Behold, dueling breakfast sites! Continue reading
Behold, dueling breakfast sites! Continue reading
So we took our Little Guy to a pediatric hospital in Baltimore to begin the process of evaluating him for ASD. Up to this point, all we had for him was a provisional diagnosis from our psychologist in Florida—about three years ago. She had just begun her own evaluation when we ended up moving to Maryland, and we’re just now getting around to getting something more formal.
Anyway, today’s appointment was “intake”—a bunch of questions about his early development, his family history, his current state, and our concerns. As she asked us the standard barrage of questions, the psychologist also observed our boy in action. But the main focus was on us. For an hour.
It sucked. Not because we couldn’t answer her questions. We could. Not because the Little Guy was out of control. He wasn’t. It sucked because, well, you know why. A whole hour describing our family’s challenges. A whole hour listing our son’s deficits and telling stories about his meltdowns and his sensory issues and his social struggles and his attention deficits.
Katie did awesome. She always does. Her memory is sharp as a tack. She could recall his early developmental challenges far better than I could. She was clearer on his current challenges than I was. She spends more time with the kids than I do. She works part time, and I’m on a ten-hour-a-day schedule. Plus, she takes more therapy appointments than I do. So what was standard fare for her came flooding over me with a quickness and a matter-of-fact tone that felt like a gut punch.
You see, when your whole household is ASD, you tend not to notice all the details. It’s just part of your normal. We don’t have any neurotypical kids, so we don’t know what standard behavior looks like. After a few years, you begin to glide over the ticks and twitches of ASD. You take them in stride and keep trying to move forward. You get so accustomed to them that you don’t even recognize how many of them there are. That is, until you have to recount them to a perfect stranger with a degree.
So to hear the Little Guy’s symptoms rattled off with precision one after the other . . . well, let’s just say it was hard. Lumpy-throat hard. It broke my heart. Today was a reminder of how tough life will be for my kids—of how tough it already is.
It was a reminder of every tense, contentious, and tearful IEP meeting we ever had. It was a reminder of the friendships my kids have lost due to their social challenges, as well as the friendships Katie and I have lost because of people’s misunderstanding. It was a reminder of all that we are missing out on, like family dinners out or vacations or even peaceful walks in the woods. It was a reminder of the earlier days, when we were both new to this gig and so much more scared than we are today. And it was a reminder of the large amount of work that lies ahead of us as we plan and prepare for our children’s futures. So yeah, it was hard.
I so want to see my kids have the best future possible. I so want to see them thrive and kick ass in the world. I want to see them happy and productive, welcomed and loved. Some have a greater chance at this than others, but none of them will find it easy. All of them will ask the “Why me” question more frequently and with more poignancy than their typically developing peers. That’s why it was so hard.
Today was also hard because this evening our Little Guy put up a huge, weepy, melt-downy fuss about something he normally enjoys: soccer practice. He was probably worn out from the trip to Baltimore. It wasn’t that demanding in any ordinary way, but it was a break in his routine, and that never ends well. It hurt to see him so upset, but I knew I had to help him power through it. If he could just get on the field and start running around, he would end up having a good time. But the drive there seemed unending. No amount of consoling words or attempts at humor could calm him down. All I could do was keep driving.
We got to the field, and his mood lifted as soon as he saw his team mates. He ran onto the pitch and started kicking the ball around with them. Mission accomplished—for him at least.
It took me a little longer. Once I saw that he was okay, I took a long walk and prayed, my Rosary in hand. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us. . . .” It helped. A ton.
Now I’m sitting here on the sideline, watching my son. He’s hesitant about mixing it up with the other kids. His kick and his run can be awkward at times. His teammates engage in typical boy humor that he doesn’t quite get. And he takes every misstep of another player far too seriously. Standard Little Guy stuff.
But it’s okay. I’m sitting in the shade of a tree. A cool breeze is blowing. I catch the scent of honeysuckle on the wind. And I know God’s going to take care of us.
Everything’s going to be all right.
When I was in high school, I was really into science fiction and fantasy literature. I guess I still am, but I don’t usually get the time to immerse myself in a good novel these days.
Anyway, there was this one fantasy series I read in high school called The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. The author, Stephen R. Donaldson, imagined the books to be a kind of dark inversion of Tolkien’s classic The Lord of the Rings.
Each book in the series opens with the (anti)hero Thomas Covenant experiencing some kind of crisis that mars him physically just before he is transported to a realm known as The Land. While in The Land, Covenant is quickly healed of his wounds and ends up reluctantly accepting a perilous quest. Lots of action, tension, magic and romance ensue—often quite gripping.
Then, as Covenant to the climax of his quest, something happens to him. He is caught in a battle, perhaps, or a curse is uttered against him. Whatever it is, it leaves him with wounds exactly like the ones he had just before he entered the Land. It’s at this critical juncture that he finds himself back in our world in the exact same condition he was at the start: haggard, numb, bloodied, and exhausted.
A Magical Christmas.
Well, that’s what I felt like the week after Christmas. We had had a rough few days leading up to the holiday, and I was feeling pretty beat up. Nothing seemed to be going right. A few of the kids’ anxieties had gone through the roof, issues at school mushroomed, and a few tight deadlines at work led to late nights at the computer.
But something strange happened on Christmas Day, and it lasted a few days afterward. There were no melt downs. No tantrums. No OCD or anxiety or disrupted sleep. It was absolutely delightful! My own anxiety diminished. I was sleeping better. We even took most of the kids to my brother-in-law’s for a Christmas gathering, and I had a blast because it was completely uneventful. I was sailing along, enjoying life in ways I had forgotten about in the previous weeks.
So far, so good. But then by December 30, things began sliding downhill again. First one kid went south. Then another. And another. Slowly over the next three days, we re-entered our “normal” zone with the melt downs, the perseveration, the communication glitches, the anxiety—the whole nine yards. Even work issues flared up again!
By lunchtime on New Years Day, I was back to my usual self: weary, furtively looking back and forth to see who was going to erupt next, steeling myself for the inevitable, even feeling that familiar lump in my throat after helping one of the kids through a tough time.
So Sunday had come, and I was ready to start back at work as if nothing magical had happened at all. Just like Thomas Covenant.
Now, before you go feeling sorry for me—or telling me to suck it up, Buttercup—let me say this: I suspect that many parents of special-needs kids can relate to this cycle. On one level, every parent appreciates the fun times, the easy times, the magical times. But there’s a poignancy when it happens for special-needs parents because for those few short days, they know what the rest of the parenting world feels like on an average day. They get a glimpse of the “normal” that most parents experience most of the time, and it feels good. But then they return to their own special “normal,” and they have to put on their big-boy pants again.
I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It’s hard. It’s draining. It’s isolating. It takes so much more time and energy and stamina to stay on top of your kids’ needs and challenges. Sometimes you can want to curl up in a corner and not come out for a few days.
But we can’t.
Let me make one other thing clear: Katie and I know that it’s not the kids’ fault. We don’t resent them for who they are or for their needs. Much, in fact, of what can weigh on us is watching our kids go all this turmoil. We wonder what their future will look like. We worry if they will be able to live on their own after we’re gone. We ache for them to be rid of their painful challenges. And we feel helpless.
So when you see a special-needs parent looking unusually rested and refreshed, know that a lot is going on underneath the surface. Know that sooner or later they’re going to go through a Thomas Covenant-like transformation. So go easy on them. Maybe even offer to help them when the need arises.
Well, here we are again, on the verge of another holiday season. Warm feelings abound this time of year, and everyone feels the urge to form unusually large gatherings and consume massive portions of food and drink. There’s something about the earlier sunset and the growing chill in the air that puts people in a nostalgic, romantic mood. Either that, or thinking about the cold and darkness of death makes them want to huddle together for protection. Whatever the reason, there will be family gatherings galore over the next month or so.
And then there are the ASD families. If you know anything about autism, you know that people on the spectrum can have a hard time with sensory overload. Noises and crowds can make them shut down or act out. Or both. Changes in routine are unsettling. The different smells, tastes, and textures of a holiday meal can be overwhelming. Even when they’re surrounded by people they know and love, they’re still surrounded. And that doesn’t feel good.
All of this got me thinking about how different our family can be—and how different we may appear to people who come to visit. Mind you, most of our relatives and friends are familiar with our dynamic, but there are a few outliers. Not to mention, new friends may end up dropping by. So, with no malice or prejudgment intended, I decided to revisit and revise the guidelines I had written a couple of years ago for holiday visitors to our home.
A Field Guide to the Zanchettin Holiday Home.
You know, when I tell people about our family’s unique make-up, I often get variations on one familiar response. It’s usually a combination of incredulity and well-intentioned pity. “Six kids? And they’re all on the autism spectrum? Wow, that must be so hard!”
Sure it’s hard. And challenging. Even daunting at times. But not to worry. We’ve got this. Why? Because special-needs parents have a very particular set of skills. They are skills we have developed over time as we have learned how to assimilate to our new normal, articulate the facts about our kids’ diagnoses, and advocate for them far and wide.
What are these skills? They are too many to count, actually. But the list below contains some of the more important ones. Take a look at them, and then ask yourself whether incredulity and pity are the best responses.
So there they are: twelve key skills of a special-needs parent. As you can tell, we don’t want pity. We’re doing quite well without it, thank you very much.
However, if you wanted to give us cash, we wouldn’t object.
So here we are at Halloween, the second most expensive holiday of the year. Actually, our family has been living this holiday for nearly three months, as our kids usually begin planning for it just as back-to-school shopping begins. One in particular plans for a particular costume, then obsesses over whether it’s the right one, then scraps those plans and comes up with a new one, then obsesses over that one again, until . . . well, you get the picture. It’s not uncommon for people with ASD to get stuck on one thing for days and weeks at a time. It’s a form of perseveration that can lead to anxiety and depression, so we try hard to help the kids keep it to a minimum—with varying degrees of success.
A Quirky Constitutional.
But that’s not the story I want to tell today. I want to tell you about a little walk that one of our daughters took the other day. That’s her in the picture above. She decided to go trick-or-treating as a human version of the Pokémon Spritzi. But as a sort of practice run, and just because she wanted to, she told us that she wanted to walk around the neighborhood this Saturday in her get-up. That’s right, up and down the sidewalks with a mask, umbrella, dressy shoes, and pink dress. In broad daylight. On a regular autumn day. Oh, and she also wanted us to take her downtown so she could walk around Baker Park in full regalia.
Her request confronted us with a question that I suspect many ASD parents face. On the one hand, in defiance of a neurotypical one-size-fits-all world, we encourage our kids to be themselves. There’s no need for them to try to force themselves to be “normal” as general society defines normal. There’s also no need to add to their anxiety or sense of otherness by implying (unintentionally) that they have to hide who they really are.
But on the other hand, we know how odd a human Pokémon can appear to most of our neighbors. We don’t want our kids to be labeled as “weird” or, worse, bullied by neighborhood kids. This daughter, in particular, had some tough experiences in eighth grade, and the memories of it still haunt her two years later.
Quite the Quandary.
So that was our quandary: do you protect your kid? Or do you affirm his or her uniqueness and creativity? Do you do your part in helping to change society’s perceptions? Or do you give your kid a lesson on what the real world is like and on how to fit in without compromising themselves? It’s a perpetual balancing act, with no right or wrong answer.
In the end, we didn’t have to give any answer—mercifully. She slipped out on her own in the middle of the afternoon, while I was out running errands and Katie was upstairs cleaning. She had a nice little constitutional around a couple of blocks with hardly a peep from anyone. Just one person on our street made a comment, and even that was mild and jovial.
Still, I’d like to think that whatever choice we made, it would have been made in love and with the best of intentions.
Trailblazers by Default.
It’s hard sometimes knowing which side to come down on—with this and many other issues. There’s no manual for parenting, and that’s doubly true for ASD parenting. In the neurotypical world, you have the experience and example of the many people who have gone before you or who are walking along the path with you. But ASD parents often find themselves walking by themselves, and on a different path.
I think this is especially true for our generation. Ours is the age of Temple Grandin, Steve Silberman, and Parenthood. Ours is the generation of disability advocacy, the ADA, and IDEA. It’s only in the past decade or so that ASD has become better diagnosed and recognized. So in many ways, we are the trailblazers.
It’s not just in our neighborhoods that we’re blazing trails. Through our advocacy for our kids, we are teaching school administrators and teachers about autism. We are helping our churches learn how to be more welcoming and openhearted. We are making parks and playgrounds more accessible. And we’re doing it not just for our kids, but for the others around us—and even more important, for the next generation.
So keep this in mind, all you special needs parents. Your work is having a far greater effect than you know. Just by walking down the street or into a McDonald’s with your kids, you’re making a huge difference. A trip to the library or a walk in the park means a lot more than exercise for your kids. Every contentious IEP meeting adds another brick in the road toward full inclusion and acceptance. You probably don’t even know that you’re doing it, but you’re blazing a trail just by embracing the family God has given you. You’re paving a way to make a brighter future for everyone—even the human Pokémon among us.
Remember my post a few weeks ago about my daughter’s difficulty with getting out of the house because of her fear and anxiety? Well, something cool happened today.
Sunday mornings can be rough for my girl. She hates going to Mass now, because she’s petrified that she’ll have a seizure—and in such a formal, public place. So I’ve been letting her stay home, along with one of her brothers to keep an eye on her (no argument from the boys, of course). To make up for it, I’ve been bringing Communion to her and her brother every Sunday after Mass. I carry the consecrated Hosts back in a little pyx like the one in the picture, and we sit go sit on the back deck together. We read one of the Scripture passages from Mass, talk about it for a few minutes, pray the Lord’s prayer, and then I give them Communion. Short, sweet, to the point.
“I Don’t Want It.”
Today was different, though. She woke up deeply rattled by two separate nightmares. She had promised me that she would come to Mass today, but the nightmares did her in. There was no way she would leave the house, and there was no way I was going to push her.
So off I went to Mass with everyone else, carrying my trusty pyx in my pocket. In the Communion line, I presented my pyx to Fr. Keith and asked for Hosts for my two errant kids. I’m all too familiar with the drill, and so is he. So far, so good.
But when we got home, I discovered that my girl was too upset even to receive Communion. She was in our bedroom, curled up on the bed, her brow furrowed in fear. Her voice quavered as she begged me not to force her not to come downstairs for our weekly Communion service. “I’m just not stable now,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me; my nightmares are getting worse, and I don’t want to leave your room.”
“There’s nothing wrong with praying and asking God for his help,” I said. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll feel better afterward.”
“I don’t know why, but I just can’t!”
She was nearly in tears, so I put my arm around her, and offered up a silent prayer. This was worse than I had seen in a long time, and I was at a complete loss. All I could do was hug my girl, with a “loaded” pyx in my pocket.
Ninety Short Seconds.
Then it dawned on me. Maybe the Sunday morning ritual we had established was just too intense for her today. The mere act of going downstairs, getting the Bible, and sitting on the deck was just too much for her to handle. It seemed so easy to me, but not to her. If she just stayed inert in our bedroom, she thought, nothing would change. She wouldn’t have to face her fears. She would stay safe in the little sanctuary she had built for herself.
So rather than coax her out into my world, I tried to enter hers. “I have an idea,” I said. “How about we sit right here on the bed, and I just give you Communion? We don’t have to read the Gospel. We don’t have to do anything special. Just a quick Our Father, and then you receive. Can you do that?”
“I think so,” she said.
It took all of 90 seconds, and we were done. And you know what? It made a huge difference. The anxiety faded. Her smile (a slight one, at least) returned. Her hunched shoulders relaxed, and she breathed a little easier.
The change was so dramatic that I was actually able to convince her to come on a couple of errands with me. Of course, I bribed her with the promise of lunch from McDonald’s, but her willingness to join me was still a marked contrast to how she had been just minutes before.
Now, I can interpret this episode in a number of ways. Maybe my persistence paid off. Maybe the memory of her nightmares had faded. Maybe I had chosen just the right words, and delivered them in just the right tone of voice. Maybe the good feeling she got from doing what Dad wanted softened her up.
Or maybe, just maybe, God actually worked in my little girl’s heart and calmed her fears.
This answer makes the most sense from a faith standpoint, but it also makes the most logical sense. The desperate scenario I described above was not going to change. My girl was far too anxious. The only variable that changed in the equation was the impromptu Communion service. She eased up only after she received the Eucharist—which we Catholics believe is the actual presence of Christ.
I know this sounds odd. I know it sounds like I’m trying to justify my faith. But I don’t care. As long as mini-miracles like this keep happening, I’m going to keep believing. As long as I find help and answers in prayer, I’m going to keep giving God the credit. As long as my kids can point to evidence of Jesus’ presence and his work in their lives, I’m going to go with it.
That’s why I’m keeping my pyx in my pocket.