some wall decor, etc. -- before we walked him back outside to play some more. A little while later, the primary class came out for their recess and the kids were excited to see Thomas again -"Hey! It's Thomas!" - but Thomas was even more excited. ("Hey! Boys! Up here! It's me, Thomas! Come up here!")

There was some rambunctious laughing and chasing and playing, and then it was time to move on, both for us and for the class.

The whole time this was going on, the director and I were talking about the program, Thomas, and the problems I saw with our alternatives in our district. (The only special day class available for the next two years is a very sedate, stay-in-your-seat-at-all-times sort of environment, and I can't see how Thomas -- or, frankly, the teacher -- would survive.) I've been hoping for a month now that this program will be a good fit for Thomas, and that he'd be able to go there, but I was afraid to count on it before I had some real proof... and our transition IEP was still two weeks away.

At the end of the meeting, the director looked at me and asked, "So, were you thinking the fall, or did you want him to start this summer?"

Just like that... we're in!

The director said that our special education director has said Thomas is coming, and once a district says a child is coming they don't renege... so he's very certain that it's a done deal.

That huge sigh you heard mid morning? That was me. There was relief and joy and a sense of gratefulness that just flowed out of me in equal measures... Thomas is in, and there's some very good things on the horizon!

Autism Every Day

Mama bear — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 00:22:14 GMT

April is Autism Awareness Month. I have been wearing my blue puzzle pin (which I bought on the Autism Speaks website at www.autismspeaks.org) and several people have approached me to ask what the puzzle shape means. There's probably some offical wording, but I just tell whoever asks my own version of what it means...

The puzzle piece symbolizes autism to me because much of autism is still a puzzle. The why it happens, the how it affects different children differently, what the future holds... all are mysteries.

Autism is the fastest-growing serious developmental disability in the U.S., and there is no medical detection or cure for autism. There is no "look" to autism. It's a spectrum disorder, which means that there is a wide range of degrees of impact: one child may be completely nonverbal and shun all contact from touch to eye contact to being spoken to, and another might just be a little sensitive to touch, or have some behaviors that are indicative of sensory issues (flapping arms or hands, humming or repeating phrases, etc.)... and every possible combination in between. Even though there is no cure, early intervention is hugely important, and that begins with a diagnosis...

Diagnosis is a long and complicated process that begins when someone (a doctor, parent, grandparent, friend, teacher) notices an infant or toddler isn't reaching certain milestones. Does your baby make eye contact? Smile or make joyful expressions by 6 months? Babble by 12 months? Wave or point by 12 months? Have words by 16 months? Has your child regressed or lost speech at any age? These are early signs, red flags if you will, that can indicate a problem.

Say you know a child who fits one of the above warning signs. What happens?

Tests for hearing will most likely be first; if a baby can't hear, they can't develop speech patterns and make certain social connections. Then there are other tests -- trained professionals play with the baby, trying to elicit responses and gauge how interactive the child is with people. If there is still concern, a whole panel of experts do observations and reports and then there's a series of questions to wade through -- health histories and early childhood development and behaviors observed at home and other quirks -- and if enough red flags are raised, you get a diagnosis.

Every 20 minutes a family gets rocked to the core; every 20 minutes a child is offically given that diagnosis. Set a timer for 20 minutes, and when it goes off, reset it for another 20 minutes. Repeat all day long... and each time you hear the ding, a family is hearing, "Your child has autism." Those ringing bells translate to 67 children getting diagnosed a day, with boys four times more likely to be autistic as girls are.

Right now the Center for Disease Control says that 1 in 150 children are diagnosed with autism. That number is up, by the way, from 20 years ago by a huge factor: 20 years ago the numbers were 1 in 2500. I work at a school with about 500 kids... 20 years ago it would be about once every five years that we'd see a kid with autism. Today we have at least 5 that I know of ON CAMPUS.

The numbers are not a mystery, but they are mysterious: how could so many children be affected, and how could the numbers be going up so alarmingly? Is it environmental? Possibly. Is it genetic? Possibly. Is it a combination of the two? Most likely. Is it related to vaccinations? Most research says no, but it's a hot topic. Is it from parenting? No. Research is ongoing, but autism receives less than 5% of funding of many less prevalent childhood diseases, and the statistics just keep climbing.

The statistics are startling, but what really matters is the impact on individuals, families, and society at large each time a diagnosis happens. The diagnosis is like a stone in a pond, rippling outward in ever-widening circles... the child, his parents, his siblings, aunts and uncles and cousins, his grandparents, his neighbors and close friends of the family, his teachers and classmates and the very community he lives in... and it continues on and on and on, every day.

I know what I'm writing about -- at the cellular level -- because my son Thomas was diagnosed in December of 2004 as being on the autism spectrum.

That day still is imprinted in my memory in odd flashes of impressions, feelings, and thoughts. The sky was a funny blue, dappled with ominous gray clouds that looked impossibly heavy, and the lights in the little room buzzed with that irritating florescent sound the whole time the doctor reported on the team's findings. As the words came from the doctor's mouth -- "Your son is autistic --" -- my husband and I sat at a small table, gripping each other's hands tightly, trying to capture as much information as we possibly could from this meeting. Thomas was in the room next to ours, sitting on the floor, running a train along the edge of the rug, completely unaware of the monumental shift in the universe.

From that moment, our lives changed forever -- not for the worse, necessarily, but definitely different. It felt like a bomb had gone off in our lives, and we were stunned with the knowledge and the amazing amount of information we'd need to learn to raise our son. We drove home in almost total silence, the weight of the diagosis pressing against our very beings, unsure of everything we'd assumed our future held.

That night we brought home Chinese food and began setting the table for dinner, moving Thomas's plate far to one side of our round table and squeezing Grandma Jeane, Megan, Matt and my plates to a fraction of the rest of the space. This was automatic, so that Thomas wouldn't grab our food, throw some of his in ours, or toss something into a water glass -- just a regular dinnertime with our son, really. It suddenly dawned on us that the diagnosis -- while still looming in our hearts and minds as a huge, heavy burden to deal with -- hadn't changed us or our son. Thomas was still Thomas -- the word autism didn't change who he was, it just gave us some insight into the whys and wherefores of his behavior, and a direction to move to get him the help he needed. The diagnosis opened a whole world of interventions available to Thomas that we didn't have the day before...it was the silver lining in those heavy gray clouds, the shimmer of rainbows through the tears, the hope at the end of the day. Yes, the diagnosis was like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of our lungs... but it also made the incoming air that much more precious.

Our son may have autism-- he may be a puzzle to us, and to the world -- but he's also incredibly inspiring: every day he is puzzling out the strange customs of the world around him and working at fitting in. My son is one of hundreds of thousands of children impacted by autism, but he's his own individual bright light on the spectrum, and he is the reason I wear my puzzle pin proudly.

Another Thing Learned

Mama bear — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 22:18:30 GMT

Our amazing, wonderful, challenging son has taught us many things over the years. Did you know that a magnet can change the colors on the television screen? No? Neither did I, until Thomas figured that one out. Did you know pulling a fire alarm in a WalMart on Memorial Day weekend could result in a $10,000 fine if the fire department comes out before the alarm can be neutralized? No? Neither did we, until last year. (They got it neutralized in time, or we'd be cardboard box camping right now under some bridge.)

Newest knowledge: If you have to Bissel steam clean the rug because someone (unnamed, but his initals are T. L.) has peed on it, and a biggish section starts to lather up alarmingly, you can safely assume that shampoo or bubble bath has at some point been spilled there. And you can also know that it will continue to lather for a long, long time, because it's really hard to rinse out. Huh. Who knew?

Puppy Training

Mama bear — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 22:06:18 GMT

I'm bracing for another fresh onslaught of "Can we get a dog?" from my daughter now that the First Daughters have gotten Bo. Luckily, my son strengthened my resolve to say "NO" first thing this morning. He has once again proved that he is exactly like having a dog -- possibly a terrier of some sort, with more energy -- without the shedding.

We had a friend of Megan's staying overnight, and when Meg came down this morning alone I congratulated her on not waking Ariel. Thomas was stirring, but he comes out when he's ready; I hoped he would forget Ariel was here, and not go into Megan's room to wake her.

I was in the downstairs bathroom when I heard the water in the tub upstairs. Wow, I thought. I didn't know Ariel was so trained to get up and immediately jump in the shower... And then it dawned on me that it might not be Ariel.

Sure enough, when I raced up the stairs I saw Thomas's door open, and the bathroom door closed -- and locked. I grabbed the handy dandy key and wrenched the door open to find Thomas buck nekkid (sigh) and the cold water running full blast into the tub. (Thank God. I always worry he's going to burn himself with one of these stunts...)

I thought he might have accidentally wet the bed, or his jammies at the very least. When I went into his room, though, it was a horror show. He'd begun with a puddle on the floor, then apparently decided to write his name on the desk, chair, racetrack, books, and other assorted toys in his room. I made a strangled sound of fury and did a double take, but sure enough, he'd managed to get nearly every item in his room... thoroughly.

I got him into the lukewarm tub and began the task of soaking up the wet... sanitizing the surfaces... more soaking up the wet... more sanitizing... more soaking up...

Dear God, we need to cut back on his liquids, is all I can say!

So now when Megan begins anew to beg for a dog I can repeat -- with feeling! -- the line I've used over and over again: "No. We don't need a dog, we have Thomas. He licks stuff, chews on stuff, digs in the yard and pees on the floor -- just like a dog."

Excuse me now. I have a paper towel roll to replace upstairs, and some baking soda to sprinkle prodigiously on the floor.

Sound Effects

Mama bear — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 04:08:41 GMT

Thomas has a new quirk of late: He has taken to making sound effects for various things. My personal favorite is his warning sound when he's contemplating evil deeds... it's "Duhn, duhn, duhhh!" in a doomsday-ish descending scale.

A typical use is Thomas in the doorway of the bathroom, say, and he says his three note warning -- "Duhn, duhn, duhhhh!" -- before slamming and locking the door. Water is gleefully turned on full-blast in the nanosecond it takes us to grab the key and force the door open, to discover Thomas standing on the edge of the room, grinning with utter delight.

He's also got the cartoon sound of "whah, whah, whah," to signal someone has defeated his most current bid for Evil Master of the Universe.

"Whah, whah, whah!"