Today, Primo and Spark were playing outside. It's Spring break, and they'd been inside on screens all day. I sent them out at 5pm, telling them to play until Daddy got home. He usually arrives at 6.
When one son is twice as large as the other and they like to play with sticks, the little one often ends up with a scrape or whacked knuckles. Today was different. There was chasing, shouting, a strongly pushed swing, and then blood and tears.
Primo needs physical exercise and release every day. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any peers to goof and roughhouse with.
Spark's nose has a neat 90-degree cut, and his right eye and cheek will tell their own tale soon. Thank goodness for my Girl Scout first aid courses.
Showing posts with label Autism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Autism. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Sad today
Oh, Lord, I am not the one best suited to raise this child. Please help me. God, please, please help me. I'm married to a man who seems to love music more than he loves me or his family. He is so often distracted and un-present. I have one son who is sweet as pie and so very smart, and dyslexic. This other son, the one who hurt me today, has autism and mental illness. We are just starting to dig our way out of debt after years of being in it up to our eyeballs. I feel like everyone expects me to keep us functioning on an even keel. When I've asked for help, I first get a question about payment for services. I feel so alone. The weight of this life is so much.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Big rig gig
Instead of writing this post, I've been making stew, emptying old condiments from the fridge, watching cartoons with the boys. A new blizzard has arrived, so perhaps the pressure change drove me to the household things. Or perhaps it's just good ol' procrastination.
I feel like this life I'm in is a journey on a long gravel road in a country with no maps.
Some parts are smoother than others. Some are muddy, sloggy, and rutted. There's often no good vista or clearing to tell me where we are or what's coming next. Not a lot of faces of people I know. There's only the onward, the forward, the road.
When I was a girl, one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up was a long-range truck driver. The open road, the big rigs, the time to myself . . . called to me.
Primo has just graduated from his mental health/social skills program, which he started in October of last year. The first few months were very hard; he pushes people to their limits of tolerance, so see whether and how much he can trust them. He pushed almost too hard, sometimes physically, in those first months. He was nearly kicked out of the program on a number of occasions. But the therapy staff there saw something in him, the same something Hero and I see. There is potential for greatness in this boy who sometimes would sooner throw a punch than acquiesce to a simple imperative that's not of his own choosing.
We struggled through it together. Sometimes I'd have to take him home early, because he wasn't able to get into the groove of the day. The police were called a couple of times, when he'd hurt others. It could be scary, knowing Primo had hard work to do on his inner Self, and that he might not up to the day's challenges. He was pushed to learn about his own emotions and triggers, to understand the way the rest of the world would expect him to respond, and how to respond appropriately even when he didn't feel like he could.
But it was a safe place for him to be, this program was. The staff of therapists was strong and usually unflappable, except when praising the kids for good work. They covered the details of almost every day with me. They cared and persevered, when many adults would choose to give up on Primo, or recommend some other program or even an institution of one kind or another.
He ended up with a couple of friends (!!) in the group who actually looked up to him, a graduation celebration, and gave a gift to the program's other kids. It was an ending that suited his journey.
So now we're in the rig again, away from the support of that group, and I'm wondering what comes next. I'm trying to remain calm. I'm nervous, though. There isn't a lot of solitude on this road.
I feel like this life I'm in is a journey on a long gravel road in a country with no maps.
Some parts are smoother than others. Some are muddy, sloggy, and rutted. There's often no good vista or clearing to tell me where we are or what's coming next. Not a lot of faces of people I know. There's only the onward, the forward, the road.
When I was a girl, one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up was a long-range truck driver. The open road, the big rigs, the time to myself . . . called to me.
Primo has just graduated from his mental health/social skills program, which he started in October of last year. The first few months were very hard; he pushes people to their limits of tolerance, so see whether and how much he can trust them. He pushed almost too hard, sometimes physically, in those first months. He was nearly kicked out of the program on a number of occasions. But the therapy staff there saw something in him, the same something Hero and I see. There is potential for greatness in this boy who sometimes would sooner throw a punch than acquiesce to a simple imperative that's not of his own choosing.
We struggled through it together. Sometimes I'd have to take him home early, because he wasn't able to get into the groove of the day. The police were called a couple of times, when he'd hurt others. It could be scary, knowing Primo had hard work to do on his inner Self, and that he might not up to the day's challenges. He was pushed to learn about his own emotions and triggers, to understand the way the rest of the world would expect him to respond, and how to respond appropriately even when he didn't feel like he could.
But it was a safe place for him to be, this program was. The staff of therapists was strong and usually unflappable, except when praising the kids for good work. They covered the details of almost every day with me. They cared and persevered, when many adults would choose to give up on Primo, or recommend some other program or even an institution of one kind or another.
He ended up with a couple of friends (!!) in the group who actually looked up to him, a graduation celebration, and gave a gift to the program's other kids. It was an ending that suited his journey.
So now we're in the rig again, away from the support of that group, and I'm wondering what comes next. I'm trying to remain calm. I'm nervous, though. There isn't a lot of solitude on this road.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Chores for urban kids
So, what shall these next weeks bring? I'm hoping for more fun with my sons, some conscious face time with my beloved husband, and far less screen time in my household. After a rather painful offense against his father, Primo was given housekeeping chores this weekend; he performed them willingly and fairly well, with guidance appropriate to a boy cleaning a bathroom and kitchen for the first time. He asked useful questions, requested appropriate breaks, had a snack, and was generally in a playful mood as we went through the chores together.
The rest of that day was pretty great, behaviorally, for Primo. There was a less-than-usual amount of backtalk and disobedience, and some useful suggestions for what to do with the evening. He proposed early combined showers with his brother, in order to get to watch a movie -- displaying forethought and the planning required to get a desired privilege. Primo has to be in a really good emotional place to be able to put all of those steps together and make the proposal in a manner that is appealing to his parents. It was pretty great.
These Ralph Moody books have me thinking about what kids like Primo would have done to get along and survive in the days before Asperger's was a diagnosis, and autism was an identified neuro-psych disorder. I've been considering the chores that many non-urban kids still do, and wondering what we can do with Primo to keep his body working hard enough that his mind and emotions are mellowed by it.
The rest of that day was pretty great, behaviorally, for Primo. There was a less-than-usual amount of backtalk and disobedience, and some useful suggestions for what to do with the evening. He proposed early combined showers with his brother, in order to get to watch a movie -- displaying forethought and the planning required to get a desired privilege. Primo has to be in a really good emotional place to be able to put all of those steps together and make the proposal in a manner that is appealing to his parents. It was pretty great.
These Ralph Moody books have me thinking about what kids like Primo would have done to get along and survive in the days before Asperger's was a diagnosis, and autism was an identified neuro-psych disorder. I've been considering the chores that many non-urban kids still do, and wondering what we can do with Primo to keep his body working hard enough that his mind and emotions are mellowed by it.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Sunday: We are Here!
Two weeks ago, I was in denial about summer schedules and something being vaguely awry with Spark's ability to learn to read. Then school ended and we had a week to ourselves to try and configure ourselves into a new mode of living.
We have now survived our first week of "our family sport is autism therapy," for Primo and summer school for Spark. It's been profoundly satisfying to know Hero and I could hold the family together for another week. I still haven't made all the medical and psych appointments Spark's going to need, but I think that'll come this week.
A great reason for things feeling good is that the money situation may be looking up. This week we applied for the HAARP refinance program for our mortgage, paid off my car loan, and I sold some old jewelry for more than I expected to get. We may end up replacing our bald tires before the summer's over, after all.
The cats still need tune-ups, though they seem to be holding up all right. We've been rather neglectful pet owners of late, and there have been a couple of incidents that forced us to reacquaint ourselves with the local vet. Our 100-year-old equivalent cat, Gracie, has been in slow decline for the last two years or so, and she required some IV fluids and attention for what appears to have been an intestinal blockage. The big fella, George, is about 8 years old, and he apparently needs dental work. We woke up one morning to find that one of his lower fangs was poking haphazardly out of his mouth. It fell out when I touched it, rotten. It seems that our dental coverage doesn't extend to our fuzzy babies, though.
I've been reading a series of books that were recommended by Mary at Owlhaven, written by Ralph Moody. My library's set of them is mostly from the 1960's, with that old-book smell and acid-yellowed paper. The stories Ralph tells are from his life in the late 1800's and early 1900's; they're full of his boyhood thoughts, working with his family, and the seasonal rhythms and routines of years on western ranches. The stories are reminiscent of Laura Ingalls Wilder's books, but I relish the male viewpoint and the mostly out-of-doors living young Ralph did.
Often, when I'm checking in on my favorite bloggers' writings during the week, I have some fantastic ideas for posts of my own. Then the next appointment or mealtime comes up, and I'm off the computer to do the required task. Sigh. But then, staying busy keeps the depression at bay.
I don't have time to feel melancholy when I try to be fully present with my sons. Hero and I have been making specific efforts to be kind and supportive to Primo, setting an example for how we would like to be treated. Sometimes it works, though I wonder whether the exercise benefits us more than Primo. The boys have been tangling with each other more, though; Spark just doesn't seem to understand the futility of physically fighting against a brother who is twice his size and age. He rails at Primo like a crazed amateur boxer. It's been hot, though, and the boys have been cooped up in the house, trying to stay cool in the a/c. That's breeding an environment where lack of activity makes nerves go on edge.
Another of my favorite blog-friends is Mrs.G from Derfwad Manor. This Wacky Wonder Woman will eventually visiting my hometown this summer, and I've actually started dreaming about seeing her. Perhaps it's the amazing journey Mrs. G has embarked upon, perhaps it's the freedom that I yearn for, perhaps it's just the great vistas she's sharing with us, her Derfs. I am inspired.
We have now survived our first week of "our family sport is autism therapy," for Primo and summer school for Spark. It's been profoundly satisfying to know Hero and I could hold the family together for another week. I still haven't made all the medical and psych appointments Spark's going to need, but I think that'll come this week.
A great reason for things feeling good is that the money situation may be looking up. This week we applied for the HAARP refinance program for our mortgage, paid off my car loan, and I sold some old jewelry for more than I expected to get. We may end up replacing our bald tires before the summer's over, after all.
The cats still need tune-ups, though they seem to be holding up all right. We've been rather neglectful pet owners of late, and there have been a couple of incidents that forced us to reacquaint ourselves with the local vet. Our 100-year-old equivalent cat, Gracie, has been in slow decline for the last two years or so, and she required some IV fluids and attention for what appears to have been an intestinal blockage. The big fella, George, is about 8 years old, and he apparently needs dental work. We woke up one morning to find that one of his lower fangs was poking haphazardly out of his mouth. It fell out when I touched it, rotten. It seems that our dental coverage doesn't extend to our fuzzy babies, though.
I've been reading a series of books that were recommended by Mary at Owlhaven, written by Ralph Moody. My library's set of them is mostly from the 1960's, with that old-book smell and acid-yellowed paper. The stories Ralph tells are from his life in the late 1800's and early 1900's; they're full of his boyhood thoughts, working with his family, and the seasonal rhythms and routines of years on western ranches. The stories are reminiscent of Laura Ingalls Wilder's books, but I relish the male viewpoint and the mostly out-of-doors living young Ralph did.
Often, when I'm checking in on my favorite bloggers' writings during the week, I have some fantastic ideas for posts of my own. Then the next appointment or mealtime comes up, and I'm off the computer to do the required task. Sigh. But then, staying busy keeps the depression at bay.
I don't have time to feel melancholy when I try to be fully present with my sons. Hero and I have been making specific efforts to be kind and supportive to Primo, setting an example for how we would like to be treated. Sometimes it works, though I wonder whether the exercise benefits us more than Primo. The boys have been tangling with each other more, though; Spark just doesn't seem to understand the futility of physically fighting against a brother who is twice his size and age. He rails at Primo like a crazed amateur boxer. It's been hot, though, and the boys have been cooped up in the house, trying to stay cool in the a/c. That's breeding an environment where lack of activity makes nerves go on edge.
Another of my favorite blog-friends is Mrs.G from Derfwad Manor. This Wacky Wonder Woman will eventually visiting my hometown this summer, and I've actually started dreaming about seeing her. Perhaps it's the amazing journey Mrs. G has embarked upon, perhaps it's the freedom that I yearn for, perhaps it's just the great vistas she's sharing with us, her Derfs. I am inspired.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
First-world problems
I have two sets of blogs I love to read: one set is just for me and my interests, and the other set is about autism and parenting kids who have autism. Over time, the blogs in the lists have changed, but they remain a list of those that are mostly family-friendly (for those who read over my shoulder) and mostly G-rated.
I know that being the parent of a kid with autism is hard. My kid's flavor of autism -- Asperger's -- is an intellectually-gifted, socially-pathetic (almost-sociopathic) kind. Primo has almost no ability to empathize with anyone else, except when their point of view is very similar to his.
I know that parents who have kids with autism didn't choose the life they have. Many parents would choose to have their kid, without the autism. Others will say that the autism and the kid are inseparable, and the autism is part of who the kid is. For me, I would be lying if I said that I'd take Primo with autism as readily as I'd accept him without it. His struggles with life, his loneliness, and his antisocial behaviors are all hard on him as well as the rest of his family. Having Primo's autism in our family makes our lives so much more challenging, and often downright miserable. If I could choose to have him become neurotypical, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wonder whether he would.
Having Spark come into our family has provided a sharp contrast for me as a mother. As far as we know, Spark is neurotypical. He joined our family when Primo was four years old, right when the autism started to become more markedly apparent. I knew, through the haze of nursing and diapering and trying to mother those different needs, that something was up with Primo. I was raised in a family with a father has Asperger's Syndrome, too, so I recognized what was going on. Spark knows that his brother has autism, and to a degree he can understand that the autism is what makes Primo so unable to be mostly polite and kind. It's hard for Spark, though. He's a deeply emotive and sweet person. I wish his big brother could be the strong, sure, kind and assuring type.
Some days I'm in a state of grace, and some days I'm not. I've got my own issues, like major depression and anxiety, which I mostly manage with medications and supplements. I'm about 65 pounds overweight. Hero's got more anxiety than I do. He's a gifted musician with no time to make music. We've got no discretionary income, lots of debt, a house in strong need of rewiring and insulation, and two cars with almost-bald tires.
We also have a lots of family members who love us, though they are unable to help us with caring for our children or our finances. They can and do pray for us on a regular basis.
I think about the complaints that I have and the complaints I hear and read from others every day. For the most part, we are lower-middle-class white U.S. residents who have homes to live in, food to eat, and people who care about us. I know that some hurts run extra-deep, and some pains from mental illness and addiction are extra-strong. But really, what is it with the navel-gazing and inward-scrutiny?
Sheesh. Get over yourself already. It's not about YOU. Do some good for someone else today, will ya? You might feel better.
Tell 'em Glori B. said you should.
I know that being the parent of a kid with autism is hard. My kid's flavor of autism -- Asperger's -- is an intellectually-gifted, socially-pathetic (almost-sociopathic) kind. Primo has almost no ability to empathize with anyone else, except when their point of view is very similar to his.
I know that parents who have kids with autism didn't choose the life they have. Many parents would choose to have their kid, without the autism. Others will say that the autism and the kid are inseparable, and the autism is part of who the kid is. For me, I would be lying if I said that I'd take Primo with autism as readily as I'd accept him without it. His struggles with life, his loneliness, and his antisocial behaviors are all hard on him as well as the rest of his family. Having Primo's autism in our family makes our lives so much more challenging, and often downright miserable. If I could choose to have him become neurotypical, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I wonder whether he would.
Having Spark come into our family has provided a sharp contrast for me as a mother. As far as we know, Spark is neurotypical. He joined our family when Primo was four years old, right when the autism started to become more markedly apparent. I knew, through the haze of nursing and diapering and trying to mother those different needs, that something was up with Primo. I was raised in a family with a father has Asperger's Syndrome, too, so I recognized what was going on. Spark knows that his brother has autism, and to a degree he can understand that the autism is what makes Primo so unable to be mostly polite and kind. It's hard for Spark, though. He's a deeply emotive and sweet person. I wish his big brother could be the strong, sure, kind and assuring type.
Some days I'm in a state of grace, and some days I'm not. I've got my own issues, like major depression and anxiety, which I mostly manage with medications and supplements. I'm about 65 pounds overweight. Hero's got more anxiety than I do. He's a gifted musician with no time to make music. We've got no discretionary income, lots of debt, a house in strong need of rewiring and insulation, and two cars with almost-bald tires.
We also have a lots of family members who love us, though they are unable to help us with caring for our children or our finances. They can and do pray for us on a regular basis.
I think about the complaints that I have and the complaints I hear and read from others every day. For the most part, we are lower-middle-class white U.S. residents who have homes to live in, food to eat, and people who care about us. I know that some hurts run extra-deep, and some pains from mental illness and addiction are extra-strong. But really, what is it with the navel-gazing and inward-scrutiny?
Sheesh. Get over yourself already. It's not about YOU. Do some good for someone else today, will ya? You might feel better.
Tell 'em Glori B. said you should.
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