problem-solving
Conscious parenting
When the boys were still babies, Mark and I watched other parents with their trials and tribulations.
After watching enough toddlers and preschoolers run to their mother’s arms when they were hurt — sometimes running right past father on the way — Mark decided it was important to him that our children be comforted as readily by him as by me.
He felt that he was at a disadvantage because I was the one with the breasts. Frankly, though, it wasn’t hard to to convince the boys that daddy’s hugs and kisses made the boo-boos go away, too. If something happened when Mark was around, he swept in and gave the lovin’ required. Sometimes I’d bring the band-aid and give it to Mark to apply.
Age plays with the memory, to be sure, but I cannot remember ever seeing any of our children, hurt and crying, and in Mark’s arms but reaching for me, instead.
I’m not exactly sure what it got us, but now that Mark is gone, I’m grateful for it.
Conscious parenting was all that was required.
When Baby Birds Fly
Earlier this week, the boys and I drove to Plano. We checked the route to SMU in Plano.
(We did some other cool stuff, like eat a terrific lunch at Whiskey Cake Kitchen Cafe, and buy some shirting fabric to make Michael two more custom dress shirts … his mother is his secret tailor.)
But SMU in Plano is home to the place where Sam is hoping to do his internship this spring.
Some dedicated parents and professionals have started nonPareil.institute, a computer workgroup for young adults on the autism spectrum. Sam wants to volunteer as part of a practicum he needs to complete his computer technology certificate at North Central Texas College.
We’ve been taking this whole thing in baby steps. It has been extraordinarily difficult to find help in searching for an internship for him. First of all, state resources meant to help … major vacuum there.
The college isn’t quite yet set up to assist students like Sam in the search — in the past, they have had their hands full just managing and approving the opportunities students found for themselves. Hopefully, that will change as the program grows and matures at the Corinth and Flower Mound campuses.
Job fairs at nearby UNT? For UNT students only … no sharing. I suggest renegotiating boundaries there — just like they’ve done with scores of other resources college kids need to succeed.
A friend in the computer business heroically, graciously did a little bit of legwork for us, enough for us to understand that Sam couldn’t just walk into the door of a company and offer himself for a computer hardware tech internship. He would have to find out who the vendor was that provided the service and take it from there.
Holy cow. That seemed like asking someone to find out who brings the bagel cart every morning and then finding out if they’ll let him arrange the cream cheeses before the carts head out the door every morning.
I think. I don’t know. Computer tech isn’t my world. My world is “content creation.”
But, as luck and Divine Intervention would have it, someone caught a presentation by the nonPareil people at an autism conference and they passed the materials on to me. I shared with NCTC, an advisor at NCTC reached out, and finding the waters warm, on Tuesday, we drove there and walked around the building to get a vibe.
No people vibes, just driving and building vibes.
As I said, baby steps.
That was enough to get Sam pretty jazzed. He called the director and left a message. And applied for a tolltag.
That just about made me weep. I was girding myself for driving him there two times a week. But Sam says, “I can make that drive. I like this area. I could even get an apartment here.”
I reminded him that internships don’t pay, and the rent at Chez Wolfe can’t be beat. Especially at the SO NY Lofts at Tennyson and the Tollway.
Baby steps, son. Baby steps.
Not an adjective
I love playing with language.
For me, reading and trying new word combinations can be as exciting the unexpected deliciousness of eating watermelons and tomatoes together, or layering old favorites from my closet in a new, flattering combination.
But I couldn’t muster the stuff for a tech writer who described a tablet-only publication — as in a newspaper subscription for your iPad with no external links — as an “autistic app.”
Eeeeeuw.
First and foremost, autistic is misused as an adjective. And any editor who let that slide needs a refresher course, not only in English but also in People First language. You show respect when saying “he has autism” instead of “he’s autistic.” Two steps way back with that.
Here are some reefers to real apps … just in case you were wondering …
http://www.modelmekids.com/iphone-app-autism.html
http://www.autismepicenter.com/autism-blog/blog2.php/2010/10/23/autism-apps-that-will-help-you
http://www.gadgetsdna.com/10-revolutionary-ipad-apps-to-help-autistic-children/5522/
Some of them look marvelous and it makes me wonder how we ever made it, hauling around that little crate of vocabulary cards.
Wisdom matters
There’s been chatter among researchers about the benefit of wisdom in their work — the balancing of your own interests, with the interests of others, and the interests of the community (even God, or the environment).
I think it’s kind of funny that the new thing isn’t the latest, greatest technique or protocol, but this old thing called wisdom.
Now that I’m 50, of course, I understand the implications much more than when I was a desperate young mom of 27. Creativity matters still, but I’ve learned to fold other considerations when figuring out what it takes to solve a problem or make progress on a project.
Especially when it comes to supporting my kids as they launch their own lives.
I’m not talking about a “been there, done that” attitude, or excess skepticism, either, but a vigorous way of seeing things fresh, without throwing away all that you’ve learned so far. There really is no place to stand except on the shoulders of the people who’ve come before you.
What wisdom can I give Sam and his support team as he makes this transition from school-to-work? Much of that wisdom is already his, perhaps its better for me to help him see it in himself. Really, how is it different than the support Michael needs, or Paige for that matter? Except that Sam might have a little more trouble than most of us at deciphering the social codes of the “job hunt.”
I think it’s time to pick up a fresh edition of What Color is Your Parachute? and reacquaint myself with that old wisdom.
An old family recipe
This week the Wolfe house is busy with the making of play-dough on the stove top. The DFW team for Texas Parent-to-Parent will have a booth at the Autism Speaks Walk this Saturday at the Ballpark in Arlington and we plan on giving the kids at the event a super experience for their senses.
I’ve dusted off an old family recipe that was a big hit with Sam when he was little. He was consumed with making sense of the world through his challenged senses. We made this dough, and then added a secret ingredient — a package of unsweetened Kool-Aid to match the color with a flavor “scent.” He loved it.
To wit, put these ingredients in a large saucepan and heat over very low heat, stirring constantly, until it’s thick:
1 cup flour
1/4 cup salt
2 tablespoons cream of tartar
1 cup water
1 tablespoon oil.
Remove from the heat and as soon as you can work the dough with your hands, make a well in the middle and add 1/2 teaspoon of food coloring to match the Kool-Aid flavor. For example — purple and grape; green and lime; red and strawberry; yellow and lemon; and, of course, orange orange and blue blueberry.
The dough keeps for a few days in a rubber keeper or airtight bag. Plus, if your little one takes a bite, you don’t have to worry about any mystery ingredients.
A better idea
Sometimes we look askance at parents who put their baby’s name on a waiting list for a prestigious preschool before they are even born.
As if the path to adult success is really that narrow.
Yet, if your child is born with a lifelong condition that will affect their ability to care for themselves, such as Down’s syndrome or autism, parents are encouraged to “guess” what services they might need later in life and put them on a waiting list for services. Those lists, in Texas, are DECADES long.
And recently, Texas created pilot projects for MORE waiting lists for services.
The whole thing is a farce.
Last weekend, at the Njoy Foundation conference, Resources for Parents, I learned about a statewide group that is trying to change the model for Texas. With a bad budget year, they have a mighty, uphill battle.
But it’s got to happen. Last year, 53 people died in state institutions of preventable causes, including one person at the Lubbock facility who was suffocated while being restrained. Of course, nearly every one knows about the notorious “fight clubs” organized by some of the staff at the Corpus Christi facility because one of them recorded the fights on a cellphone.
The Department of Justice has been monitoring Texas facilities for rampant civil rights violations.
To learn more about this group that’s promoting inclusive communities — which means the money follows the client rather than the other way around — visit their website: www.communitynowfreedom.com.
Imposter syndrome
I have a friend who is wildly successful at what she does, but suffers from imposter syndrome. She’s worried someday that she’ll be found out, that everyone will see her as she sees herself: an imposter.
I frequently worry about that as a parent. Somehow, I’m certain that the world will look beyond my kid with special needs, and the fact that he’s walking and talking and working and happy — which I attribute far more to God’s loving hand than my bumbling efforts — and see me and my other children and know the truth. I am a lousy mother.
Yet, once in a while, I get a small affirmation about the decisions I make as the mother of my other two children. In today’s mail, someone in my other son’s life took a moment to say thanks and add the observation that makes every mother’s heart sing … “I respect and admire your ability to let him take the lead with his own destiny — not an easy thing to do, mom, and not something I see every day.”
There you go, Michael. I’m not the best, as moms go, but it’s sure better than a stick in the eye.
Impulse control
The University of Toronto came out with this beautiful little study about self-talk and impulse control.
All three of my children talk to themselves, not just Sam. However, when he started — as a tweener — his impulse control really improved. He likes to pace our wrap-around porch and talk.
I think I’m going to try that self-talk thing the next time I want seconds of pie and see how it works.
The family way
More thoughts on Guidepost Four …
One of my worst runs as a parent came when Sam was about 12. Something about puberty turned his world upside down. In some ways, it was as if he was 3 years old again.
As in tantrums.
Over the course of several weeks, he slipped ever deeper into the habit of taking things out on his younger brother. I got between them many times to de-escalate an argument, but Sam wasn’t getting the message that his brother was not a punching bag. I took stock of his rages. They were getting worse, not better. Something about it was self-reinforcing — possibly because Michael would only throw up defensive blocks, he wouldn’t fight back. Sam would “win,” in other words.
I didn’t want to encourage Michael to fight back. Something about that felt wrong, more for Michael than for Sam.
Even though Sam was taller than me, I knew I could get the best of him once or twice, if I needed to keep Michael safe. I would have the element of surprise, but only once or twice, then our relationship would be ruined.
As usual, I was spending too much time thinking about it, but I didn’t feel like I was coming up with any decent strategies to fix the situation.
Of course, one afternoon it all came to a head, Sam was throwing a huge tantrum, with Michael as his target, and I knew, if I didn’t tackle him right then, Michael would have been hurt. I dove onto my son and pinned him to the floor and yelled at him, “Stop, stop, stop it right now, or you can’t live in our house anymore!”
Sam was terrified. He already had tears in his eyes from the tantrum, but now his eyes looked truly wild. It seemed to take forever for him to calm down and for me to feel like I could let him go, but he didn’t really resist much either. We tried to talk a little about what I said, but it wasn’t a good conversation.
Over time, I saw that he’d gotten the message that he was responsible for his behavior and he was not allowed across that line of physicality. When he got mad, he took his troubles to the porch and paced and talked to himself. The physical tantrums ended. But it cost me a fair amount of his trust for a while.
For several years, he’d occasionally ask about circumstances when someone couldn’t live with the family anymore. He was looking for the rules. Were they still the same? Does he still understand them?
I tried to give him the same message each time, essentially, ‘you probably don’t remember how badly you were hurting Michael, so I was pretty scared when I told you that. But you’re older now and you know we just don’t do that in the Wolfe family.’
That little mantra “how we do it in the Wolfe family” helped ground all our children and make them feel safe through the tween and teen years. They even put items on the agenda for family meetings that way. They’d articulate a problem, and then Mark and I asked them how they were going to solve it. They often had terrific ideas and the problem stayed solved.
That’s how we do it in the Wolfe family.