tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13119245854070455912024-03-15T01:35:02.315+11:0010 Minutes Here... 10 Minutes There...Shattered dreams, new hope, unexpected blessings...
This is my adventure as a mum to an autistic boy - from pre-diagnosis to who knows where!Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-539809825932097542017-04-21T17:13:00.002+10:002017-04-21T17:13:51.042+10:00A Hidden PathIt seems that I have had a yellow Ladybug in my life, for the last 14 or so years. For those who don't know, a yellow ladybug is in reference to girls with Autism. Big Miss was recently given a provisional diagnosis of Autism, at age 14.5. Unfortunately, the actual multi-disciplinary testing cannot happen for another 18 months at least - that's how long the waiting list is. But the Paediatrician is quite sure she has it, and to be quite frank, she does fit most of the criteria very well.<br />
<br />
So, why did it take so long to identify Autism in my daughter? (After all, Mr Man was picked up extremely early... not even 2 years old... and diagnosed properly at 2yrs 8 months). Well, the thing is, Autism presents quite differently in girls. I had often wondered, at times, if my Big Miss danced around the edges of the spectrum. She was particular about the placement of her toys, she would colour group pencils, she would look at people as if she had no idea what they were talking about. She began to grow very shy. She began to get more and more needy of support outside of home, rather than develop an age-appropriate independence. She would fad so very intensely on things... Dora the Explorer, My Little Pony, Garfield, Pokemon, My Little Pony again and more recently, birds. She preferred the peace and quiet of nature to the rowdy fun of a family get-together. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFLK_ZfmFj43stFOEJZQxl9OBEIytKVBqwItOEZUlxAAHgGICcDpsB_7ICMJAx83Vcj64I7frdhqtn28iWAejg232AUseGJXMTE7_BC4B2GmdwxEoF3YvR_tLCWQF8JsqK-U6WS6zVeCF/s1600/Lined+up+teddies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFLK_ZfmFj43stFOEJZQxl9OBEIytKVBqwItOEZUlxAAHgGICcDpsB_7ICMJAx83Vcj64I7frdhqtn28iWAejg232AUseGJXMTE7_BC4B2GmdwxEoF3YvR_tLCWQF8JsqK-U6WS6zVeCF/s640/Lined+up+teddies.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can't believe I found this photo! All the teddies lined up on the couch, around 2 years old.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9raYYMibilpCaIId4E5TCIwhDjnhDdTY9L5tGBeFD5O9Es4KBsmIptCjBpjVBn6RHKv1L9ycKOUOgvukVuobiBqH1CJPE7p7VNRZensU_aFPW1ldsNi_Z74mg1K26ci_VVn1NdCfNjJKA/s1600/Colour+coded+pencils.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9raYYMibilpCaIId4E5TCIwhDjnhDdTY9L5tGBeFD5O9Es4KBsmIptCjBpjVBn6RHKv1L9ycKOUOgvukVuobiBqH1CJPE7p7VNRZensU_aFPW1ldsNi_Z74mg1K26ci_VVn1NdCfNjJKA/s640/Colour+coded+pencils.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colour grouped the pencils, 'cause she felt like it; around 4.5 years old.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Going through primary school, she struggled to make friends. She usually had one or two, but they seemed to disappear after a few months, bored with her limited games and her confused social presentation. She had one particular friend, longer than all the others, who had ADHD (she often gravitated to other special needs kids, and we always thought it was because of her deep compassion and understanding of special needs, thanks to having an autistic brother). This friend's treatment of Big Miss could be considered abusive. It was a difficult situation, because the other girl's behaviour was obviously due to her ADHD, yet my daughter was suffering and hurting because of it. She was sworn at and told to go away. She was clung to, invited over, invited out, and given gifts. She was abandoned and given the silent treatment for no reason. She was confused and upset and sad. We moved house for a different reason, and of course, moved schools as well, and this gently brought a solution to that dilemma.<br />
<br />
She struggled to make friends in the new school. The class was rowdy, the teachers unable to control the room. She hated it and struggled with the chaos and noise. In the schoolyard, she stuck with her little sister, who was - and still is - such a source of support for her. Her shyness got worse and worse.... still, we thought she was just painfully shy, introverted; <i>It's just her personality, </i>we said. She was not interested in the same things other tweens were interested in. Make-up? It feels yucky on her face. Earrings? It hurts to change them. Pretty clothes? Uncomfortable and painful. Party? Excitement followed by deep silence and social/emotional retreat. Pop stars? Not interested. She just wanted to play with her ponies in the imaginary lands she created or play Minecraft. We didn't realise it because she masked it so well, but Big Miss's anxiety was growing and churning beneath the surface.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fBfyiUgVJtfnZbGENI3K9IGBcdZA56AfxU6Wak9h-UxUGL-Slteptlxkd6wQ-s_0EZw2cKmzAGqt9QYl42EHXG6w8FNKtt9sv7pQngFXYOMvUkiW9Gi7or_HwcbIfl-wjsMkV-NqIaSZ/s1600/218620_10150177794216234_5178039_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fBfyiUgVJtfnZbGENI3K9IGBcdZA56AfxU6Wak9h-UxUGL-Slteptlxkd6wQ-s_0EZw2cKmzAGqt9QYl42EHXG6w8FNKtt9sv7pQngFXYOMvUkiW9Gi7or_HwcbIfl-wjsMkV-NqIaSZ/s640/218620_10150177794216234_5178039_o.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Jane, left, 7, and Big Miss, right, 8, enjoying toffee apples under their favourite tree.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Brushing her hair was painful for her, and she hated it being cut. I had to remind her frequently to have a shower, use her skin care products that I'd bought for her, put her dirty clothes in the wash and wear something different. New clothes were often never worn, and when asked why, she said they were uncomfortable or hurt. I began to get frustrated with her lack of developmental independence. Surely I shouldn't have to brush or wash the hair of a 13 year old anymore! I shouldn't have to coax her to take care in her appearance! I shouldn't have to be worrying about whether she's okay, or holding back tears when we go visit family/friends (rare enough as it is!). This is not the way normal tween/teen girls behave. Something is wrong.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MTeUIvi7MxLR8YZtCVlKeo-QSPEicU7TEKsWxTv2C5vOSx8Gx6kRYTVqGD0e6swnJT8gEu-v6rXzXz6PYsMVKK7FxBvNyBFKbeBqL3YPLAfAuoKo8T7XLx6OR-uO4gAkZNIMV5eD4rqZ/s1600/Nejla%2527s+hair%252C+grade+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MTeUIvi7MxLR8YZtCVlKeo-QSPEicU7TEKsWxTv2C5vOSx8Gx6kRYTVqGD0e6swnJT8gEu-v6rXzXz6PYsMVKK7FxBvNyBFKbeBqL3YPLAfAuoKo8T7XLx6OR-uO4gAkZNIMV5eD4rqZ/s640/Nejla%2527s+hair%252C+grade+6.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back in Dec 2104. Add another, oh, 8 inches or so to this, and you'd have it at about the <br />length we've now got. Yip! Not even kidding! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One day, a post came up on my Facebook feed, about symptoms of Autism in girls. Pretty much every one of them described my Big Miss. The penny <i>finally</i> dropped. She's not dancing around the edges of the spectrum. She's on it. <br />
<br />
I did some more research, and then decided to speak to her about my thoughts, and ask her to do a short screening questionnaire that I'd found on a reputable site. More to give some tangible reason to check things out further, than anything else. When I took her aside, and spoke to her, the response blew me away.<br />
<br />
"<i>Darling</i>," I said, "<i>I've noticed that you are feeling so anxious when we go out; and that you don't seem to be interested in the same things that other girls your age are doing. That's ok! You are who you are, and you are beautiful. But I can see that you're struggling sometimes, and I am wondering if you might be on the autism spectrum - maybe Aspergers? Obviously not as severe as your brother, but it's something I'd like to check out. If you've got it, then we know what we need to do to get you the help you need. And if you don't, at least we know, and then we can keep looking to figure out why you are so anxious and get the support that fits properly. I have a short questionnaire here that can help us work out if we should look into this further... What do you think...?</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Oh mum</i>," she answered, "<i>I'm so glad you said that. I've been wondering the same thing! I feel so different to the other girls and I just can't work out why.</i>"<br />
<br />
The questionnaire results said that a score of 30 or more indicated the likelihood of an ASD, and recommended following with a visit to a Professional. Big Miss scored exactly 30.<br />
<br />
Fast forward about 2 years, and we finally have a provisional diagnosis. In that time, her anxiety got so bad, she began to self-harm without noticing. She has developed depression as a result of her severe anxiety. She has asked me if she could stay home from school. She has contemplated running away from certain classes, and only the guilt of "doing a bad thing" stopped her from absconding. She would shut herself away in her bedroom after school, crying and sleeping from the exhaustion of holding herself together all day. I did everything within my capacity to help her...we had long (2 - 3 hour) conversations about what was happening. We brainstormed grounding strategies for the times when anxiety attacks struck. I emailed her teachers and the welfare coordinator to implement support at school (they've been fantastic). I bought her fidget devices to try to channel her anxiety. We prayed. I prayed.... <br />
<br />
Big Miss starts intensive counselling this week with a Psychologist. We have got the ball rolling for a formal diagnosis, but we don't need to wait for that paperwork to get her the help she needs now. The Paediatrician has put recommendations in place, and I anticipate some intensive homework and behaviour plans to help with things. We will need to check back in 6 months, to review progress and take a blood test, to rule out any chromosomal factors. She is so relieved to have this label. Finally, she can put a reason and a name to her experiences, and this has been very empowering for her. She still struggles with school and with social anxiety, but finding some sense... some reason... for it all, has provided an important validation for her. She has given me her consent to write here, and to tell people about all this. She has embraced it, and is keen for people to understand why she is the way she is.<br />
<br />
Big Miss still has dreams and ambitions. And I intend to see them through with her. The label has not boxed her up or limited her, it has released her. She now has a platform to work from, a framework of reference from which she can plan her life, and launch out into the world to take hold of life, establish her goals and conquer them. I will admit, quietly, but truthfully, I am a little bit afraid. What if her anxiety really does get the better of her? What if she never learns to drive, to manage university or employment? How can she work if she can't even ask the teacher for a piece of paper? What if I have to support two adult children when I am old? But I don't dwell on those fears. My God can take care of it all, and as always, He's got us. My job now is to consider the challenges, and do what is in my hands to do, with, and for, my daughter.<br />
<br />
It seems, this whole time, I was walking a hidden path. While Mr Man took up my time, energy and attention, there was also this little yellow Ladybug who was here the whole time. She managed to tag along, unique, but otherwise unremarkable, until now. As with my son, nothing has changed - she is who she is, who she always has been, and I'll do what I have always done in taking care of her. And yet, everything has changed. It's like a whole second pathway has unlocked beside me. Somehow, I walk the two at the same time, or perhaps they will merge in some mysterious way, as life goes on. <br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
************<br />
<i>If you would like to know more about Autism in girls and women, please do visit the <a href="http://yellowladybugs.com.au/" target="_blank">Yellow Ladybugs website</a>, or check them out on Facebook. This is not a sponsored post, I've linked this of my own volition because I've found this volunteer organisation to be wonderfully supportive, informative and helpful.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-63611175793832004872017-03-09T16:42:00.001+11:002017-03-09T16:42:53.183+11:00Strong Boy Erik is now 9 1/2. Young, but not so little anymore. I'm not such a tall lady myself... 5'2" on tippy toes... and my boy reaches well and truly up to my shoulder. He's a skinny kid, and this has always worried me a little. But our Paediatrician and family doctor both say he's well within normal range for his weight. It is likely he is just following the genetic growth patterns of his father, (who turned out to be a solidly built 6'1" man by the time he was in his mid 20s), but when I see my sons ribs front and back it still freaks me out a little.<br />
<br />
However, skinny doesn't necessarily mean weak! This kid has a grip like a vice, and when he grabs my wrists to pull me over to some place in the house it can be really hard to break free. <br />
<br />
Thus I found myself employing Krav Maga moves to release myself from his hug this morning, which was more like a headlock down in the arms of a 9 year old boy. I just couldn't break free the usual way. I'm constantly grateful that my son is not aggressive by nature, because even in his gentle interactions, he doesn't know his strength, and it seems he just doesn't have the comprehension to grasp that he needs to use a gentle pressure when dealing with his mum and sisters.<br />
<br />
As mum to a special needs boy, there is a constant tickle at the back of my mind of how I am going to care for him when he is a grown man. Even the tender age of 12, I have concerns for. I try not to worry too much about this, and just take each day as it comes. I try to remember that there is every possibility that he will change/improve/develop to a point where these things are no longer a concern. But I can't deny the measure of progress to date has been precious little, where each teeny tiny developmental step is celebrated in a big way around here. What if this doesn't change at all?<br />
<br />
He fights me when I must brush his teeth. How will brush them when he is bigger?<br />
<br />
How will I shave him when he needs to start that?<br />
<br />
How will I keep him off the roads when we are out and about?<br />
<br />
How will I shower him when he is taller and more muscly than me?<br />
<br />
Will he be using the toilet properly by then?<br />
<br />
How will I defend myself and my daughters from his pushing at the rare times he does get frustrated?<br />
<br />
What is going to happen when puberty hits and the hormones affect him?<br />
<br />
The questions are always there. Sometimes I worry, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I feel resentful at being in this situation at all. But most of the time, I just trust that God will take care of things, and my job is to simply do the best I can to plan for the future.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYd5dlyFGpYm30td_UVVs3ZYnJnB_Jy9C03CxJmNmNI92dAy2PohzPlKDsRGTF4k56sMBDGB8EdEYaRH1lIRzGHMQfS-vc5FCMja5b43ZC8RdDYo9xvcODJ7Ua5yI2-EioHHrbexCKrx5N/s1600/Fonzie+collar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYd5dlyFGpYm30td_UVVs3ZYnJnB_Jy9C03CxJmNmNI92dAy2PohzPlKDsRGTF4k56sMBDGB8EdEYaRH1lIRzGHMQfS-vc5FCMja5b43ZC8RdDYo9xvcODJ7Ua5yI2-EioHHrbexCKrx5N/s320/Fonzie+collar.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">For some reason, he seems to prefer his collar turned up. I keep finding it this way after fixing it several times during the day. Fonzie from Happy Days anyone?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf9OeIzdlnpkSeGAi-nfJmvJJ5wAiDTu7thsQNkXhGb_7x-OIdEBUf9pYb1nCcGCbtS-wRxg9zW7O2eBiiQG0plWmpM7lvfOiQMNZlYSQZJaf-OyLim-f_J9X7aB7V7mdiNxiAaSO9AZE/s1600/Blocking+ears+for+train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf9OeIzdlnpkSeGAi-nfJmvJJ5wAiDTu7thsQNkXhGb_7x-OIdEBUf9pYb1nCcGCbtS-wRxg9zW7O2eBiiQG0plWmpM7lvfOiQMNZlYSQZJaf-OyLim-f_J9X7aB7V7mdiNxiAaSO9AZE/s320/Blocking+ears+for+train.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Blocking his ears in anticipation of crossing the train tracks on the way to school. He does this every morning and afternoon, whether or not there is a train coming!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-62882764638170637182017-02-20T22:15:00.000+11:002017-02-20T22:32:15.655+11:00ChangesIn October of 2015, my life was hurled to the ground so hard that I completely crumbled. My husband and I broke up, after just shy of 17 years married. To say it was traumatic is a major understatement, but I won't be going into the details. The only thing I will add is that it is 100% over and my personal recovery is still in progress.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope to continue blogging, but obviously there will be a new perspective now... I am a single parent, and the primary carer for all of my children, Erik included. The details of the parenting agreement are still being fine-tuned, but on average, the children are supposed to spend every fortnight weekend and half the school holidays with their dad. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Myself and the children continue to adjust to life as a single parent family. The kids have been amazingly resilient and I am disgustingly proud of all of them. Things get hectic, there is a lot on my plate and I often feel overwhelmed, but generally speaking, life has actually gone on as usual and the overwhelm is more for the emotional adjustment for me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'll be trying very hard to leave the emotional realities out of my posts, but due to the transparent nature of my personality, that might not always happen. It is likely that my posts will be erratic and irregular for various reasons - too busy, too emotional, too much to say, too little to say... etc. etc. But I'll try, because blogging here began as a way to document my journey as a special needs mum, and that's the reason I'll continue. The beautiful thing about this blog is that it started before Erik got his official diagnosis... so the beginning really is the very beginning. At this point in time, Erik is 9 1/2 years old. I actually find that pretty amazing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lets see if I can pick this up again and carry on.....</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
xx</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-16468513672253874932015-02-21T10:12:00.000+11:002015-02-21T10:16:22.584+11:00Yes or NoIt's been quite a while since my last post, and I really feel like I've let everybody down! But don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. As with anyone, life throws a lot of bits and pieces my way, and honestly, blogging is not the highest priority on my list. Having said that, I do miss it and feel that I have missed out on recording lots of incidents that are worthy of note. Nevertheless, I am here today!<br />
<br />
Mr Man is now in his third year of schooling. That puts him at the equivalent of Grade 2. It is amazing to watch him grow bigger and stronger all the time, and frankly, more handsome :). Yep...still biased. He absolutely LOVES school, and I love that he loves it. This boy thrives on the stimulation and routine that school provides; from the bus trip, right through to the activities designed to teach him how to ask for something or take turns. School holidays are worse than boring for him. It drives him bonkers, and usually leads to a much higher rate of stimming (which in turn, drives me bonkers). But we manage.<br />
<br />
Last week, I had a Student Support Group (SSG) meeting with his teachers, for the start of the school year. On the list of things I wanted to discuss were;<br />
<br />
1. Literacy - reading and writing<br />
2. Toileting - nope, still not trained yet.<br />
3. Speech development - an ongoing concern<br />
4. Introducing Yes/No questions<br />
5. Absconding behaviour<br />
<br />
We only had one hour to talk about all this, so it was a real challenge (mainly because I talk too much!). But kudos to those wonderful teachers; we got through all of it.<br />
<br />
The main reason I'm writing today is to talk about number 4 - the Yes/No questions.<br />
<br />
During the last couple of weeks, my husband and I found ourselves in one of those talks where we were sighing and talking about the pain of how AD has affected us and our children. You know, just letting it all out and connecting with each other about it all. I found myself saying: "I wish I could just ask him a question, and have him answer yes or no. Just yes or no. Even that would be a massive step above what we have now" (which is literally nothing). It stuck with me, and I thought, <i>well, why not? It should be possible, given what I hear of him doing in class at school! </i>I decided to ask his teachers about that possibility this year. They both said there is no reason why not. He is showing enough comprehension at school be able to do this, so they were happy to help me try at home. Yay!<br />
<br />
The next day, he brought home a little strip with four PECs on it: Wait, Help, Yes and No. I was so excited, but at the same time trying not to get my hopes up too high.... we've done all this before. Still though, he does seem better positioned now to respond to these attempts to teach him.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaIDzn-JW-XC9zqvGl219MhCxoNkUDS3cK7NYRzo50xVznHx-req_YnOoPyAcmTcNKQQRVcKGMUxNzOXi2sXtcrhXScshQb3Y7HPA_yfOgSckFzxFIDziBq_sw6OsyPflYktZ-K1yMD5hC/s1600/Yes:No+Pecs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaIDzn-JW-XC9zqvGl219MhCxoNkUDS3cK7NYRzo50xVznHx-req_YnOoPyAcmTcNKQQRVcKGMUxNzOXi2sXtcrhXScshQb3Y7HPA_yfOgSckFzxFIDziBq_sw6OsyPflYktZ-K1yMD5hC/s1600/Yes:No+Pecs.jpg" height="186" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
So this morning, I brought out the Yes/No strip, and took it over to where he was playing with his iPad...<br />
<br />
"Erik, do you want to have breakfast?" ... I showed him the strip. He did not pay attention. But of course he won't, until he finishes the current activity on his game! So I waited a few moments, and when he got all the stars and took the robot home, I asked again.<br />
"Erik, do you want to have breakfast?" I put the strip in front of his face (yeah, I do that) and pointed to the Yes and No PECs. "Yes or No? Do you want to have breakfast? Yes or no?"<br />
<br />
He pointed to yes. Yes!!<br />
<br />
Just to make sure, I assisted him to pick off the Yes PEC, and place it in my hand. <br />
<br />
"Yes! You want breakfast. Okay." I went into the kitchen to get my son his breakfast!<br />
<br />
.... but then I had another thought....<br />
<br />
I took the strip back to him with another question.<br />
<br />
"Erik, do you want Corn Flakes?" (He usually has Weetbix, but will eat Corn Flakes too)<br />
<br />
Clear as day, he pointed to Yes. Woohoo!! Happy dance! Happy dance!<br />
<br />
It's only the first day of trying this, and I know I shouldn't get all happy like we've made it, but man, it's a good feeling to see something actually work! Yes/No questions do have limitations, but for us, they would be a massive step in giving my son a voice. <br />
<br />
It's a little win today, that could end up being a big win.<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-47836858973615471012014-06-03T13:06:00.000+10:002014-06-03T13:06:38.191+10:00A Bug SnackWe blew in through the front door, my four children and I, after a long day out. It was already dark outside, but I still had to get dinner sorted to feed everyone before baths and bed. I dumped my handbag, and the red bag that I use to carry my sons various items of need, on the floor in the kitchen. Erik was at me already looking for head pressure. And then I spotted it; a little brown cricket on the floor in front of the fridge.<br />
<br />
I don't know how it got in, but I thought it might amuse my son to see it jump. He liked things like that - jumping and sudden movements made by critters and people. So I brought him a little closer, nudged the cricket with my toes and said, "Look Erik! It's a cricket. Watch him jump."<br />
<br />
The cricket did not jump. It just walked away a little bit. I nudged it again. This time it jumped. Ping! Hehe. My son, who hadn't seemed to be paying attention, suddenly knelt down on the floor and tried to pick it up. The little cricket kept crawling away from him. But he chased it down. "No bubba! Don't touch it!" I exclaimed in mild disgust. I didn't expect him to react like this! This is a kid with sensory aversions when it comes to his hands! "Don't touch it honey, just look at it. It's a cricket. It jumps." I went to nudge the cricket with my toe again. But Erik had other ideas. He went for that cricket again, and this time, he got it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, when my son is amused, he gets this curious smile on his face. Teeth showing and eyes squinted, and he shakes his head slightly too. He had this look now, while he waved this poor cricket up and down as thought it were flying, pinched between Erik's thumb and forefinger.<br />
<br />
"No!" I cried, trying to slap it out of his hand. Then I paused, and thought; why worry? It's just a cricket.... it can't hurt him. My innate repulsion of bugs was just getting to me. I needed to calm down and let him explore nature. Yes. Calm down mum. It'll be 'right.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't 'right. Just as I was trying to talk myself into this being ok, cricket still pinched in this fingers, he went for his mouth.<br />
<br />
"NOOOOO!!" I shrieked so loud that I'm sure the neighbours must have thought something funky was going on at our house. This time, I did slap it out of his hands. Taking a deep breath, I said, "Just look at it bubba, watch it jump, ok?" But while I was speaking, he was down on the floor again trying to grab this poor traumatised cricket who was desperately making his getaway to under the fridge.<br />
<br />
Erik reached in after it. <br />
"No bubba!"<br />
Erik pulls out his hand.<br />
"No!"<br />
Hand goes straight to his mouth and then comes down flat, no bug in it.<br />
<br />
I can do nothing but stare in horror. A little crunching sound reaches my ears. I want to cry. I need to do something. I should reach into his mouth and pull the little critter out. But I can't. I just can't do it.<br />
<br />
I let out a slow, horrified, panicked wail. I don't know what to do!! My flapping, panicking hands land on my face in shock. I just don't know what to do now! What if it was a spider he ate? I'd have to pull it out then! Have to! But I can't bring myself to put my fingers into his mouth and touch a wriggling, leggy, half crunched cricket.<br />
<br />
What kind of a mother am I? I am a failure! How could I just stand there and not pull the cricket out of his mouth! My stomach is turning. <br />
<br />
My son spins around a few times on the spot, then walks away as though nothing has happened, leaving me in a state of mortified shock. He's fine. Perfectly fine. I, on the other hand, am totally freaked out right now. I walk around in the kitchen trying to focus on dinner, but I can't. I'm too freaked. I call my husband. He laughs. I call my sister and mum, they laugh. Everyone tells me he will be ok. My brother in law who is from Uganda tells me that the kids back home love eating crickets, and do so all the time. They are nice and crunchy. I wail a bit more.<br />
<br />
It doesn't help. I walk around in a semi-freaked out state for the 24 hours or so, and all I can think is, why? Why? Just....why? How? How is it that this kid will not eat pieces of meat or vegetables in a stir fry, or steak, or roasts, and many other delicious foods, but he will eat a CRICKET, in a heartbeat!? Why? Just....rsflkdjsoisfjdsoifjoeji.....erghh! Why??!<br />
<br />
Next time a little cricket drops in to visit, it will promptly be shown the door, before my son can treat himself to a bug snack.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Weeks later. Still freaked.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-48526289234076623982014-03-17T12:11:00.000+11:002014-03-17T12:18:46.221+11:00You Knew<i>To the woman who stopped to help me mid-meltdown in the supermarket...</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Dear lady,<br />
<br />
I must apologise for not knowing your name, but I never had a chance to ask. You may remember me; I was the mum in Safeway about four weeks ago crouched on the floor trying to settle a screaming child and surrounded by other children with stressed out faces. I just wanted to say thank you, so much, for what you did. You might think you didn't do anything, that you only <i>said</i> something, but what you said, <i>did</i> something for me.<br />
<br />
You see, I could tell some things by those few words you said to me. You came over with a trolley of your own, and a small child sitting in it. (I didn't even get a chance to look closely enough to gauge how old your own child was, that's how deeply I was concentrating on managing my son). You gently but firmly touched my shoulder and said:<br />
<br />
"Excuse me ma'am, can I do anything to help?"<br />
<br />
The way you approached, and those simple words revealed to me that you <i>knew</i>. You <i>knew</i> what you were looking at. You <i>knew</i> what it meant. And you knew how to approach me. And with that only, I got a little bit of extra strength - a little bit of encouragement to be reminded that I am not alone when I experience these incidents, and that I am doing ok as a mum.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's hard to believe that, when you are trying to manage a screaming six year old in front of dozens of people coming and going through a main thoroughfare of a busy supermarket. I have grown a thick skin and acquired skills enough to cope with these situations - to be honest, I cope quite well when I'm in the middle of it. But it's when I come home afterwards, that I fall apart at the seams. In the middle of it, I am confident, calm, collected and clear thinking. When it hits me later, I am shattered, exhausted, discouraged and sad. Sometimes, I cry. I can easily ignore the funny looks people might give - to be honest, I don't even look to notice anymore. I just carry on caring for my son as best I can. But I'm pretty sure they are there. There are always people around who will blame me for the situation, and it's still hard not to blame myself anyway. So encouragement from a stranger really means a lot to me.<br />
<br />
Your offer of help was both timely and appropriate. You were not judging me - you just saw a mum having a hard time and wanted to help. I'm certain you knew immediately that my son was autistic and having a meltdown for whatever reason. Even now, as I write and remember, I feel choked up inside with gratefulness, <i>that you got it</i>. You read the situation correctly.<br />
<br />
I couldn't tell you what was happening at the time, and I happened to already have had the situation covered, but I'd like to offer an explanation now, even though you probably will never see this.<br />
<br />
We had just come back from church, my four children and I, and I thought I'd pick up a few things for lunch and for school the next day. My husband was away on army training for the weekend. All we needed was bananas, apples, bread and one more thing, which I can't remember what it was now. We didn't need a trolley for those things, just a basket. Erik has been in a supermarket plenty of times. He has done the full shopping with me before - it's intense, but we can do it. He is familiar with it. But in his mind, there must always be a trolley. I tried to convince him the basket would do, but he would not have it. I persisted, not wanting to lose the battle, but it escalated quickly, and it all got too much. <br />
<br />
At some point, I have to draw a line. It's not fair on him, and it's not fair on other patrons to the shop. I try to be strong in teaching him things, but sometimes, I have to concede the battle, you know, for the greater good. So I sent my oldest daughter around the corner with a token for a trolley. Literally, just over the barrier where I could see her. We were waiting for her to return with a trolley when you approached us. I knew that once that trolley was here, Erik would be ok. All he wanted was a trolley. Shopping is not right without a trolley. (Incidentally, I am so grateful that he doesn't insist on sitting in the baby seat anymore!)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9W5T_ufUiyTw-ozZP4H_nuLOUaN_6MCwsBsZ6MY0YtNUHMPfGs8N11cFVwYKuqNMnS_61xk6VmEHpw12vUlDqm0-_RPPlCOHi9pp2pKNXqNXbdZ12LgAD1iT50jWPQ0YL57NSZnhPL4b/s1600/shopping-trolley-hc-120l-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9W5T_ufUiyTw-ozZP4H_nuLOUaN_6MCwsBsZ6MY0YtNUHMPfGs8N11cFVwYKuqNMnS_61xk6VmEHpw12vUlDqm0-_RPPlCOHi9pp2pKNXqNXbdZ12LgAD1iT50jWPQ0YL57NSZnhPL4b/s1600/shopping-trolley-hc-120l-.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Once we got the trolley, I had to convince Erik that it was here for him and he could sit in it if he wanted (the main part). He wasn't to be mollified immediately though, by this point he was far too upset. It took a few minutes, but I managed to convince him by hauling him up physically, and then he allowed me to lift him into the trolley. He immediately stopped crying at that point. I felt defeated, but relieved. I went around and picked up the few items I needed, and we went to the check out and back to the car. When I got home, I felt so emotionally drained, I had to lie in bed for a while. Fortunately, my husband had gotten home before us, so I was able to do that.<br />
<br />
Your offer of help blessed me so much. Because of you, I know that the message is getting out there, or at least, I know that I am not the only one (just in case you have a child with an ASD of your own and that's how you knew what was happening). I have been lucky to have had only one truly nasty comment regarding my son, plenty of ignorant ones and a few well-meaning but annoying people trying to help in entirely the wrong way. But until you came along, had never had anyone genuinely helpful in a situation like this.<br />
<br />
I will probably never see you again - truth be told, I can't even remember what you look like, Erik just commanded every part of my focus at the time. All I remember is that you had dark hair, were not very tall, and had a small one in the trolley seat. I just want to say thank you. And I hope, should you ever find yourself in a situation where you need the kindness of a stranger, God sends you someone just at the right moment, with the right thing to say and do to help you. <br />
<br />
With deepest appreciation,<br />
<br />
Vivianne.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-69345977524432024952014-03-11T11:43:00.000+11:002014-03-11T15:00:45.025+11:00Four Year Anniversary And An Old PostToday, this blog has been going for four years. I remember starting this blog after perusing other blogs, (most of which have not been active for a while now), and thinking it was a good way to make sense of what was happening in my life at the time. If you look at <a href="http://10here10there.blogspot.com.au/2010/03/ooo-hello-deh.html" target="_blank">the first post</a> I ever wrote, I talked about how we have just found out that Erik is very likely to be somewhere on the ASD spectrum, but no formal diagnosis as yet. At the time, I didn't want to limit my writing to just being about Autism, so I left the subject matter open to whatever I felt that I needed to jot down. In the early days, that included a lot of your typical motherhood stuff: Feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, trying to cope with all the things I had to juggle when the children were smaller, as well as my blossoming passion for baking and cake decorating. Somewhere in the middle of all the craziness, I recognised that we, as a family, were beginning an important journey. Something pivotal was happening in our lives, and things were about to change forever. Of course, I am referring to Erik's diagnosis. I am so glad I was able to recognise this, and so glad I took the time, where I could, to write stuff down. Nowadays, the focus is more on this journey rather than the other things I began with. I guess that's how these things evolve.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_lAAwkLcOOsr9JKq4X_YTNAP366LdDhXdevrBSXlxNnCoXv4ZjHS3RZPZbmB4fgjfXjzrDbUD44ltZ-Co0X6QAfpPDQLFz6Tv-Ivr9pDHywhV8AV88ryYrpDCuXgOnjOSszAIRjyoynD/s1600/IMG_6308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_lAAwkLcOOsr9JKq4X_YTNAP366LdDhXdevrBSXlxNnCoXv4ZjHS3RZPZbmB4fgjfXjzrDbUD44ltZ-Co0X6QAfpPDQLFz6Tv-Ivr9pDHywhV8AV88ryYrpDCuXgOnjOSszAIRjyoynD/s1600/IMG_6308.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look how far we've come already! Mr Man is 6 years old, and this photo was taken at a restaurant (!!). <br />
Of course, he was shoved in the furthest corner with the wall on one side and mum on the <br />
other, and he still managed to escape a couple of times past the row of people down the length <br />
of the table :) But still... a restaurant! Whoopee!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So, I began blogging before Erik had a diagnosis. All I had in the beginning, was the confirmation that something was not right with my son. The most likely explanation was Autism, but nothing was guaranteed, formally acknowledged or investigated. So really, this blog has followed that journey from the outset. I have learned so much about myself in this time, and various elements of the journey have become clearer. I know I have said this before, but I truly never expected to be <i>here</i>, <i>now</i>. This adventure continues to surprise me - in good ways and bad - and I find myself often having to find reserves of strength and mental resolve to get through. When I look back, I am amazed, absolutely amazed at where I am. Never in a million years did I think I could cope with the things we have been through. But I did. We did. And we are still here, going strong. My God has not left me once during that time, even when I thought I was completely alone. Looking back, I can clearly see the hand of the Father upon my life. And I know that were it not for His grace, there is no way I could have come through this the person I am today. I have been unfaithful to Him, but He has been always faithful to me. This blows my mind and humbles me.<br />
<br />
I want to re-share a post that I wrote in March of 2011. I wrote this about one year after the formal diagnosis, and less than two years after the actual events. This post details the feelings and reactions that surround the day I was told, for the very first time, that something was wrong with my son. There are earlier posts that talk about what I was feeling and going through as it happened, but being a reflective person, it usually takes a while before I can really process and recognise exactly what is going on. Things often don't sink in <i>enough</i> for me to make sense of it right when it happens. But this post, this one here, really details where it all started. If you want to read it later or at the original source, <a href="http://10here10there.blogspot.com.au/2011/02/retrospect-part-1-unexpected-news.html" target="_blank">here</a> is the link. But if you care to read it now or can't be bothered clicking the link, I've copied and pasted it in this post for you.<br />
<br />
It is longish. You might want to grab a coffee. And maybe some chocolate :)<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Retrospect Part 1: Unexpected News.</span></b><br />
<br />
Burned into my memory forever... a day I will never forget as long as I live...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The day dawned bright and warm with a sweet cool breeze on the day I took my son to his routine 18 month MCH check. I felt a bit guilty because it was actually several weeks too late.... he was already 20.5 months old. Oh well, better late than never - right? Once inside the office, we started going through the regular stuff.... only this time, it wasn't so regular. My answers to her questions were not "Oh yes, he is doing that"; they were more like "Um... I don't really know". At first, she didn't show too much concern. Just quiet nods and a gentle "ok" was the nurse's response. I started to feel a bit embarrassed about my answers. I couldn't definitively say yes to anything, really. I felt stupid, or worse - neglectful - like I didn't know my own son....</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<br />
"Does he look at you when you call him?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, no, not really. But I think that's because he doesn't know his name yet".</span><br />
<br />
"Oh! Doesn't he recognise his name?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Um, I'm not sure. But we call him 'Mr Man' all the time anyway... maybe that's why."</span><br />
<br />
"Oh, ok! Does he respond to that then?"<br />
<br />
*Pause; Think*. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well....no, not really"</span><br />
<br />
"Ok. ... And how many words do you think he says?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, he says maybe.... um....3 or 4 I think?"</span><br />
<br />
"No more than that? Ok, that's ok. What are they?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Um... come to think of it, I can't recall what they are specifically now". </span>*Chuckle; Pause; Think*.<span style="font-style: italic;">"Now that you mention it, I can't really think of any. - Oh, he said 'Leila' the other day! We were all at the dinner table, and I was calling out the girls' names to try and get him to learn them. And he said 'Laay-lahh' just the same as we said it"</span><br />
<br />
"Oh, ok good! And has he said it much after that?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, no, he hasn't said it at all since then."</span><br />
<br />
"Oh, ok. And you can't think of any other words he says? Anything at all? Even sounds for things? Maybe 'ba' for ball or something?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"No. Ohh... he says 'this' and 'that'. He says them alot!"</span><br />
<br />
"...'This' and 'that'....", she writes in her notes.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Yeah, it's cute. He goes 'dsss dsss' 'dsss datt'". </span>I am feeling a bit better now. She looks up at me....<br />
<br />
"Good! And does he say them when he points at things? ... Or when you point at things?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">"Ah...no. He just sort of says it as he walks around. He never looks when I point actually."</span>Embarrassed again.<br />
<br />
"Oh. Ok."<br />
<br />
Basically, she became more and more surprised at his lack of development. At that age, he should have been saying around 5 words. If no words, then he should have been understanding simple commands at least, like 'get your shoes' etc. But he didn't. He wasn't pointing or using gestures. He didn't look when I pointed at something to show him. He wasn't climbing up and down chairs or the couch. He wasn't taking his own shoes and socks off. Wasn't using a spoon, and was only using a sippy cup. Didn't point to his eyes, nose, etc. Could not scribble - wouldn't even hold a crayon. Turned pages in a book, but would not point at pictures or listen to a story.<br />
<br />
In fact, all he would usually do, was walk around. Just walk around. He hardly played with his toys, and when he did, it was the same ones and he wasn't rowdy. He preferred to do a simple puzzle or sort shapes. He never played with his trucks and cars. He had a little train that he adored though. It popped balls out around it's top and drove around with music. He would pop balls into it and watch them come back out for ages. He never pretended to make me a cup of tea, eat food, or talk on the phone. I argued that he hadn't really watched me do those things, so maybe that's why he didn't learn? His eye contact was there, but it was fleeting. He didn't really respond to his name. The list went on.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvB6YrSmowmt5cimjyyGC6g8Y4eMFeDAS19dsJtYqDPAPgcsxMbGpF2Q7pNkn-8YOVB9sdMpDrzr_bqsFwJwhfLoG9HDqplaZd_dT1eihod0i2u6bpz_KQh6mI6IOed7gVbKy24SPkPiI8/s1600/DSCN4386.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvB6YrSmowmt5cimjyyGC6g8Y4eMFeDAS19dsJtYqDPAPgcsxMbGpF2Q7pNkn-8YOVB9sdMpDrzr_bqsFwJwhfLoG9HDqplaZd_dT1eihod0i2u6bpz_KQh6mI6IOed7gVbKy24SPkPiI8/s400/DSCN4386.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577916247383321506" style="cursor: pointer; height: 317px; width: 422px;" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I began to feel as though I had neglected my son very badly. Why hadn't I taken the time to teach him this stuff?<br />
<br />
At the time, it never occurred to me that I didn't exactly sit down and 'teach' this stuff to my daughters.... they just did it. They simply learned by watching and imitating me. This was confirmed to me just the other day when we found the Baby Miss (16 months now) shuffling around on her bottom and babbling into a toy phone. Out of all my children, I have spent the least amount of time with her, and I certainly never sat down to specifically show her what I do when I use the telephone. She just watched and noticed and learned. My son, on the other hand, didn't even pay attention.<br />
<br />
We moved on to the physical checks.... height - in the 90th percentile; weight - also in the 90th percentile; head circumference - completely off the charts! He was a big boy for his age. He was going to be tall and solid, like his papa... I was so proud. He was upset for the whole thing, and when we came to weigh him, we couldn't keep him on the scales, he was that upset. I sang a song from one of his favourite dvd's to distract him. The nurse thought that was clever. The dental check was fine, but he dribbled alot... and I mean <span style="font-style: italic;">alot. </span>So much so, that I still had to keep a bib on him all the time. <span style="font-style: italic;">Must be a boy thing</span>, I thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVZfJA_O0XBf3TCfvJHhpWqfheyXpYl5hHaWblReHyQBKTXOgXQ3pETwsKTf044glvStt71GupFWcl2YfvwyoateQAlYqvaY513lRX99t0yqaNHjAeO3xYTl5SlKq_1hO-ajJw_CRkz8i/s1600/Erik%2527s+chart_0001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVZfJA_O0XBf3TCfvJHhpWqfheyXpYl5hHaWblReHyQBKTXOgXQ3pETwsKTf044glvStt71GupFWcl2YfvwyoateQAlYqvaY513lRX99t0yqaNHjAeO3xYTl5SlKq_1hO-ajJw_CRkz8i/s400/Erik%2527s+chart_0001.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577920553963300002" style="cursor: pointer; height: 460px; width: 324px;" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We came back to the desk to chat. Very gently, the nurse told me that my son was not meeting enough milestones, and it was a matter of concern. She said that there were early signs of autism, and that he would have to be closely monitored. She showed me the autism/developmental delay checklist given to all nurses and pointed out all the places where he was meeting the criteria. She strongly suggested I see a paediatrician. She told me it was entirely up to me, but that it would be good, even if just to rule out autism or anything else. All the while, I smiled and nodded. I was completely unconcerned. I thought:<span style="font-style: italic;">This lady is a bit paranoid I think. Every child is different and develops at different rates. Surely he is just being a boy - he's different to the girls</span>. I was completely unruffled, but I like to be informed and I like to know stuff. So I agreed to a referral for a paedie check.<br />
<br />
I went home thinking I had interesting news for my husband. I hoped he would not freak out. I was still unconcerned, but thoughtful now. Very thoughtful. I kept thinking about that checklist. All afternoon, I would glance at my son, and wonder... shake my head... go back to what I was doing... glance at him again.<br />
<br />
I didn't realise at the time, but something changed that afternoon. I began to look at my son differently, I could not help it. This was a pivotal point in my journey.<br />
<br />
With everything he did, I wondered; <span style="font-style: italic;">Is this normal toddler behaviour, or an autistic thing?</span> When my husband came home that night, my SIL also came over for a quick visit. I broke the news to them very offhandedly ... I think on the surface, I still wasn't too concerned, although my mood had settled into a deep and quiet melancholy. After all the children were in bed that night, the three of us were in the lounge room just talking. My hubby and his sister began talking about what the nurse had said. My SIL worked in an autism specific school, and had been there for quite some time before our little man was even born. Coincidence? Providence? I don't know. They discussed my son's symptoms and compared him with other autistic children. It was just a discussion, something to be fully expected when information like this is presented to you about your child. Discussion happens, and must happen if we are to remain in a healthy emotional state.<br />
<br />
I sat quietly, listening, but not participating. Inside, my emotions began to roil. I became angry, very angry at what they were saying. They were discussing this as if the boy had already been diagnosed. I was livid. I sat quietly, trying to control my ire. All I wanted to do was slap them both and tell them to shut up. Just shut up! Don't you realise this is my son you are talking about? You're talking like he has autism for sure, but we don't know anything yet!! I was so mad, I felt sick. Fortunately, sensibility dominated my anger, and I didn't say anything. They weren't actually doing anything wrong, it was just the thoughts of the day all beginning to settle in for me. I'd had all day to ponder this, while they had only just been informed. I excused myself and went to my room.<br />
<br />
I cried myself to sleep that night. I wept and wept and wept. I felt sick inside. I could not sleep properly all night. Every time I woke up, I would think about it and feel sick. Several times, I went into my sons room, just to stare at him while he slept, weeping, and praying. <span style="font-style: italic;">Please God, please.... this can't be happening. She has to be wrong.... she <span style="font-weight: bold;">has</span> to be!</span><br />
<br />
Looking back on that day, I can see how the idea that something was wrong with my son took a bit of time to sink in, but when it did, my perspective of him changed forever. I was grieving. It was horrible not knowing, and just wondering all the time - <span style="font-style: italic;">is this a normal thing or is it an autistic thing</span>?<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>It was traumatic, the way I would swing from; <span style="font-style: italic;">No, he can't have it - look what he's doing? Autistic kids don't do that, do they? </span>to; <span style="font-style: italic;">He's got it for sure... oh dear God, he's got it for sure.</span> It was grief, and the thing that broke my heart the most, was that no matter the outcome, I will never be able to look at my son the same way again. Oh, he was still my son - and he always would be no matter what. But he was no longer the son I thought he was. I lost something that day.... the innocent expectation of a normal life for him, and for us. It was most definitely grief.<br />
<br />
I felt gutted, shattered, lost, confused, vulnerable, afraid, angry, depressed. I was a mess.<br />
<br />
The next day, my son decided to climb up and sit on the couch. He did this right in front of me. I was over the moon. <span style="font-style: italic;">No! He's fine! He just doesn't do things until he's sure he can do it, then he just up and does it! </span>The nurse rang me that day to see how I was doing and to let me know she had sent a referral off for a paedie appointment. It would be four months before I could get in to see her. I told her about the couch incident, and she was pleased. "Good!", she said, "lets hope he picks up a crayon and starts drawing next!" He didn't.<br />
<br />
The next four months were among the most traumatic of my life. Waiting was torture. But I put away my impatience, and resolved to spend more time with my son to build those skills into him that I had obviously failed to do before.<br />
<br />
I still cried. Alot. In private. My husband didn't seem perturbed, so I didn't want to burden him with my emotional breakdown. I tried to keep it to myself. In a way, I felt like my life just stood still at that time. But life never does. It went on. And so did I....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-75024672398254193212014-03-04T20:24:00.001+11:002014-03-04T20:24:51.824+11:00UnderstandingErik is the third of four children. He has two older sisters, and one younger. When he was born, my older girls were five and 3.5 yrs. The little one was born when Erik was two. Erik was diagnosed properly sometime around 2.5 years old, but we knew something was up when he was 21 months. So I was already pregnant with Baby Miss at the time. I hope this is not too confusing... the timeline might help paint a clearer picture...<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;">----> Erik born: </span><span style="color: #4c1130;"> Big Miss - almost 5 yrs; Miss Jane - 3.5 yrs</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"> ----> 21 months: </span><span style="color: #4c1130;">MCH points out that something is wrong. Already 18 wks pregnant with Baby Miss.</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"> ----> 2 yrs 1.5 months: </span><span style="color: #4c1130;">Baby Miss is born; Big Miss - almost 7 yrs; Miss Jane - 5.5 yrs.</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"> ----> 2 yrs 7 months: </span><span style="color: #4c1130;"> Formal diagnosis received. Big Miss - 7 yrs, Miss Jane - 6 yrs, Baby Miss - 5.5 ms.</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;"> ----> Presently: </span><span style="color: #4c1130;">Big Miss -11.5 yrs; Miss Jane - 10 yrs; Mr Man - 6.5 yrs; Baby Miss - 4.5 yrs.</span></i></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...or it might just add to the confusion!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, sometime along the way, the older girls came to understand that their little brother had Autism. At some point, they grew into a realisation of what that actually meant. I don't know when this happened, and I don't really know how this happened either. I guess it was just a journey in getting to know him, as you would with any new baby.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xHL9YxJQtD0wh1SuEF_40fDYpwNTZZn2OjiBo7uXSfPlsr_8Sr2t0xhyMviQ7zAOAS4W_P37iCRBImSJrwS00svUcmJ9OQZg40UzDY2QiXpIyCxetl9-4teohyphenhyphennokYff9uTyd-sjBP90/s1600/Erik's+first+birthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xHL9YxJQtD0wh1SuEF_40fDYpwNTZZn2OjiBo7uXSfPlsr_8Sr2t0xhyMviQ7zAOAS4W_P37iCRBImSJrwS00svUcmJ9OQZg40UzDY2QiXpIyCxetl9-4teohyphenhyphennokYff9uTyd-sjBP90/s1600/Erik's+first+birthday.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erik's first birthday. Well before we had any idea that something was amiss, but the <br />signs were already there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At times, I still feel sad for them, because they were so excited about a new sibling. They were old enough to understand how cute babies are, how they cry and sleep, how they learn to eat and babble and walk. But they didn't get much of this with Erik. He hardly responded to them, and so, although they loved him, they didn't interact with him as much as I expected. But they were ok, they had each other. I just felt sad because I felt that they missed out on all those wonderful things that happen when a baby enters the family. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then, Baby Miss came along. The girls were older again - seven and nearly six respectively - and everything we had hoped for but not found in Erik, we found in Isobelle. The girls adored her. There was cuddles and giggles and sharing of toys. There was feeding and snuggles and delight at her cute antics. It was just so different to Erik. So terribly bittersweet.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlBbCw4vM6l4hutkphp_yu6JdtMBPmNIyyx0d14fCiVJGVAy1VfdR1xq0wzGtvDJtbGyhNTLegVsgMpIFg8MQ6xMjEQ_cTdfzHQViIMju5E-gIyp3W6BQGv_QgxA51dtE766-pt7aRqFn/s1600/IMG_1603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlBbCw4vM6l4hutkphp_yu6JdtMBPmNIyyx0d14fCiVJGVAy1VfdR1xq0wzGtvDJtbGyhNTLegVsgMpIFg8MQ6xMjEQ_cTdfzHQViIMju5E-gIyp3W6BQGv_QgxA51dtE766-pt7aRqFn/s1600/IMG_1603.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what you get when you get a 7 year old <br />to feed a 7 month old. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfru5bKkZF1_0uDHgua8NR0GBCoO63XsZQcKaGmDLb1wgEm3HDfsbt-VwFo-6IoiumvgOpzD-ii6yL6JiZ1mDb5NGH5yMzf0iKf2hk3zV977UEpIeHnQguLHLRVNqWWorbsDugHUvTZGzi/s1600/IMG_1941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfru5bKkZF1_0uDHgua8NR0GBCoO63XsZQcKaGmDLb1wgEm3HDfsbt-VwFo-6IoiumvgOpzD-ii6yL6JiZ1mDb5NGH5yMzf0iKf2hk3zV977UEpIeHnQguLHLRVNqWWorbsDugHUvTZGzi/s1600/IMG_1941.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always loved hugs with her big sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyd6Aw_jxjwazKncCbkfZMBCuiCU_A9XMOJ221WE4l3LjPNGXa2sVcvc9Ny4TNP8WtdTCkPYYXIHyy3uX-n9g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"Bye 'Sha, bye 'La" ...but my sweet boy is more interested in trying to lick his jacket.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Baby Miss was like a balm to my soul after the pain and grief of an AD diagnosis. We watched her like a Hawk: Is she responding? Is there shared attention? Smiles? Reaching? Babbling? Interest in family? Pretend play? Imitation? She was a delight, but my heart was already changed after Erik's diagnosis. It was so hard to just relax and enjoy my baby, even though I tried not to fret.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Baby Miss is 4.5 now. She is the only one here who came into the family with an awareness of special needs already present among us. It is all completely normal for her, from day one, and she doesn't know any different. But she does have trouble understanding some things...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To a four year old, bigger kids are smarter. They are more capable. They do cool stuff - you want to be like them! Baby Miss adores her sisters, she really idolises them. She adores her brother too, but struggles to understand why, when she copies him, she gets into trouble but he doesn't. Why is it that she gets in trouble when she stands on the table, but for Erik, we just quietly get him down? Why is it that she gets in trouble if she gets out of bed to play, but we just quietly put Erik back? Why is it that she is often left to manage eating her dinner by herself when she is tired, when Erik is tended to very closely? It's not fair! She is little and needs help! She gets that he cannot speak or use the toilet, but she doesn't understand why. She just can't seem to understand, that <i>he</i> doesn't understand a lot of stuff. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The older girls from time to time have struggled with this too; that Erik seems to get away with so much, where they would have got into trouble. It hurts them that mum can't do much to defend them when he is being annoying, and that they have to be patient of his more frustrating characteristics. To be made to endure such injustices is a big thing to ask of children, even if they do have the capacity to understand why. It is hard for them, and my heart breaks over the whole situation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgwWIBbtlKCcCPN8iFP2hiFx9Afmo2AA4xmttzHjHSPCrKoZc59eiGeQvpI-b5m5floBmTVl29A3kUjEidj7JlhYk2u97R0xYvK-bpGzZelM2hyphenhyphenzL513-nOkX6Fc6llVZoFeNZvbJ-567a/s1600/IMG_6047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgwWIBbtlKCcCPN8iFP2hiFx9Afmo2AA4xmttzHjHSPCrKoZc59eiGeQvpI-b5m5floBmTVl29A3kUjEidj7JlhYk2u97R0xYvK-bpGzZelM2hyphenhyphenzL513-nOkX6Fc6llVZoFeNZvbJ-567a/s1600/IMG_6047.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to see the dinosaur display at our local shopping centre, but Erik was screaming and <br />crying the whole time, because he wanted to visit the playground instead. It was a frustrating day, <br />but my girls are still smiling and trying to comfort their brother.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know that out of this, they are learning patience, tolerance, grace and insight to the peculiar workings around special needs. But oh, it is a hard lesson for them to be learning. One day, it will all become clearer to them, and I trust that they won't hold these occasions against me. I sometimes console myself by looking to the future, and knowing that I will have strong and caring daughters, who are not perturbed or intimidated by people who look or behave differently; resilient young women who already have the advantage of a skill-set unique to those who experience life with special needs.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And eventually, I'm sure that Baby Miss will get it too. But in her very sweet four-year-old mind, all she knows right now is that "Erik doesn't learn things very easily" - her words to one of her dad's Army colleagues. And I find that for all that she doesn't understand, she seems to have a rather decent grasp on the situation overall.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
xx</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
PS: I know I don't have a great deal of readers to this blog, and that's ok. But if you or someone you know can share how your kids came to learn about their siblings' Autism, I would love to hear about it!</div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-29394551518041466462014-02-20T10:17:00.000+11:002014-02-20T10:17:06.316+11:00A Stranger In The Waiting RoomA couple of weeks ago, I was out in the waiting room of a clinic, waiting for our appointment with the doctor. Nothing serious, I just needed him to check a bump on the Baby Miss's head. She had a nasty fall last November, and although the lump healed well enough, I noticed that I could feel a small bump under her skin and was worried. Turns out it is nothing but scar tissue and won't get any bigger or cause any problems.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Baby Miss made herself busy playing with the activities provided there, as I sat down to wait. Almost immediately, I noticed a young man who was sitting opposite me and to the left. My heart caught in my throat as I looked at him. He reminded me so much of my son. So much. It was like seeing a vision of the future.<br />
<br />
This young man stood out from everyone else, to me at least. He was quite tall, I could tell that even with him sitting. He looked somewhere between 18 and 22 years old. The clothes he was wearing, were not the sort of thing you would expect to see on young adults these days. Clean, but worn and very basic in design. Black trackpants with double white stripes down the sides - a little too short for him, and a plain light blue t-shirt. Short socks and runners. His hair was not styled in any particular way, it was just a normal sort of cut. Kind of curly. Not short in the strictest sense, but certainly not long either. Even if he were from a financially struggling background, you would not expect to see a young person so plainly dressed. <br />
<br />
But more than his attire, it was his demeanour - his manner - that captured me. <br />
<br />
The way he sat, the way he moved his hands and placed his fingers, the way he looked around. The slackness around his cheeks. And the occasional smile and talking to himself quietly. To me, he was very sweet to look at. <br />
<br />
Now, I can't say for sure, and I certainly don't wish to offend anyone by assuming anything; but I would have loved to know if this young man was autistic. Desperate to know, actually. There was just something about him that struck me so. I wanted very much to go over and ask. And if he answered 'yes', I wanted to ask a million things more:<br />
<br />
<i>When did you learn to use the toilet? If it took you a long time to learn, what went through your mind in regards to it?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Did you ever abscond from parents/home/teacher/carer? If so, what were you thinking!?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Can you drive?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Do you work?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Can you write?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Can you cross the road by yourself?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Do you shave yourself or does someone help you?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Can you brush your teeth? Oooh! - do you go to the dentist?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, so many personal and terribly inappropriate questions, I wanted to ask! But instead, I sat quietly (well, as quietly as I could with a sparkly four-year-old!), and entertained my daughter as we waited for our turn with the doctor. <br />
<br />
Finally we were called in, and I took the Baby Miss and left the waiting room.<br />
<br />
I often think about what things will be like as my son gets older; How he will look, if he will be able to speak, who will shave him or shower him as the case may be, what he will do with his life, what we will do with ours. I don't worry about it, and I try not to dwell on it. But it would be remiss of me as a parent if I did not think of the future ever and try to make plans for our lives. I have no idea what will become of us. None whatsoever. I can only hope that my son is happy and fulfilled in his life, whatever he chooses to do (or we choose for him if he cannot). I can only hope that as he grows up and my husband and I grow older, that he is able to take on more of his own care and live an independent life. I can only hope that when we are gone, he will be ok. Of course he will always have his sisters to help and care for him, but I would rather them not have to become his 'carer' as such. I already know they would not mind - they love him so much. But they deserve to be able to chase their own dreams and make their own lives without having to shoulder that responsibility. And whatever happens, I know that God's got him. He will never leave him. And should any disaster befall, I know that my son won't be autistic in heaven anyway. None of that will matter up there.<br />
<br />
In truth, I know absolutely nothing about this young man who struck me so profoundly. Nothing at all. But seeing him certainly evoked the vision of a potential future for my son. I don't think I will forget this stranger for a very long time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br />Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-81063489587404234432014-02-11T21:12:00.000+11:002014-02-11T21:20:59.789+11:00I Want To Tell You...Dear Erik,<br />
<br />
You blew my mind yesterday son, did you know that? I bet you didn't, because I didn't really express my excitement as much as I wanted to. I worry about freaking you out a little bit with an overreaction, so I tend to keep a reign on my excitement when you do something awesome. I tell you quietly and privately that that thing you did was very good, when really what I want to do is jump up and down like a maniac, and whoop and holler to the whole world.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, two things happened that made me smile and reminded me of the inextinguishable little flame of hope inside me; that one day, I will hear you speak proper and true.<br />
<br />
The first thing, I wasn't even there for. I heard it from your aunty, who works at your school, but I believe every word anyway. There was a change in the buses at school and you were to take a different bus home. Different bus, but same route. You were the kid who flipped out over having a different bus. You were the one screaming and fighting and trying to run off. While it breaks my heart to know that you were so distressed over the changes, your aunty tells me that you said something to all those people who were trying to convince you to get on that bus:<br />
<br />
<i>"No! No! Wrong bus!"</i> You cried.<br />
<br />
When I heard about this, it took my breath away, son. You, finding those perfectly appropriate words and speaking them out in a perfectly appropriate situation, has left <i>me</i> speechless. And I still can't find the words to express how I feel, knowing <i>you. said. that</i>! <br />
<br />
You escaped the grip of the teachers and aides around you and ran to your aunty, whom you recognised among the group of people around, and threw yourself into her. This too blows my mind honey; You went to the most familiar face for help and comfort! And yes, she was able to get you calmly on to that bus. By the way, I have to say, you still didn't look too impressed about the whole situation when I picked you up. Cutie. But oh, my darling, if you only knew how much those words mean to me. You said that; you really said that! Amazing!<br />
<br />
The other thing that happened was at dinner that same night. We have had a different flavour of cordial lately, and you decided it is the wrong colour and you would not drink it. So earlier that day I bought you the flavour/colour that is familiar to you, and made up a small jug of cordial just for you, so you didn't have to have water when the rest of us had cordial at the dinner table. You babbled a few things, and then asked for 'poodiyoh' as we have been practicing lately. But when I reached for the little jug instead of the usual one your cordial is served in, you quietly but clearly said; "<i>I don't want that</i>", and made me put it down again. <br />
<br />
Your aunty happened to drop by and had stayed for dinner with us, and you should have seen her face. It reflected just exactly what I felt inside; gobsmacked, delighted surprise. But instead, I responded to you as I might respond to one of the girls when they say something like that; "Oh, you don't want that one honey? But it doesn't matter what the jug looks like, it's what's inside that matters. This is the cordial you like. Let me pour it for you". You let me.<br />
<br />
My son, you made my day, you made my night. You will never know how much your beautiful words mean to me. <br />
<br />
Those two sentences that day are so much more than mere words. They tell me that you understand what is going on around you, more than I often give you credit for. They tell me that you have more words in your head than you can get your mouth to make. They tell me you know how to put together a sentence, even if you can't make it come out of your mouth, or on the iPad. And they tell me that the ability to speak is there, even if it is still very tiny and you are struggling with it a lot right now.<br />
<br />
You totally blew my mind with these things, and I am so in love with you my darling boy.<br />
<br />
One more thing honey; Did you know that your name means 'Ever ruler' or 'Always conquerer' ? Well it does. And I don't think it is by accident that we named you this. I remember praying over you when you were but a day old in the hospital. In my arms I held you, and began to pray a blessing. But then I found that I was praying things like 'overcomer' and 'conquerer' and that God would be with you on the hard road before you. I remember stopping in shock at the things I was saying, and my heart cried out <i>No! No! This is not what I want for him! Why am I praying this?</i> But it seems my spirit somehow knew what my mind never could at that time. I wept and cried and wondered what on earth it all meant. It took nearly two years before we knew. But here you are my son, overcoming, conquering, little by little. And I know God is with you.<br />
<br />
Don't you ever forget that. He knows exactly how your brain works, and exactly what is going on inside. He knows everything about you - everything you can't tell me, He knows. And He will always be there for you, even when I can't be.<br />
<br />
I love you to pieces my little Mr Man. And you will grow handsome, and strong, and kind, and clever. You made me proud yesterday, and I just wanted you to know that.<br />
<br />
<br />
With love beyond forever,<br />
<br />
Mum xx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-80179299000830058352014-02-07T13:16:00.000+11:002014-02-07T13:16:57.584+11:00KintsugiBefore I had children, I always promised myself I would not discriminate between my sons and daughters when it came to helping around the house. My sons would do the dishes, washing, vacuuming, ironing, cleaning the bathroom and toilet, and so on, just as much as the girls. You see, my bloodlines come from a culture where traditionally, the females do the housework, and the men, well, they don't. I always hated this. So I promised I would not pass this particular cultural thing on to my children. We all live here, and everyone helps. End of story.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then my only son came along, with autism in the picture. And all my resolute promises went out the window.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not because I wanted them to, you understand, but because as I got to know his abilities (or lack, thereof), I just thought he would not be able to care for himself, much less do any household chores. But I didn't think this at first - on the contrary. During early diagnosis days, I was absolutely dead set that we would just work hard with him and get him all the help he needs. And by the time he was school age, oh, he'd be able to speak and use the toilet and so on. He might just have a few cute quirks, that's all. Our dedication and hard work would simply overcome the challenges he faced with autism and everything would be ok. Simple as that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...How naive' I was.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Obviously, this didn't happen. Oh, we did everything right. We worked with him. We got help very early - we were consistent, positive, prayerful, persevering. But at six years old, he still can't communicate effectively, still can't use the toilet, is still a danger to himself (more than ever), still needs to be physically cared for much like a baby. And so, after some time, I resigned myself to the notion that Erik would never be able to help around the house.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This rankled me so much. It really did. Because after everything, the girls still do all the work and the boy doesn't have to. Even with the very valid excuse of a disability, it still annoyed me so much.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then one day, something amazing happened....</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I found him doing this.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOiE7ep05Y6S0VrqoZ1PPkwwTjzrwoaagfHpyH1Lg1X6DOQ28BlD-65UomwK7JhoAzfVY26st7PybyechB2jDSOGi7nfn8a27OREYTCJpz7ePcJgz6zuVSfgHpjFEGp5wri7u5OGDfSRqm/s1600/IMG_6651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOiE7ep05Y6S0VrqoZ1PPkwwTjzrwoaagfHpyH1Lg1X6DOQ28BlD-65UomwK7JhoAzfVY26st7PybyechB2jDSOGi7nfn8a27OREYTCJpz7ePcJgz6zuVSfgHpjFEGp5wri7u5OGDfSRqm/s1600/IMG_6651.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgounxJWapP4KRT-FsYAHmh9yy9vie8R88tr-5B-aK-F9PT52_maQ6lYxqCSNRNFFjbReOhl4CdiLnn3qkjkvIB-Oh8segdstHsubnTqdIP-azFVHifzEWd8p51IDA417wzFKdYaAd5D2X9/s1600/IMG_6652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgounxJWapP4KRT-FsYAHmh9yy9vie8R88tr-5B-aK-F9PT52_maQ6lYxqCSNRNFFjbReOhl4CdiLnn3qkjkvIB-Oh8segdstHsubnTqdIP-azFVHifzEWd8p51IDA417wzFKdYaAd5D2X9/s1600/IMG_6652.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And what is even more amazing (and rather hilarious), is that when I walked into the kitchen to see what the noise was about, he became very vocal and began pushing me away. Even though I hadn't touched him! He was just worried that I was going to try to stop him. <br />
<br />
Wowweeee! I mean; far out! I was totally gobsmacked!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instantly, I seized the opportunity and tried to encourage him, and help with some of the dishes he didn't know what to do with. He still didn't want my help, but smiled and settle down at words of encouragement. But I was so worried he was going to drop a glass or a plate and shatter it everywhere, so instead, I called the girls to come and help him. This help, he delightfully accepted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I never realised that all this time, he had been observing and noticing when the girls would unload the dishwasher. I never once thought that he might like to join in, that this might be a really good chore for him. After all, every dish has it's place, all stacked in their respective groups, always put away in the same cupboards, and this should appeal to him enormously. Why did I not think of this before? And look at how delighted he is with this task! He is even saying a new word in relation to it; "cups". He puts away the cups, and says "cups" with a little lisp on the end. Tooooo sweet!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Suddenly my mind was reeling with the possibilities. I really felt like the sun had just come up in my brain - I guess it was a classic 'light bulb' moment. Never had one like that before, no jokes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The dishwasher! Of course! Now I am teaching him to put away his pyjamas and make his bed in the morning too. Later on, I may show him how to clear the dinner table with the girls, and wipe it down. Oh, the amazing possibilities! And I can tell you without hesitation, that this is the most wonderful thing that has happened in a long time. Probably as good as the first time he began echoing words. I am so blown away and so happy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You see, this was a shattered dream once. A small one - chores around the house - but still, a shattered dream nonetheless. And there are so many of those little shattered dreams that pepper our lives once we received that diagnosis. But now, this little shattered dream looks like it can be functional once again, and it's the most beautiful thing to me. It's rather like <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/uberECOcool/kintsugi-saving-broken-ceramics-with-gold/" target="_blank">Kintsugi</a>, where the repaired vase is all the more beautiful for having been broken in the first place.<br />
<br />
I am learning to let go of my negative expectations. It's hard, but this is part of the journey. I am learning to leave the door of hope and possibility open. It's not that I ever gave up on him, it's more that I just kind of stopped hoping for the best. But who knows what the future holds; Who knows?! Maybe my little man is struggling with so many things at the moment, but maybe he will be able to do everything! After all, with God, nothing is impossible!<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I just have to watch out for dirty dishes in among the clean ones in the cupboards.<br />
<br />
<br />
xx</div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-17888603308320728432014-02-01T11:53:00.001+11:002014-02-01T11:53:28.954+11:00The Kettle Is On...Must SuperviseObsessions and compulsions are a typical part of ASDs, but they play out differently and with different intensities in each person. They are about as unique as the individual. One of the most common questions I have been asked when talking to someone about my sons' diagnosis has been: "So, does he line up his stuff all the time?". I must admit, it makes me chuckle, because the question is very stereotypical.<br />
<br />
The answer is always; no, he doesn't. He has lined things up from time to time, but so rarely that I usually grab the camera to take a pic because it's so cute. My son is not a neat freak (thank God! 'Cause my house ain't neat most of the time!), and doesn't have to have his things set up in any particular order, but he certainly does have his patterns, obsessions and compulsions.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Eating and drinking...</i></b><br />
He has a regular spot to sit at when it comes to eating. Be it at the dinner table, the bench, or grandma's house. He will only eat breakfast out of one particular bowl, but lunch and dinner can be out of anything. He will rarely drink out of anything except his drink bottle or the Ikea plastic coloured cups. No glasses, no straws, no fancy plastic cups.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Travelling...</i></b><br />
The same route must be taken when we drive to various places, although he is now starting to relax with this.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Shopping...</i></b><br />
Parking at certain spots at the local shopping centre means that we must then enter through certain doors. If we ever park at one spot and enter through a different door, the boy is not happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Some of the most frustrating, and arguably, funniest compulsions that he has basically boil down to him having to 'supervise' certain events in our home...<br />
<br />
<b><i>Kettle...</i></b><br />
If someone puts the kettle on, Erik will cease whatever he is doing - be it eating, iPad, dressing or showering, even playing outside if he hears it - to stand in front of the kettle and remain there until it clicks off. When he first started doing this, he would scream and cry - not because the sound upset him, but because the kettle had interrupted whatever he was doing. He couldn't help being compelled to attend to it, even if it meant missing his favourite song on TV.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53nQG7kkcroT3TfMatJLDgghww7W7MQPP-mkwObjuMbytPJqvXRbViyT3UrzLU1BbPUHMOaviXgVtbAdw5OCirUXPj7pKNdySdSP-Snxs-2iLpj20qWda4Fwil99yQtftGWwV4znehqms/s1600/DSC00562.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53nQG7kkcroT3TfMatJLDgghww7W7MQPP-mkwObjuMbytPJqvXRbViyT3UrzLU1BbPUHMOaviXgVtbAdw5OCirUXPj7pKNdySdSP-Snxs-2iLpj20qWda4Fwil99yQtftGWwV4znehqms/s1600/DSC00562.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mummy put the kettle on!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b><i>Toilet...</i></b><br />
For a long time, if a toilet was flushed - upstairs or downstairs - he would run to the couch and sit on the back rest until he could not hear it anymore. This drove me crazy when trying to get him ready in the mornings (Can you imagine? A household of eight getting ready for the day - those toilets are going to be flushing a lot!). Mercifully, this compulsion is slowly relaxing.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Shower...</i></b><br />
When someone is in the shower, he tries to get into the bathroom, just to hang around in there until the water turns off. The amount of times my poor daughters have had the door burst open on them...! If the door is locked, he will wait outside the door until the shower is turned off. But while ever the water is running, you cannot move him from that spot!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8cOofG5Bn5DYF6IIbItmKlAYWgMa7Yid7O28aNKubxes4pVUVkUn78RNunnrAVL0OdL7rN-dn2jfs0UAB3Ouw9rCf8AJrxD7gQndAXQ-UQ5leDqPsEoiLdSHoKAqi8W3EtpcWPqulk83/s1600/IMG_5568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8cOofG5Bn5DYF6IIbItmKlAYWgMa7Yid7O28aNKubxes4pVUVkUn78RNunnrAVL0OdL7rN-dn2jfs0UAB3Ouw9rCf8AJrxD7gQndAXQ-UQ5leDqPsEoiLdSHoKAqi8W3EtpcWPqulk83/s1600/IMG_5568.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the bathroom door while Daddy showers. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Microwave...</i></b><br />
The microwave is another compulsion he has. Anytime someone uses it, he drops what he is doing - just like he does for the kettle - and runs over to supervise whatever is being zapped in that microwave. He has also discovered that it has numbers which count down to one, and that is a real perk for him. Sometimes I hear him saying the numbers as they come up on the little screen. Recently, he worked out how to make the microwave go all by himself. I would often hear the microwave turn on, and dash over to find it running with nothing inside, and Mr Man watching the numbers in delight. He managed to fry one microwave already doing this. We have learnt that switching it off at the wall is a good idea.<br />
<br />
<b><i>What happens when all of the above are going on at once...?</i></b><br />
Occasionally, we have a few of these things going at once. At first he would stress out because he couldn't attend to everything. Poor little tacker; that was frustrating to watch. But recently, it seems to me that he has worked out a system of priority. Microwave takes precedence over the kettle. Microwave or kettle take precedence over the shower. And the toilet flush has become something he may or may not respond to anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
If Erik has been put to bed, or is asleep, and happens to hear any one of these things, it is very likely that he will run out of his room to attend to the incident... bleary eyed and annoyed. And so I have to admit, I have often taken to boiling water for my coffee on the stovetop, or making people wait until he is sound asleep to use the microwave or kettle, or closing all possible doors between the bathroom and his room when there is a shower going! Because sometimes, you just have to choose your battles!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-65827115941947213372014-01-29T22:58:00.000+11:002014-01-29T22:58:05.011+11:00SnippetsI really do miss blogging when I haven't done for a while. Life can get so hectic sometimes, that writing about it often gets demoted to the bottom rung of the priority ladder. But that is a shame; it means that many events of note are unrecorded along the way.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I decided to give my blog some loving this week - hence the new look. I will probably continue tweaking away to get it just right. The focus will remain on my beautiful boy though... no more cakes, although I have come a long way with that since the first ghastly efforts I posted about and was once so very proud of!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Posting on my personal facebook page has been where I have shared about my sons new things and experiences. So even though I haven't blogged extensively about these incidents, I have kept a sort of record of what was going on. I thought it might be nice to gather some of them into one place.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>19 December 2012</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Got a little emotional at Erik's kinder concert this morning. It's hard watching him stand in the corner uncertainly while all his peers take part in singing and actions, and all the while knowing that he knows the song but just can't seem to participate. But it's ok. It's ok. I like to record these moments because one day we will look back on them and see just how far he's come. Also, right now I have in my possession an enrolment pack for ******* ******* School!! Super excited to be embarking on this next step in his life!! Even if we all embark with no words! </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_c2b88b" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -204px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>20 December 2012</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Most beautiful sound to my ears for the whole month.... Erik doing his best to echo "Everybody dance now!" and collapsing in fits of giggles with it </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_c2b88b" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -204px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_69268e" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -168px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>25 December 2012</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">My son is doing amazing in church today. Broken pattern and everything!</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>6 January 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Isobelle is playing "Talking Tom" with Erik.... where she is saying things and he is ECHOING!!!!! </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_v8kyjj sx_325b2f" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yD/r/BHRkdbg0ki8.png); background-position: -234px -786px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 840px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_10cfa4" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -150px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;"> :'D</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>8 February 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Sometimes, when I have too many things going on, I don't know which one to start with or share. So I'm going to list them... yeah.... love lists :P:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">1. Erik is still echoing lots! I'm loving hearing his voice and his words, even when he struggles to make them.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">2. Erik has had his orientation at school, and I can hardly contain my excitement for him for this year! </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">3. I'm so very grateful for</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;"> this amazing country and the people in it. My admiration for anyone who works with children is huge, but for those who have a passion/desire to work with our special kids, it's even bigger. Thank God for you people, who care enough to find out why these kids do the things they do instead of lumping them into the naughty/bad/useless box <i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_69268e" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -168px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><br />4. About to start working on an exciting cookie project!<br />5. Erik has to be on the bus at 7:18am. Yay me... lrn 2 luv mornings <i class="_4-k1 img sp_v8kyjj sx_b892e2" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yD/r/BHRkdbg0ki8.png); background-position: -126px -804px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 840px; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>11 February 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Waiting at the designated stop for the bus that has my son on it to arrive. More than a little anxious </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_1e8ade" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -240px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>18 February 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Oh my goodness! Erik is carrying his own schoolbag, AND he said "bye" to me on the way out the door! Only three days of school and already this!</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>4 June 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">I had to administer some medicine to Erik, who has not needed to have any for over 18 months. While he put up a fight, it was not the epic one I was expecting. And we managed to take the whole dose with no meltdowns! What a good little man! </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_10cfa4" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -150px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>6 July 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">He has been through 4 tops today. I wish the chewy necklaces I ordered would hurry up and arrive!!</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>8 July 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Managed to get some shopping done with all four today. Erik did very well, mostly holding Leila's hand. But we had a meltdown on the way out when we didn't stop at the playground. One lady tried to talk him out of it. Most people just stared at us. Erik on the floor screaming and crying and me trying to talk him through it and show him the picture of the car. He understood, he just didn't wa</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">nt to comply. Trolley in the middle of the walkway with my handbag hanging in full view (and grasp) of anyone who might decide to take advantage of the situation. Big girls looking nervous and worried, Isobelle trying to talk to me. But we managed to get him up and keep going (I had to carry him for a bit... no mean feat with his size compared to mine). Maybe go again tomorrow to get some more stuff. Short successful trips are good!</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>20 July 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Special day today! Went to the movies with the WHOLE family! That's Erik and Isobelle's first time at the cinema. They both did great! (especially Erik :))</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>30 July 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Isobelle: Mummy, can you feed me?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Me: No I can't darling, sorry. I need to help your brother.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Isobelle: But I'm little.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Me: No, you're a big girl now, you can feed yourself. But I need to watch Erik because he's autistic honey.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Isobelle: Why Erik is cheese stick?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">... maybe it's too early yet.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>1 October 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #37404e; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Erik put a much-needed smile on my face this afternoon. I made him a </span></span><span style="color: #37404e; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Nutella</span></span><span style="color: #37404e; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;"> sandwich for lunch (basically the only thing he'll have on a sandwich besides cream cheese). He cheerfully exclaims "Attack!!" before tucking in to the sandwich. Hehehe... so cute </span></span></span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_c2b88b" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -204px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>24 October 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Tonight at dinner: Erik actually ate vegetables with his mashed potato! Win! And Isobelle used her fork as a dinglehopper. Interesting mealtimes at my place O_o</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>8 November 2013</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Erik drew a person!!! Anyone who knows us will know how amazing this is!! He drew this the day Will came home from Kapooka. First time we've ever seen him draw more than scribbles!! Coincidence...? Maybe not....maybe he really did draw daddy!</span></div>
<div>
<div class="photoUnit clearfix" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.909090995788574px; line-height: 12.799999237060547px; margin: 0px -12px; position: relative; zoom: 1;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="uiScaledImageContainer photoWrap" style="height: 378px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; overflow: hidden; position: relative; width: 504px;">
<img alt="Photo: Erik drew a person!!! Anyone who knows us will know how amazing this is!! He drew this the day Will came home from Kapooka. First time we've ever seen him draw more than scribbles!! Coincidence...? Maybe not....maybe he really did draw daddy!" class="scaledImageFitWidth img" height="300" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-frc1/p480x480/1005011_10151788324291234_511672783_n.jpg" style="border: 0px; height: auto; min-height: 100%; position: relative; width: 503.991455078125px;" width="400" /></div>
<br />
<div class="_53s uiScaledThumb photo photoWidth1" data-ft="{"tn":"E"}" data-gt="{"fbid":"10151788324291234"}" style="float: left; position: relative;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>7 January 2014 </b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Ok: Everyone pray for me today! I offered Erik jocks instead of a nappy today (don't know why) and he calmly accepted them! So I guess today has somehow become a toilet training day! Mr Strong jocks. So cute </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_10cfa4" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -150px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>15 January 2014</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">I wish I could leave Erik's window open so the breeze could blow through his room. The room is so hot, but I can't leave it open in case he figures out how to push out the fly screen and climbs out the window </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_1f5038" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -132px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>26 January 2014</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">Random thoughts.... I wonder if I could teach Erik how to put away his pyjamas and make his bed in the morning. I wonder if I could teach him how to wipe down the dinner table...</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>29 January 2014</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 18px;">And so the holidays are over; just like that. I'm a little bit sad actually, but at the same time, I'm happy for my kids: They were bored at home. Especially Erik! And Isobelle starts kinder this year! Bet she's gonna love it </span><i class="_4-k1 img sp_etom5g sx_69268e" style="background-color: white; background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yM/r/IeuyPjHN0TE.png); background-position: -168px -74px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 314px 114px; color: #37404e; display: inline-block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; height: 16px; line-height: 18px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So... I guess you can gather from all the above that there has been more echolalia, a little more interaction, and more social experiences. Oh, and my husband joined the Army Reserves. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sadly, there has been no progress with toilet training. This continues to be a source of frustration for me. But I'm sure we'll get there. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
...Eventually.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
xx</div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-45303860677070611512013-10-06T13:49:00.001+11:002013-10-06T13:50:36.748+11:00It's The Big Ones That Count!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Brushing Erik's teeth has always been a challenge. We manage to do it, but even from the outset, it has evolved much differently to the girls. These days, I need to practically get him into a headlock with one arm, fighting off (or desperately trying to hold down) his arms with that same hand and brush his teeth with the other! It is very difficult - fast becoming impossible - for me. I have considered employing the use of a straight jacket at times.....</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As a toddler, getting anything into his mouth was extremely difficult, and to be honest, dental care was not high on my priority list in those early days. Toilet training and speech development was. I had a lot to deal with at that time: A new diagnosis and a newborn baby - both those things are enough all on their own. So teaching Erik to brush teeth was not hugely important. I never expected him to have sensory issues around it. There was a lot I had yet to learn about Autism and it's many manifestations.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But it didn't take long for me to recognise that Erik had sensory issues to do with his mouth. The first and most apparent thing, was his aversion to anything rough, crunchy, chunky - basically anything other than smooth and uniform textures. This first became obvious with his eating habits, and later, with the things he would choose to mouth on. He never chewed things at first, he would just lick smooth surfaces. Basin rims, windows, table tops, smooth plastic toys...soap. No wonder he couldn't stand having a toothbrush in his mouth!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I began the process of desensitising him a few months after diagnosis. With advice from our speechie at the time, I began by rubbing a wet finger along his gums, being super careful to stay away from any biting! (This was no problem at first though, he never did go for a bite). What he did do, was vigorously push my hand out of his mouth and away. But it didn't take long before he would tolerate this - maybe a couple of weeks? I started very, very small... only a couple of seconds at a time. As much as he could handle. As soon as he resisted it was over. I didn't want to make it an unpleasant experience. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was supposed to then advance to using a face washer to rub over this gums, but I found this to be very impractical. He didn't open his mouth wide, and the washer would really limit movement around his gums and was just too chunky to fit in there. So I scratched that idea. As chance would have it, this was the time he started picking up items to mouth on as he was playing. I grabbed this opportunity with both hands! Using a baby toothbrush - the silicon kind with a few little bumps on it - I introduced him to a new toy to mouth on. At first, he didn't take to it - he is always initially averse to new ideas - but it wasn't long till he did. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As he mouthed on this object, I would come along and move it gently around his teeth once in a while. After this, we graduated to the silicon 'brush' - just like a regular toothbrush, but the bristles are silicon, so much softer than the normal bristles. And of course after this, came the normal, toddler toothbrush. At this point, he was allowing me to brush his teeth for him - an amazing achievement! He would have been about 3 1/2 at this point, so it took the better part of a year to get there.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1Yywhbv8cz8Mknvl9wge3tcNRDD5WdDtOcxdgtOlDHXi_tP_zVhyolnrsH7LTey6iLZoYIE55qO2jwyFPaCbW5fJ7MOmwuPEgYXS40RdJ3sT0qWcBa3mBdC4XyyHXxeVYJYQIN0mUB2o/s1600/IMG_4193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1Yywhbv8cz8Mknvl9wge3tcNRDD5WdDtOcxdgtOlDHXi_tP_zVhyolnrsH7LTey6iLZoYIE55qO2jwyFPaCbW5fJ7MOmwuPEgYXS40RdJ3sT0qWcBa3mBdC4XyyHXxeVYJYQIN0mUB2o/s400/IMG_4193.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtTkGofxz8i7slYuE5SzQM1kjKRdfWFLHVrd6Wb5-QYTxMSUa989rZhvfk4di5GNSu_4eSpKq-blExxf0CjVmvhO3HAR-n5mKD228jiDjkEE59ocJ3a9bJs088yxZ4D9nSMle65OXqT_E/s1600/IMG_4185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtTkGofxz8i7slYuE5SzQM1kjKRdfWFLHVrd6Wb5-QYTxMSUa989rZhvfk4di5GNSu_4eSpKq-blExxf0CjVmvhO3HAR-n5mKD228jiDjkEE59ocJ3a9bJs088yxZ4D9nSMle65OXqT_E/s400/IMG_4185.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrGFF1DnAt1GPri8yhpPr7CMNC1mxII-8p7iSuWzSqSH4b7u2AWhRjHwBqAkdCb9CFpcIDvujdky8vWnmURarltTJrOkK4eRxZ6bVLH8TZIoHCsHwbka8vTa-yP6rFjEH79ovIKzIydB4/s1600/IMG_4191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrGFF1DnAt1GPri8yhpPr7CMNC1mxII-8p7iSuWzSqSH4b7u2AWhRjHwBqAkdCb9CFpcIDvujdky8vWnmURarltTJrOkK4eRxZ6bVLH8TZIoHCsHwbka8vTa-yP6rFjEH79ovIKzIydB4/s400/IMG_4191.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Introducing toothpaste was no big deal! I was very lucky that Erik didn't have a problem with the taste of it - but then, I'm not sure I should have expected differently when he would happily eat soap, just for the texture! But we started with the thinnest swipe over the bristles anyway- he did notice the difference, but it didn't deter him at all. So I was able to increase the amount to the right size within a couple of weeks. There was, and still is, no such thing as 'rinse and spit'. Erik cannot spit. Or blow bubbles - a similar activity from a motor planning perspective. So, reminiscent of the very first finger swipe, I wet my fingers and swipe them around his teeth to wipe off as much of the toothpaste as possible. These days, I have to be <i>very</i> careful of a bite - and it has happened more then once!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
All went well for a while...Erik would allow me to brush his teeth, and then he would have a turn. He would only ever brush the left bottom side though, and getting him to try other areas was a problem. I think mostly because of motor planning. But as time went on, instead of getting better, it just got worse. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't know if his sensitivities increased, or what exactly it was that caused it, but little by little, he began to fight me as I tried to brush his teeth. He would push my hands away and press his mouth shut so I couldn't get the toothbrush in. But it was strange, he would do this at random. That is, at first, he was fine with the idea and would allow me to get started, but in the middle of brushing, he would just suddenly rebel. I could never pinpoint what it was that prompted this - whether it was brushing a certain spot, or length of time, or what. It was a mystery. He also stopped trying to brush his own teeth - playing with the brush instead and never actually getting it into his mouth. Eventually, I skipped that part altogether and just insisted on brushing them myself. Time constraints came into this too, having to get all children ready for school/daycare in the morning, I just didn't have time to diddle around waiting for him to be ready when he might not be for hours.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And so at this point, things are still pretty much still there. Occasionally, he will try to brush his own teeth (for a little bit). He comes willingly to the bathroom to get his teeth brushed - partly because of routine, and partly because, I guess, he really doesn't mind too much. It's almost an automatic or involuntary reaction for him to push the brush out of his mouth. Although it's frustrating, I still think he does well to allow us to brush his teeth at all. Some days are better than others - on some days, he can barely tolerate a swipe across each side. Other days are much better.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have learned now that he does best with the lower jaw. The upper jaw he struggles with, and the top front incisors on the outside are the worst. He fights me every time, he can't stand it. I feel so sorry for him. But we must be doing something right, because a dental checkup by the school dentist revealed that his teeth are in very good condition with no work needed. Win!</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbgY_Kf1hv06R03YeoEWuklQruI5EC5cfa0v1UTo24Mvhw0o9lp68WxCkqju5CcsIyonFsYtPB7ZSQaDXJjm4nAcZ6K-iFeibYsjdXRZR3NNMm2HjZ1_fRK19FDHXvhraGd_JQi8GgV-P/s1600/DSC01252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbgY_Kf1hv06R03YeoEWuklQruI5EC5cfa0v1UTo24Mvhw0o9lp68WxCkqju5CcsIyonFsYtPB7ZSQaDXJjm4nAcZ6K-iFeibYsjdXRZR3NNMm2HjZ1_fRK19FDHXvhraGd_JQi8GgV-P/s640/DSC01252.jpg" width="408" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out those pearly whites :) I just wish he'd stand still for a minute so I can take a non-blurry photo!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This year, I expect to see him lose his baby teeth. That will be interesting! I have no idea whether he will spit them out or swallow them! And I am concerned about the effect the loose teeth will have on brushing. I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. He is getting bigger and stronger, and it is becoming very difficult for me to hold him steady enough to brush his teeth. I really hope that the habits we have worked hard to instill will take over so that we can continue care of his adult teeth when they come through. No holes so far, but they are just baby teeth. It's the big ones that count!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-67841090821616626782013-07-22T19:17:00.003+10:002013-07-22T19:21:59.003+10:00Chew Chew!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsb3epqmFqu6LP3woKPuB8Bjpmhht5g9BF4gBN_ImuuB0MrN4WYuI-l-MGzrm1h2AEywl3m305z42UGF-5mcWA_HMOQ3Qj6HYyG_YImZxGTJNZyuOOVpR-mKPNmxSbZ8wPgod0sbyqbbc3/s1600/DSC01116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsb3epqmFqu6LP3woKPuB8Bjpmhht5g9BF4gBN_ImuuB0MrN4WYuI-l-MGzrm1h2AEywl3m305z42UGF-5mcWA_HMOQ3Qj6HYyG_YImZxGTJNZyuOOVpR-mKPNmxSbZ8wPgod0sbyqbbc3/s400/DSC01116.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvP1MHpLAdBVaRuLrrc24xppkD5uEUa-NpdjpvwvxwJID2XJY1_Pwl27ncKYU0ERme5EbEbnzh7PCvP1VOwm29PH1_PY34O7M8NAbt9DQ_p-NHBzYkh9af40LCsimqcY9XcQWD7sboVxz/s1600/DSC01105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvP1MHpLAdBVaRuLrrc24xppkD5uEUa-NpdjpvwvxwJID2XJY1_Pwl27ncKYU0ERme5EbEbnzh7PCvP1VOwm29PH1_PY34O7M8NAbt9DQ_p-NHBzYkh9af40LCsimqcY9XcQWD7sboVxz/s400/DSC01105.jpg" width="323" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QkI-J0926t6TnvJ8iZOOkGHghFe9Th_oTS3p8povgpYE3pbtkbDNgzup63GE__E_vAXkaWPO8KasY-JLY4X2ejtcY7WW3tl-QzYtNw7sF8E4_LMb3iteDhHDz-NaMfdR8S83gAsRFrs8/s1600/DSC01089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QkI-J0926t6TnvJ8iZOOkGHghFe9Th_oTS3p8povgpYE3pbtkbDNgzup63GE__E_vAXkaWPO8KasY-JLY4X2ejtcY7WW3tl-QzYtNw7sF8E4_LMb3iteDhHDz-NaMfdR8S83gAsRFrs8/s400/DSC01089.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlggr3zecJ5LdAA3rix-k2p94rkzHTox4V1Bow2Typ5XmEFooYYwvplu1ephh9yuY5bHSKzYn5ZKZQVxMfkbs_acyp1oO8TrqPJ0KDVwk966a8fsc0Tt-jwsNGCW-vZooCy5Fc9wZsNGB/s1600/DSC01157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlggr3zecJ5LdAA3rix-k2p94rkzHTox4V1Bow2Typ5XmEFooYYwvplu1ephh9yuY5bHSKzYn5ZKZQVxMfkbs_acyp1oO8TrqPJ0KDVwk966a8fsc0Tt-jwsNGCW-vZooCy5Fc9wZsNGB/s400/DSC01157.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5uyZVKB3r9HPXkynsCKDtZ-fW_ESCz-gyEaHx4aKWgxAZRqE2JTmfpdMoKQv5Qf9IIIZQ8VSxX9BlMGd54fLpl73sZGa59CPDYRSFhkLgjfAx1-8vhncbBYS6hgCknDp1Ew0Z1joQ0-b/s1600/DSC01164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5uyZVKB3r9HPXkynsCKDtZ-fW_ESCz-gyEaHx4aKWgxAZRqE2JTmfpdMoKQv5Qf9IIIZQ8VSxX9BlMGd54fLpl73sZGa59CPDYRSFhkLgjfAx1-8vhncbBYS6hgCknDp1Ew0Z1joQ0-b/s400/DSC01164.jpg" width="373" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4OTn6NNCrEWRrXr864-TeCL5gqXKzWYEWoqcuuxU9qMAu__m_WcgHCmKPMDcJjvg9oABv3-89CPaQzjIpOK0M3b-uAWUGUU1OE3cOb_3r7Iwm5IX3sjUGsd94G3FpW3eEJaXq896BhC3/s1600/DSC01213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4OTn6NNCrEWRrXr864-TeCL5gqXKzWYEWoqcuuxU9qMAu__m_WcgHCmKPMDcJjvg9oABv3-89CPaQzjIpOK0M3b-uAWUGUU1OE3cOb_3r7Iwm5IX3sjUGsd94G3FpW3eEJaXq896BhC3/s400/DSC01213.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvM-9tHxXhT1Pkw5RmM3c2mIXwJZqlp5nYZcthzSAAj8aZK58wJj8MAIjdqsZli0jUUQDm2eRDJmYPeT55PT2nxG2bDiJRIC5yBRbthXK9UeAGW0r5_Skq09OvhqoAkjpTCg1stx0a4xa/s1600/DSC01221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvM-9tHxXhT1Pkw5RmM3c2mIXwJZqlp5nYZcthzSAAj8aZK58wJj8MAIjdqsZli0jUUQDm2eRDJmYPeT55PT2nxG2bDiJRIC5yBRbthXK9UeAGW0r5_Skq09OvhqoAkjpTCg1stx0a4xa/s400/DSC01221.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gToKG44O652LHKv0srRHeRrSs-NQdsHk-Ftoj0S02bATwqNUjaxojQZ_5Aw9eQ-TAdaBen9eK4tRx4d_wHyHbHcavU4f_0L1BBlLTzKF4FZ8zLdMUWqcCG1s989BRqS7-kzyOsVbuWL3/s1600/DSC01239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gToKG44O652LHKv0srRHeRrSs-NQdsHk-Ftoj0S02bATwqNUjaxojQZ_5Aw9eQ-TAdaBen9eK4tRx4d_wHyHbHcavU4f_0L1BBlLTzKF4FZ8zLdMUWqcCG1s989BRqS7-kzyOsVbuWL3/s400/DSC01239.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6v7sBcZFxcg1R12-_DdYE8NLUN9lDeSwRwla8BaV30MLVefgk6JNAfyAJixzNIwhuI8kDNJhv9jn-vva1n4N7YCiwIriDSDldr7cRQXqc1YBvi9vIEumuoehSbHJhTldZfDIB61RfUeBj/s1600/DSC01258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6v7sBcZFxcg1R12-_DdYE8NLUN9lDeSwRwla8BaV30MLVefgk6JNAfyAJixzNIwhuI8kDNJhv9jn-vva1n4N7YCiwIriDSDldr7cRQXqc1YBvi9vIEumuoehSbHJhTldZfDIB61RfUeBj/s400/DSC01258.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah. Frustration.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-53281101893482329442013-07-15T11:55:00.001+10:002013-07-15T11:58:24.520+10:00Starting School<div class="p1">
Erik loves school. He loves it! I knew he would. He loves riding the bus each morning and afternoon, and he is loving the stimulation that school provides. He loves the routine and opportunity to play outdoors and on the play equipment. He loves the music sessions and OT sessions. It really has been the best thing for him.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
On the first day of school, hubby and I decided to drive him in ourselves, and bring all the girls too. This way, although they would go late to school, they would get to share the experience of their brothers' first day. Unfortunately, the Autism-specific school is quite separate to the mainstream one the girls go to. So they have missed out on all those exciting and proud times when a younger sibling starts school with them. Bringing them along on his first day was a way to compensate for that in some small way, and they loved it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMMk1oVq2cRs-KPcV4i0lgWXBDYMTcb_zNkK4-Zqz8UcUpZhspMHWzGw_kLGWtF53NvGHcpYIBjNfvhyBP7Io5HppKuFFDaDynOjMyuRsEu5ngHDxvH73JPFALikUBnDVO_e5SliVM2pF/s1600/IMG_5525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMMk1oVq2cRs-KPcV4i0lgWXBDYMTcb_zNkK4-Zqz8UcUpZhspMHWzGw_kLGWtF53NvGHcpYIBjNfvhyBP7Io5HppKuFFDaDynOjMyuRsEu5ngHDxvH73JPFALikUBnDVO_e5SliVM2pF/s400/IMG_5525.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #660000;">Four kids in the back of the van.</span></i></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeLhLC4021Rt5GGVl1bWnHKqfV0LRnCtF1kq1cofVZctQn09YR3tTiUVFYMagQ-B74ObZsOk-qSCOQqGZ5Mt8r_FLG5211kBNuG55brOZJm3cSfh_VbtxyXSQ5tS_FhVqPqE5We0bcUc3/s1600/IMG_5523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeLhLC4021Rt5GGVl1bWnHKqfV0LRnCtF1kq1cofVZctQn09YR3tTiUVFYMagQ-B74ObZsOk-qSCOQqGZ5Mt8r_FLG5211kBNuG55brOZJm3cSfh_VbtxyXSQ5tS_FhVqPqE5We0bcUc3/s400/IMG_5523.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #660000;">Wondering where we are going.</span></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm7dG3Sqb4o4NpACRDJJhfYptezVivwSqG5vtJxhY8DQRr_wGfSSmA46W_o3pSwOOYZJ5ZAkPqRUZLqJnxHMsqhzijMHBt8EbxnWsSdeW7yhznsY1tjy0Sbp-NRYB6S0eFK99wXxgiREox/s1600/DSC00969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm7dG3Sqb4o4NpACRDJJhfYptezVivwSqG5vtJxhY8DQRr_wGfSSmA46W_o3pSwOOYZJ5ZAkPqRUZLqJnxHMsqhzijMHBt8EbxnWsSdeW7yhznsY1tjy0Sbp-NRYB6S0eFK99wXxgiREox/s400/DSC00969.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>In the schoolroom. Girls will smile for the camera, Erik has more important things on his mind :)</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Hubby has been the one to get up early and get Erik ready for school. I cannot begin to tell you how much that means to me. I am not a morning person - never have been. Four children and ten years of managing babies has not made me a morning person! If that hasn't done it... it ain't gunna happen! But further to this, and perhaps more importantly; Erik is a growing boy. He is now up to my shoulder in height, and weighs almost half of my own weight. He is becoming more difficult for me to handle, simply due to his size. Most of the time, I am ok; ie. When he complies with all activities and attends to the task. But when decides to be difficult, or when he is simply not attending, I am really starting to struggle. Brushing his teeth has become all but impossible for me. This is where daddys strength comes in. We simply need him to take on part of Erik's personal care just because the boy is getting too big for me. (This entire issue deserves a post of its own. But I will try to stick to the topic at hand).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Having three children at two different schools presents a logistical challenge for us, particularly because they are all of primary school age. It's not as though we can send off our teens to get to school on their own while we tend to the younger ones. Because they are all still young, they need to be supervised on their way in. However, Eriks' school has a private bus service at no cost to the parents. How lucky are we! You don't have to take up on it, but of course, we did. It means that all we have to do is get him to the pick up/drop off point, which is a lot closer to home than the school is. The only problem is, we have been allocated one of the earliest pick up times and latest drop off times. Erik needs to be at that bus stop by 7:18am. And I don't get to pick him up until 4:42pm. That is a very long day for him - (though he doesn't seem to mind). So with the girls finishing at 3:30pm, this creates a major time gap for me in the afternoons. I lose about one hour everyday just in time wasted because I can't really do anything substantial in between collecting the big girls from school and waiting for him. It has turned out to be a bit of a pain really. But in the end, we are grateful for the service as a whole, and I decided to try and make the best of the 'lost' time by leaving earlier than necessary to collect the girls and having a coffee with my mum while waiting. It's good, because I get to see her a little bit everyday.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8KLp0gboK0EyOWrRUMI9lMmttMDFZvb61_z5qKBUxzM4T8cAik9f_10y8vO8zBsHfbmnwsWOX1dKspLGG_nQF2TG2hOBBrWT5rRGuUYEcTUeZjyxyQLf4WQiQBkgpUkA26s-wy2rRqxr/s1600/DSC00978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8KLp0gboK0EyOWrRUMI9lMmttMDFZvb61_z5qKBUxzM4T8cAik9f_10y8vO8zBsHfbmnwsWOX1dKspLGG_nQF2TG2hOBBrWT5rRGuUYEcTUeZjyxyQLf4WQiQBkgpUkA26s-wy2rRqxr/s400/DSC00978.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>The bus.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Putting Erik on the bus each morning always leaves a little flitter in my heart. Oh, I know.... letting your little one toddle off to school like a big kid is always a bit sad for mum, but this boy here... he is my baby. He is so much more vulnerable than most other kids. And to put him on a bus and wave goodbye...? Eh. It is hard. I didn't do that with the girls! And they aren't autistic! But, we put our reservations aside, and let him take the bus anyway. After all, they have been doing this for 30 years, so they would understand what it is like to deal with an autistic kid, right? And Erik really does love it. I knew he would. He has always loved car trips, and anything with proprioceptive input. The bus is a fabulous way to get a daily dose of that. Twice! </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The school has a really good curriculum. It is totally different to the sort of thing you would learn at a mainstream school, yet they still manage to do things related to numeracy and literacy and all the basic general topics that primary schools need to do. Just not in the conventional way. They fit them in around learning basic skills that normal kids can just pick up along the way. Erik is learning how to communicate with PECs again. He is learning how to actually <i>sit</i> for a group session - (believe me, this is a big deal for us!) He has learnt how to get his own lunch box out of his bag and open it. He is learning how to engage better, and, from the first week I could see such a difference! </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0QOgMuxLSc0_oQ60zXK3Djhqb2zAnOF07gJUg2bnCL60PWQkn1q-FOEsMfBfrvf8utODwue8P5X0l5Do94j_KzWjY9Cb5KeCoWWGDQKEs5_1-mx5dDdZ6TwnWHk8gVOv3qJVqCFlbeLu/s1600/DSC00967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0QOgMuxLSc0_oQ60zXK3Djhqb2zAnOF07gJUg2bnCL60PWQkn1q-FOEsMfBfrvf8utODwue8P5X0l5Do94j_KzWjY9Cb5KeCoWWGDQKEs5_1-mx5dDdZ6TwnWHk8gVOv3qJVqCFlbeLu/s400/DSC00967.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>I love it when a toy manages to capture his interest!</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZEJJcfJRDwNEE5ITUdxW0kdBEOtKpz8VcU4EavEFtNJoIqPxLvxE10lnZlJxrd-FEsN3qLuP_GOIh-5U0QCjhnvGMZgE0RStAh9c8JIamotylGCuEpUF2ZVgPXX-LRokZ1vbTTs-e_qt/s1600/DSC00968.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZEJJcfJRDwNEE5ITUdxW0kdBEOtKpz8VcU4EavEFtNJoIqPxLvxE10lnZlJxrd-FEsN3qLuP_GOIh-5U0QCjhnvGMZgE0RStAh9c8JIamotylGCuEpUF2ZVgPXX-LRokZ1vbTTs-e_qt/s400/DSC00968.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
From that first week, he came home so bright, so much more 'with it'. He would stop me and look into my face, making eye contact and smiling at me. He is echoing more, babbling more, repeating more things that he might have heard somewhere at some stage. The second day of school, he was already wearing his bag! I tried quite a few times to get him to wear his own bag during the kinder year, but he wouldn't have a bar of it. These teachers are amazing!</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2frMkjvbVrUSkQMyKu8aL1mHd-05G55phlKZc3pIKztyLaDrjV-7foUe0xE_ZpQKwBnFnlwkbdIyim880C_jFxAiqw7AXt-mkgzwrFAnoNx8QMfcl5JwBc0fYGNQi2Qtl7gM502EaDbDm/s1600/DSC00972.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2frMkjvbVrUSkQMyKu8aL1mHd-05G55phlKZc3pIKztyLaDrjV-7foUe0xE_ZpQKwBnFnlwkbdIyim880C_jFxAiqw7AXt-mkgzwrFAnoNx8QMfcl5JwBc0fYGNQi2Qtl7gM502EaDbDm/s400/DSC00972.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #660000;">Bag on his back = Win!!</span></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
They have taken him (and all the class) on excursions several times already. To know that someone else has taken my son out and about without me is so far-out for me. You have to understand; I NEVER let this boy go with anyone but his father or myself. For good reasons. So knowing the teachers do this really makes me nervous! But we gave our full consent at the beginning of the year, and my oh my, we have seen the benefits! My beautiful boy is so much more compliant when we go out and about now. He will hold his fathers or my hand willingly, and walk along with us with very little trouble. I'm not saying that outings are now completely free of meltdowns and absconding, but those incidents are greatly reduced. To the point where I have been able to take all four children out to get groceries, by myself, on two occasions these school holidays. Amazing!</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
From early on in the school year, Erik and one other child in his class were identified as high priority for OT. To know that they were able to see this need in my son, without me having to point anything out, was so reassuring. They really know what they are doing; my heart is at ease. On the other hand - and this is the bittersweet thing about having a child like Erik - it makes me a little sad to know that my child is one of those who needs intensive and specific attention. But the point is, they are providing him with what he needs.<br /><br />More and more I am satisfied that sending my son to this Autism specific school has been the perfect choice for him, and I couldn't be more grateful. I love those teachers and aides - I really do. I am grateful for my country, for the way they seek to include, assist and always look to do better. Oh, yes, we could always do more. But what we have is already a blessing.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
xx</div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-47349108393762950522013-07-08T22:35:00.002+10:002013-07-08T22:36:50.428+10:00Enrolling In SchoolThis post is a little overdue. Ok way overdue. We are already halfway through the year! Still, I think I need to record this, if not to help someone else out who might be going through the same thing, then at least for memories' sake.<br />
<br />
It's another long read. And mostly boring details. <br /><br />I started the enrolment process early last year. Around April actually. The system is so involved that many parents get lost trying to work out what to do. I was very lucky to have someone who knew how things worked on the inside, and an excellent support worker through EI to help guide me and reassure me along the way. No special favours, just good and timely information. Knowledge is power as they say. Nevertheless, I still encountered dramas and stress along the way.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Step 1. Enrol at mainstream school.</i></b><br />
The first step was to enrol at our local school, just the regular way. So I did. I went to the same school my daughters go to and placed an enrolment form. I mentioned as I handed it in that I was, in fact, looking to send my son to a special school due to his autism. So they knew from the beginning that this process needed to move further.<br />
<br />
After this, there was an interview with the campus principal about the enrolment, just to confirm that Erik needed further assessments associated with the enrolment process. It was quite some time before I heard back from the school regarding when those assessments would be. This upset me a bit, as I had made sure to get in early so that my application would be in by first round. However, we were not to begin assessments until Term 3. I was very concerned at being put off until then.<br />
<br />
You see, places at the special school are limited. And often, parents do not know if their child has been accepted, until <i>after</i> the school year has already begun! Not the parents fault, but the system is such that it just works out this way. Very stressful for us. Which is why I wanted to get in early, so that I would know for sure whether Erik was in or out by the start of December. At least that would leave me enough time to arrange an alternative if he was not accepted.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Step 2. Assessments.</i></b><br />
There were three assessments that needed to take place; a speech assessment, a cognitive assessment, and a questionnaire completed by his kindergarten teacher (Vineland). All had to be less than two years old, which meant that the reports I had from the speech therapist and psychologist at diagnosis time, were already past date. Appointments were arranged, both to observe Erik, and to speak with the primary carer - me.<br />
<br />
I was warned that this would be difficult for me. Emotionally confronting. The reason being that we had to look at my beautiful child from the perspective of the worst case scenario. There would be a focus on the negatives here, not the positives. Not the potential. Only the lack and disability. I was ready. I was fine. Sad, but fine. I really didn't think anything we discussed would be different to what we see every day. In a sense, we see the worst possible scenario every day anyway, and so, I am already accustomed to seeing 'the worst'.<br />
<br />
The speech assessment was fairly straightforward. Erik does not speak. There are no words. There are no sounds that symbolise words. There is no communication whatsoever, including picture exchange or augmentative devices. My son cannot communicate except by crying and screaming. There was no confusion about those answers, the situation here was clear to everybody.<br />
<br />
Erik's kinder teacher struggled to complete the questionnaire. She had been told to answer according to his behaviour in the worst case scenario - Erik on a bad day. This should not have been difficult though, as his behaviour was fairly constant, and was always at the severe end of the spectrum. The problem for her was that she had been trained to see the best in children - to see their potential and report on the positives. So telling it like it is for Erik was hard for her, and very discouraging.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until I saw the report for the cognitive assessment, that my heart sank. Bottom line; it could not be administered. He was that severe. And so, our psychologist had to estimate his cognitive abilities:<br />
<br />
<i>"...an attempt to ascertain Erik's cognitive capacity could not be made at this time. Based on Erik's behaviour and autistic features, as well as extrapolating from his Vineland scores, it is estimated that his intellectual functioning currently falls within the 'Mild-to-Moderately Intellectually Disabled' range."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Wow. Just wow. He is so bad they can't even assess him properly.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, 'Mild to Moderately Intellectually Disabled' - that is better than I expected! I always thought there was more inside than people could see. There is something in his eyes... a bright but elusive spark. Intelligence and understanding. Funny how some tests just can't pick up on that. I could though. And that one small line - 'Mild to Moderate' - made me smile. It confirmed to me that I knew my own son well. I just didn't expect anyone else to see that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFtqtdyGkPKfeWYxls-3L1FLAFRNdA4Mun9T6sSWbxEgTwQI58TA1NAjqBBsXhfGvU3Ag9XOnF4jTcq4fJOpKtsTPnUMsOma7vcGXTG_dL32aF4fejFq6J_xnLJljs5PWo0e7fbi28wd7/s1600/DSC01100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFtqtdyGkPKfeWYxls-3L1FLAFRNdA4Mun9T6sSWbxEgTwQI58TA1NAjqBBsXhfGvU3Ag9XOnF4jTcq4fJOpKtsTPnUMsOma7vcGXTG_dL32aF4fejFq6J_xnLJljs5PWo0e7fbi28wd7/s320/DSC01100.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #660000;">Part of the Psychologists report.</span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<b><i>Step 3. Educational Needs Questionnaire.</i></b><br />
Once all these assessments were completed, and Educational Needs Questionnaire needed to be filled out. This was to be done in a meeting with the Psychologist, a representative from the Department of Education, the Principal of the school we originally enrolled at, and ourselves as parents. This was where we agreed on a score for several areas to present to the Department of Education (DoE) as an estimate of his overal needs. This score would go far to determine the level of funding the DoE would provide for him throughout his school years, and whether he was in fact severe enough to really need to attend a special school. Once that was decided, a notification would be sent to the relevant school and an offer of placement sent to us.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcu2jBMn9moLNO_3DB6EZJFAJ0upHzyoMyxfuWQMEsV-xzGceGq5EuE6HdDBwORs8wcCyrQcxQEEbea1d4f0J6xCWRsvAZfYeettRGg-dbrslCqSmiBKobiEIbelbdqQr8HhlL3BfZKjoY/s1600/DSC01102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcu2jBMn9moLNO_3DB6EZJFAJ0upHzyoMyxfuWQMEsV-xzGceGq5EuE6HdDBwORs8wcCyrQcxQEEbea1d4f0J6xCWRsvAZfYeettRGg-dbrslCqSmiBKobiEIbelbdqQr8HhlL3BfZKjoY/s320/DSC01102.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #660000;">Part of the ENQ. Erik needs constant supervision.</span></i></div>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The Waiting Game</i></b><br />
Right throughout this process I had stressed to all involved that I wanted this done A.S.A.P, because we wanted to be sure of Erik's placement. In my mind, the autistic school was the place for him, and there was simply nowhere else I wanted him to go. <i>But</i> if he wasn't accepted there, we would certainly be fine to look into other special schools. The one thing I knew for sure, was that mainstream school was not for him. It would be completely pointless.<br />
<br />
And so, the ENQ was sent off to the DoE. Now the waiting game begins. <br />
<br />
And I waited. And waited. And waited. And then I began to worry. The time was creeping by and I had heard nothing. And so on the advice of my wonderful EI worker, I called the school to see how the application was progressing and if they had heard anything.<br />
<br />
Good thing I did.<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Drama</i></b><br />
When I called the school to enquire on the progress of our application, I was shocked to hear that they had already been contacted by the DoE, but had decided not to inform me. The reason being, our application was returned due a missing signature. A missing signature. One signature. Missing. But, apparently, I was not to worry because it was all being sorted for me. Oh, yes, by the way, it meant we missed the first round cut off.<br />
<br />
"Livid" is a very mild word to describe how I felt about this. Not only about the situation as a whole, but more so that the school deemed it unnecessary to inform me of this development. Long story short, we discussed this error of judgment on their behalf and the principal apologised profusely.<br /><br />But back to that missing signature..... Way back when Erik was first diagnosed, he had a team of specialists assessing him. One member of that panel had to be a psychologist, and it was his signature that was missing. Apparently, he did not sign his diagnostic report. The school tried to contact the clinic where diagnosis was made, but the psychologist had long since moved on from there. Unfortunately, the clinic staff were less than helpful, and would not forward the details of where this fellow had relocated to. What made things more difficult, was that he was, in fact, from New Zealand, and quite possibly may have returned there by now. Seems like we were not going to get this signature. You can imagine the frustration I (and hubby) were feeling about this time. I felt like my sons whole future hung in the balance, all over this one stupid signature. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, it was vitally important to me that he attend the Autism-specific school. No other school would do. The threat that he might miss out on a place due to these delays made me realise that this was far more important to me than I had originally thought. I began to stress hard. I cried, and prayed, and poured my heart out to those people I knew who were connected to the school and who understood the process. I received nothing but the most gracious support from them.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, the school principal had tried to contact the head paediatrician who was on the diagnostic team. She had a previous history with this doctor when he had treated her own children for something many years ago, and they were on good terms. Nevertheless, it was his receptionist that took the calls and relayed the information, as he was too busy to fuss with an annoying issue like this. His response was, that 'no such signature was required at the time'. End of story. But the DoE would not budge. They insisted on that signature. It didn't matter that Erik's case was clear to all - including the DoE by their own admission! - They wanted that signature. Red tape much?<br />
<br />
I cried and stressed and cried some more - there was no way we could get a hold of that psychologist to get a signature from him - what were we going to do?<br />
<br />
My EI worker sent an email to the Autistic school, my SIL called her colleagues at the Autistic school, and our playgroup facilitator, who also worked for the Autistic school, spoke to the principal there. In case you're wondering - yes, I felt this was overkill. But they insisted, and did not mind. And so, word was sent back to me that a position was held for him in the school and I was not to worry. They fully understood the red tape that frustrated everybody, and knew without a doubt that Erik qualifies and would receive funding (eventually). I was encouraged to go ahead and enrol him anyway, and not to worry about the funding. In fact, they even sent out the paperwork so I could do so.<br />
<br />
This went a long, long way to allaying my fears. I couldn't thank them enough for going out of their way just to reassure me that he would have a place. I prayed with a grateful heart thanking God for these wonderful and caring people. I just found it amazing that all these people were so positioned in my life at just such a time, so that I could find this reassurance - not taking for granted that many other parents simply do not have this privilege! <br />
<br />
In the meantime, the assessing psychologist came to the rescue with the application, writing up a new and current diagnostic report for Erik, and <i>signing</i> it, so that the application could move ahead.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtLPcyXU9i0yq1EBJE8eyFHYLxpbcFt50sGiZTwkQQ6c5kEkxW-YrAuZ63RBVtgYFlF9t64ZOXWZ4Rb6SoZil5cdSHaT67HpOvPNfJLzSZGgrPN9PNsqsuvFBs8lgd5OOVhJAgEjQPLX6/s1600/IMG_4958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtLPcyXU9i0yq1EBJE8eyFHYLxpbcFt50sGiZTwkQQ6c5kEkxW-YrAuZ63RBVtgYFlF9t64ZOXWZ4Rb6SoZil5cdSHaT67HpOvPNfJLzSZGgrPN9PNsqsuvFBs8lgd5OOVhJAgEjQPLX6/s400/IMG_4958.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #660000;">April last year. An Easter treat for my babies - the chocolate is bigger than their heads! LOL</span></i></div>
<br />
<b><i>And In The End....</i></b><br />
I assume the funding all came through. But to be truthful, I have still not heard back from the DoE or original school as to what his funding level is. We received an offer of placement from the Autism-specific school, and the rest is history, as they say.<br />
<br />
He has been there two full terms already, and is loving it. And I would very much like to know what our funding level has turned out to be. Maybe I should chase that up......<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-66806402765292948342013-04-22T11:54:00.000+10:002013-04-22T11:54:53.808+10:00Toilet Training Day 13 - The Last DayMy husband let me sleep in today. A lot. I stayed in bed till after 11am. He is a treasure. Last night I complained that I had lost my appetite completely. Hungry, but there is nothing at all that appeals to me to eat. It had been slowly creeping on since I started toilet training - I cannot eat when unhappy or stressed - and is a strong sign of depression for me. That, and not wanting to get out of bed. So he kindly let me sleep late.<br />
<br />
While I was asleep, Erik had poo'd in his night time nappy, and poo'd on the living room floor. Hubby had put him on the toilet straight after, but I don't know the details of whether or not he showed Erik how poo goes in the toilet, etc. I found the change mat out on the bed too, so I know that daddy cleaned him up the old-fashioned way. Oh well. I guess he didn't know to clean him up at the toilet. Sitting him on the toilet was a good move though, and I was told he didn't poo very much.<br />
<br />
Hubby has taken all the girls to church today, and I am at home with Erik. It is the second week we miss church because of toilet training. I hate it, but I can't put a pull-up on him just for church, and I can't send him in with the high risk that he will wee or poo out in kids church or even with me. So we have had to stay home. School starts again tomorrow, and I am pretty sure I'll have to send him in with a pull-up on. But I count that as our efforts for these holidays finished.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, I'll send in a note for the teachers asking whether it was worth continuing the no-pants method for the three or so hours after school that he is awake. I dearly hope they say no. How cowardly is that. It's only three hours! But here is my conundrum: Is it better to cease this method entirely and keep the toilet training efforts intensive and all out? Or is it better to carry on, even in a small half-here-half-there capacity, until we achieve success? I am hoping they can advise me on this, and whatever they suggest, I will go ahead with. Even though I want to run a mile (or 100) from anything resembling toilet training once tomorrow comes.<br />
<br />
About 3pm, I notice the characteristic dance that he does when he needs to wee. I take him to the toilet and wait it out. We sing, we count, we play. I let him stand and walk around rather than sit on the toilet. It's a wee, and he will need to learn to wee standing up eventually. He is so strong and stubbourn, I honestly don't know how he manages to hold on for so long! But eventually, in a moment of distraction, he starts. He always stares down at himself in shock and disappointment when he starts a wee without his nappy. But I gently say "Good boy!" and quickly place the bucket under the stream. He chuckles again. So cute. When he is done, I immediately pour it into the toilet while he looks on. "Wee goes in the toilet bubba. Good job! Now we flush. Ready, set, go!" *flush*. I lead him out to the kitchen where he gets a chocolate freckle. He is very happy to receive it. Then I go back to clean up the bits that got on the floor. A small success!<br />
<br />
There is nothing more for the next few hours. But then at about 6pm, I see that same dance. We are almost finished dinner, but I am still eating mine. Hubby offers to take him to the toilet, and I gratefully (but with some trepidation) accept. It usually ends in screams when daddy does this duty. Sure enough, several minutes later, I hear the telltale screams of a meltdown coming from the toilet. I leave them be, but after a while it becomes too much. Erik is upset, and we will achieve nothing this way.<br />
<br />
I go to the toilet to check on hubby - I know what it's like trying to handle a screaming boy, so I want him to know that I am here if he needs anything. I notice that he has Erik sitting on the toilet. I tell hubby that I don't usually get him to sit for a wee, only if there is poo happening. Hubby asks how can I tell. Hard to explain with a screaming boy in the background. Long story short, we swap places. Erik is not happy to still be made to stay in the toilet, but I am quickly able to distract and settle him with our usual songs and games.<br />
<br />
In a short time, he begins to wee. He really was busting. This time, he is standing close to the toilet, so instead of using the bucket, I gently turn him so that the stream flows into the toilet. Mostly. Some lands on the seat, and some dribbles in front. But you get the idea LOL. Another little chuckle. I love those chuckles. As soon as he is done, he tries to back away. I spontaneously decide to attempt one step further, and try to show him how to 'flick' it clean. He doesn't want to know LOL. Maybe that's too much at this early stage. Never mind. I gently but joyfully praise him for weeing in the toilet. Then lead him by the hand to get him another freckle. Oops! Forgot to flush! Never mind. That's not as important as actually weeing IN the toilet!<br />
<br />
Oh. My. Gosh. Did that just happen? I mean... it's not as if he actually told me he needs to go, and then purposely wee'd in the toilet, but still! He wee'd IN THE TOILET!<br />
<br />
WIN!! <br />
<br />
Back to dinner. A short while later, I notice he needs to poo. Back to the toilet, and this time, I get him to sit. Then it occurs to me that it might actually be bed time, and he has school tomorrow. I call out the door to ask hubby the time. Yep. 7:39pm. Past his bed time. I don't bother with waiting out the poo - based on our past success rate with this particular venture, I don't think it's worth keeping him up another hour for what will likely be another fail. So I take him into the bathroom, and shower him, pj's on and put both him and the Baby Miss to bed. <br />
<br />
I gently try to tell him that there will be school in the morning. He regards me with those precious chocolaty eyes. I don't know how much he understands most times, but this time, I think he understands me. I guess tomorrow will tell. But either way, I am pretty sure he will be over the moon to be going to school. And considering he has been basically housebound for the last two weeks, bored witless and subjected to a massive overhaul in his life's patterns, I can't say I blame him.<br />
<br />
As for me....<br />
<br />
I am almost sick with relief that these two weeks are over. And yet, at the same time, I feel as though they have gone so fast. With the small wee win we had tonight, could there be an imminent success if we continued? <br />
<br />
I don't know. But I do know, I can't send him on the bus with no safety-guard (ie. pull-up). He has not had a pull-up on for two whole weeks. Only his night time nappy. I do hope the act of putting one on doesn't undo everything that has happened over the holidays. On the other hand, it's not like we've made massive leaps in progress that there would be anything major to undo. Ugh. The whole issue does my head in.<br />
<br />
I hope the depression that has sunk in over this time doesn't hang around. I hope it never comes back. But somehow, I don't think I have seen the last of it. It's just something that seems to come with this territory. I will have to learn to be stronger.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow: disinfect the couches, floors, whole house LOL. The rug may have to wait until later in the week when we get a warm dry day. I want to take that one outside and give it a good wash down and leave it to dry in the sun. But although the house itself might be able to return to normal fairly quickly, I think I might need a bit of time before the stress of the last two weeks washes away from my soul. I will have to plan something pleasant for myself. Which is a lot harder than it sounds.<br />
<br />
Deep breath, and move on.<br />
<br />
....Well done beautiful boy. You wee'd in the toilet! Oh, I am holding on to that tiny victory.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-4600558465471305652013-04-21T19:12:00.001+10:002013-04-21T19:12:33.251+10:00Toilet Training Day 12<br />
I have been up since very early this morning, before 5am. I just couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind I think. So I was already up when Erik got out of bed, which was at 6:30am. After breakfasting him and the Baby Miss, I took off his night time nappy, as usual. Knowing it was risky, I lay down on the couch to doze. I had the bucket close at hand in case it was needed. But I prayed I wouldn't miss anything due to being sleepy. He looked like he needed to both wee and poo. But by this time, I was sooooo tired. I fell asleep about 8am, all kids up and about.<br />
<br />
Amazingly, I didn't miss anything. He did nothing, though I kept waking up to check. It wasn't till I was up and about again that he wee'd. Fortunately I was very close by and immediately grabbed the bucket and caught all but the beginnings of it. Yes!<br />
<br />
He whined a little bit. He didn't like it this time. With a gentle and positive tone, I encouraged and reassured him. Then, he chuckled a bit. Sweet boy. It was quite a long stream... he had been holding for some time again. He seemed to get distracted with what was going on though, and he tried to keep walking away to attend to something else while he was still weeing. I thought that was a little bizarre, but I managed to keep him there till he was done.<br />
<br />
When he had finished, as usual, I went to take it and him to the toilet to dispose of it. But this time, he would not come with me. He resisted and screamed and dropped and then stood up and ran off. I deposited the bucket in the toilet room and went to get him. But first, a small reward. I fetched one of his favourite chocolates of all time - a freckle. One measly little freckle. It's a big deal for him though. So gave it to him with lots of positive praise about weeing in the bucket. As he was eating it, I gently walked him over to the toilet to dispose of the wee. He didn't fight me this time.<br />
<br />
School goes back the day after tomorrow. I don't think we will have gotten anywhere by then. But I'm sticking it out for two more days. Just two more days.<br />
<br />
About 4pm in the afternoon, I notice a smell. I have been keeping a close eye on him all day, so I knew a poo was close. Checking his bottom confirms everything and I take him to the toilet and settle in for a while. We play. We sing. We play some more. He keeps trying to get off, or stand on the toilet seat. At one point, Baby Miss comes running by stark naked. She stops behind me and says "Mum, where's my clothes?" I look at her, and though I am delighted by her super-cuteness, I ask her sternly "I don't know, where are they?" She says "I don't know" and runs off again. I call out after her to get herself dressed, even just pyjamas. She dutifully brings me her favourite pj's and I help her on with them. At least she is wearing <i>something</i>. Cheeky little monkey :)<br />
<br />
Next thing I know, she is standing at the back door calling out to her sisters, who completely ignore her cries. Her shouts of this nature always elicit a response from Erik. And not the best response either. The situation quickly escalates and I sense a meltdown coming on. I cannot leave my post, or he will escape, and may possibly poo somewhere else. No one answers the Baby Miss, and no one heeds my call either. They probably can't hear it. I feel like I'm going to snap.<br />
<br />
Mercifully, she gives up calling to her sisters, and Erik settles down again. But I've been pressed a bit more than I could bear. I can only wait with him another 10 minutes, then I let him go. The total time has been 1 hour 10 minutes. I let him outside to play, concerned that he will let it all go out there. But I am so beaten, I leave him be anyway.<br />
<br />
After organising a no-drama dinner for the little ones, of vegemite toast and sliced apples, I set up the Baby Miss in her bubble bath. While I'm not looking Erik does a wee. I only notice after seeing droplets down his legs and on his feet. I haven't found the puddle yet. It has probably seeped into the rug by now :(. Missed it again.<br />
<br />
A short time later, I hear my hubby exclaim "Ohh... are you doing a poo Erik?". I hurry over and sure enough, poo. A little on the floor, and a little on the couch. I send him to the toilet with my husband while I clean it up. I find a little more on the kitchen floor. I check in on hubby with the boy, but he said he is fine to stay with him, so I finish bathing the Baby Miss instead. While I am washing her hair, she screams. This elicits a meltdown from the boy who is in the toilet right next door. I can't help it, her hair must be washed. I make it as quick and painless as possible. And check in again on hubby. But as I check in, I find he has already given up and is bringing Erik out to wash him down.<br />
<br />
But distressed or not, I am not satisfied with the short time the boy has spent on the toilet when he literally has poop hanging off his bottom. So I take over from hubby and take him back in for a little longer. I only take him off when I realise it is 15 minutes till his bedtime. I shower him, pj him and put him to bed with his little sister. Needless to say, he did nothing on the toilet.<br />
<br />
I am so brain drained, it's not funny. One more day. And I insist on persevering despite the obvious fact that we have gotten nowhere since we started all this.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br />
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-53210014168251984462013-04-20T11:44:00.001+10:002013-04-20T11:44:55.505+10:00Toilet Training Day 11<br />
Woke to find a small firm poo in his nappy today. Good he got some out. We seem to have avoided the constipation issues so far, thank God. I have let him outside to play, since the weather is lovely. I couldn't keep him cooped up in here, it's not fair. Bad enough he has hardly been out for the whole school holidays, except for three trips to the playground. Cold weather is just around the corner so I want to take advantage of the sunshine. The downside is that I know he will poo and wee while outdoors and nobody is noticing him.<br />
<br />
True enough, he comes in a short while later with poo stains on his bottom. Never mind. And this time I don't even bother looking for the evidence! LOL! I am sure he has wee'd outside too, as there hasn't been anything today that resembles him needing to go. So I guess, all in all, there has been nothing for me to catch/train with. Honestly though, I think I needed the break. Even though there seems to have been no real training happening, at least he has no nappy on, and so I have avoided that backwards step so far.<br />
<br />
What an unremarkable day. I have managed to catch half a wee that he did while standing on the edge of the couch, but that's it. There have been no more wee's and no more poo's (or threatened poo's either).<br />
<br />
However, we did have an hour long meltdown at dinner due to him being way overtired and nearly falling asleep while waiting for his food. That was very taxing, putting it mildly.<br />
<br />
He is now in bed. All I want to do is zone out with a book or some mmorpg. But my daughters need my attention. I try to put my brain into gear. Maybe a movie together might be a good compromise.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-18236348905185600652013-04-19T13:44:00.000+10:002013-04-19T13:44:59.907+10:00Toilet Training Day 10<br />
I got out of bed late today. I spent half the night waking up suddenly and thinking I was having a heart attack (yes literally!) - I am sure it's all stress related - and so I was very tired in the morning. But also, I just didn't want to face the day.<br />
<br />
His nappy was not very wet when I took it off. I have been very vigilant with him all day, because there is no more 'pattern'. I took him to the toilet to wait for a wee at one point when he was walking around agitated. Stayed in there for ages. Nothing. So I brought him back out again.<br />
<br />
I sat down right beside him with the bucket and towel within reach. I stayed there doing nothing, just being at the ready, for ages. Still nothing.<br />
<br />
I went to get a coffee for myself and sit down to read some news - a five minute break if you like. I would get up to check on him literally every minute. Nothing.<br />
<br />
Then, when I wasn't checking on him, I hear a splishing sound. He's weeing! Sitting down on the entertainment unit again! Lightening fast, I grabbed the bucket and ran to catch it. But by the time I got there, he either stopped the stream, or was finished. Fail. I want to cry.<br />
<br />
Nothing else for most of the day, and I watch him like a hawk. I get nothing done all day because of it.<br />
<br />
At dinner time, I warm up leftovers for the kids to eat, and then put a pair of jocks on Erik so he can sit down to have his dinner. (Yes! I managed to get him to wear them again! Win!). He sits and starts to eat, but keeps getting off his seat. I get a phone call from my mum that requires me to check something in another room. When I get back, I find he has wee'd. Sigh. I clean him up and put fresh jocks on him and put him back to his dinner.<br />
<br />
He is halfway through eating when he decides he can't sit anymore. I know what is happening. He needs to poo. It's the same time as hit him last night. I let him off and watch him closely while I try to quickly put some potatoes into the oven for our dinner. Suddenly, I catch a light whiff....<br />
<br />
I run over to him and check his jocks... yep. Little bit in there already. Calmly walk him to the toilet, take his jocks off and sit him down. I call out to my husband on the way if he could put those potatoes in the oven for me. I brace myself for the long haul.<br />
<br />
I don't know how much time went by as I waited in there. Erik on (and off) the toilet, me sitting on a step stool directly in front of him to keep him on the toilet when he tries to come off. I don't know how long we were in there, with the odor of poo assaulting my nose, but there was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He holds on.<br />
<br />
All at once, my strength and resolve crumbles. I begin to cry. I weep and I sob like I haven't done in a very long time. The tears keep coming and I can't stop. I hope and pray no-one else in the house can hear me weeping. I am glad that my son can't seem to understand the emotional break-down occurring in front of him. I can't stop. I just can't stop. Every time I take a breath, I release it with massive sobs and heaves. It's just too much.<br />
<br />
I try to clean him up while I'm weeping, so I can let him out. We have been in there for ages. He won't let me clean his bottom. I break down into fresh sobs again, and put him back on the toilet. Crying my eyes out, I just don't know what else to do.<br />
<br />
A short time later, he comes off the toilet and I leave him be. It's pointless anyway. He's not going to poo there. Maybe he will poo standing up? He leans over me onto my lap instead, his poo-stained bottom not far from my nose. Tears are still rolling down my face as I take the opportunity to calmly clean his bottom with a wet wipe. Finally, I can let him out.<br />
<br />
I meet my husband as we open the door. He takes one look at me and asks if I'm ok. I don't even remember what I answered with. I ask what time it is though, and mercifully, it is now bedtime for Erik. I go into the bathroom to wash the poo off my hands, scrubbing hard to get rid of the smell that always seems to linger. Noticing my reflection in the mirror.... I look a right awful mess.<br />
<br />
I wipe my face and eyes and re-tie up my hair - Erik had pulled at it so it was all frizzy. A little better. I put his pyjamas on, daddy prays and we kiss the little ones goodnight. I still have to face my mother, who comes to collect some things for my daughters who are sleeping over there, and I still have to cook dinner for the rest of us. All I want to do is bury myself in bed and hide from the world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-82379602985655470962013-04-18T17:56:00.002+10:002013-04-18T17:56:59.267+10:00Toilet Training Day 9<br />
I am so incredibly discouraged today that I feel like giving up. But being a stubbourn girl (I wonder where the boy gets it from *wink*), I set out to try for two solid weeks, so that's what I'm going to do.<br />
<br />
Just to prove to me that he is not going to stick to the pattern I thought was forming at the start, he wee's on the couch at 11:15am. And yep, I missed it. Upset doesn't even begin to describe. What is wrong with me? Why am I not more vigilant?<br />
<br />
Later in the day, we have one of those rare times where Erik is actually engaged in an activity, playing with a car set without anyone assisting or structuring the play. I notice him stop playing, and start doing the hunch and grunt walk. Uh oh, he needs to poo. I rush over and catch a teeny whiff which confirms my assessment. Quickly I walk him over to the toilet, gently explaining that poo goes on the toilet. He comes with me and sits down, although resistively. He really needs to go, and I'm praying that he hasn't held it enough to stop the process by the time we got there. I start quietly counting. He keeps trying to get down. I notice his breath smells like eggs, and I'm worried. Is he getting sick from holding it in too much? Or is it just that I have been struggling to brush his teeth lately? - he's so big and strong now, it's really hard for me to manage him. I do hope we don't have a case of gastro starting up that is going to sweep through the house. I wish he could tell me if he was feeling sick.<br />
<br />
I count to 200. Nothing. He has held it in again. I let him go. Maybe I can catch it later. And pigs might fly too.<br />
<br />
The weather is pleasant again today, and I can't not let him go outside to play. I just know though, that he is going to let it go outside somewhere. I let him out anyway. My prediction is true. I bring him in and clean him up and keep him inside instead.<br />
<br />
I can see that he needs to wee, so I grab the bucket and hang around him. "Wee, Erik?" He hunches and presses at his bladder and grabs himself. He is uncomfortable. I take him to the toilet and we wait in there for wee. It doesn't happen, so after 10 minutes, I let him out again.<br />
<br />
I stop to make myself a coffee. As I walk over to the TV to change the program for the kids, I step in something wet. Great. Missed it again. I think maybe I need to go back and adopt my first days' policy of 'drop everything and just follow him all day'. There is nothing remotely like a pattern happening now!<br />
<br />
Not long after, I notice a smell and a closer look reveals a little bit of poo hanging off his bottom. What!? There were no signs this time! He was just playing with his alphabet book literally right in front of me! I grab him and sit him on the toilet, but not before that little piece falls off and he steps right in it. And then on the book. At the toilet, he holds it in again. I clean his feet and bum and let him go. I am so discouraged right now I just want to give up. It would be so much easier to just stick a pull-up on him :(.<br />
<br />
Easier for now. I don't want to be cleaning up a 40 year old man, and if we don't do this now, I will be. I will plod on.<br />
<br />
While I am cooking dinner, he quietly wees on the couch again. I only notice when I hear a dripping sound that is wee dripping down on the tiles. Too late for me to catch it or do anything. Sigh.<br />
<br />
He does the poo-smears-on-the-bum trick no less than 6 times today. I have watched him closely the rest of the day, and every time he starts hunching and holding his tummy, walking around with that look of concerned concentration on his face and grunting quietly, I quickly and quietly take him over to the toilet and sit him down. He has become more compliant with coming to the toilet now, but will still get up and walk away if I leave him.<br />
<br />
Every time I catch him starting to poo and take him to the toilet, he stops.<br />
He. Just. Stops.<br />
I don't know how he manages to hold it in, but he does. And I will stay at the toilet with him for a goodly amount of time - 20 minutes minimum - but not long after I let him go, he is hunching and grunting again. The last 4 or so hours have been utterly overwhelming for me with this pattern.<br />
<br />
The last time I put him on the toilet and then let him off again (20 minute stint), I left him to come over and update this journal just quickly. I left him for less than five minutes, eating his dinner standing up at his place rather than sitting on his stool. It was no more than five minutes, no jokes, and when I went back into the kitchen, he had pooped. We had just come out of the toilet less than five minutes ago! Trying ever so hard to conceal my despair, I gently showed him the poo at his feet. He looked at it, and stood awkwardly, keeping his legs firmly together. He really didn't want me wiping his bottom again.<br />
<br />
I brought the bucket over, and using tissues, scooped up what I could, showing him each time. "Poo!" I said gently. He watched. Then I walked him to the toilet and showed him again as I tipped it in. "Poo! Poo goes in the toilet". I flushed. He didn't even flinch. That's progress I guess.<br />
<br />
I took him straight into the bathroom and washed him down. He still didn't want me to clean his bottom. After the craziness we'd both had of almost poo's and so much wiping that afternoon, I couldn't blame him. As gently as I could, I cleaned him up, dried and cuddled him. I put his night time nappy and pj's on, and, since he had mostly finished his dinner anyway, I put him to bed. He went straight to sleep.<br />
<br />
I am utterly deflated tonight. This is so exhausting and demoralising. I just can't get this right. I am sure I am expecting too much too soon, but still. I can't help feeling like an utter failure.<br />
<br />
I want to look at the bright side: He is getting used to pooping and weeing without the security of a nappy on. This is good! I am also saving a lot of money on pull-ups. This too is good!<br />
<br />
But the smell of the house and the unsuccessful day are a constant reminder that really, I still haven't gotten anywhere with this.<br />
<br />
I was looking forward, all day today, to doing some cake when I had some time. It cheers me up, and it is something I love to do. Chocolate fudge cake with espresso ganache and hazelnut praline buttercream. I was going to cover it with fondant and have a play with some decorating techniques before enjoying the cake with the rest of my household. Now, even though the kids are in bed and I'm free to play, I'm too depressed to find the motivation. I just want to go to bed and cry. I really hope tomorrow is better.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-44745732251462149382013-04-17T17:02:00.001+10:002013-04-17T17:03:32.933+10:00Toilet Training Day 8No poo this morning. None all day in fact. I guess yesterdays purge cleaned out his system. But I didn't manage to catch anything today in terms of wee either. He wee'd once in his pj pants, early in the day when I wasn't expecting a wee from him. That was the only wee I have seen of him today. He is tipping all the patterns upside down, so I can't predict anything. Stressed out doesn't even begin to describe my state at this point.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, in the middle of dinner, I could see that he really needed to use the toilet. He got up off his chair and refused to come back. I left him because of my suspicions. Watching him as closely as I could while managing the Baby Miss, I realised I could smell poo. I found although he hadn't actually done any, there were smudges on his bum. It was as though his body was desperately trying to make one, but he was hunched over walking around and doing his utmost to hold it in. And doing a stellar job of that. His belly was rock hard. He wasn't distressed, but he was whining and obviously uncomfortable. I took him to the toilet to wait it out, hoping that Baby Miss wouldn't get into any mischief while I was otherwise occupied.<br />
<br />
He danced around and I waited. I held the bucket out for wee and waited. He didn't like that, so I put the bucket down, and waited. Then I sat him on the toilet, and waited. Then he didn't want to sit anymore, so I let him off, and waited. We sang songs, and I waited. I spoke to him quietly about making poo on the toilet, about him being a big boy now, about how he would be ok. He croaked in response (and I nearly hooped and hollered for joy!) "No - mm". Twice he responded that way as I quietly spoke to him. But - and here is the thing that always gets me - it could have been something else...<br />
<br />
You see, the last few days he has been singing to himself "Noma, noma, A B teeeth! Neh tah wer eh si weh meee". Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful to my ears and delightful to my heart. A little something to cheer me in the middle of this toileting nightmare. So yes, it could have been that too. Still though, I took it as a response to my quiet talking to him. <i>No mum, I don't want to use the toilet.</i><br />
<br />
So I waited and waited, all the while with one ear listening to the Baby Miss chatting at us from behind the door (oh, she never stops, bless her). Then I sat him down on the toilet again and began counting as I waited. Quietly counting in his ear, he seemed to be able to settle. I counted all the way to 200, he loved the pattern of it. But still nothing. I let him go. We had been in there 40 minutes.<br />
<br />
I showered him, put his nappy and pj's on, and put him to bed. Failed again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xxViviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-82219726464032312842013-04-16T22:42:00.000+10:002013-04-16T22:42:46.062+10:00Toilet Training Day 7No poo this morning again. Haven't seen anything like a wee for most of the day either, so I decided to take advantage of the pleasant weather and let him outside to play. As soon as I did, he let go. Poo that is, and likely a wee too, let us just assume. He came inside soon after and I could smell it. I quickly went outside to see if I could find the package but it was nowhere to be found! Another phantom poo. The remnants on his bottom were the only evidence. I took him to the bath to clean him up and went outside to try to find this poo again. Didn't find the poo, but found a butt naked little Baby Miss frolicking around the shallow kiddie pool we use for our dog's water, in full view of the construction workers over the back fence!<br />
<br />
Oh the joys. I took her inside to dress her and sort her out, secretly taking much joy in the fact that she can actually undress herself if she wants to. When I returned, I could smell another poo. What? Again?! Errgh!! Back we go to the bath to clean up. And then I went outside to see if I could find these phantom poos.<br />
<br />
While I was out searching, I located the fresh one almost immediately. Our beautiful dog, who was happily following me around also located it. And then she showed me exactly why the phantom poo's were phantom.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Eeewwww!!!<br />
<br />
Yes, it's exactly what you think! She took one sniff, then picked it up in her snout, quickly catching it when it slipped, and guzzled it down without a second thought. I almost threw up on the spot as I watched her trotting away, her tail wagging merrily.<br />
<br />
Later that afternoon, he started to wee behind a couch in the lounge room. It was Miss Jane who alerted me to it, the clever girl. But bucket was nowhere to be found, so I missed it. I was really annoyed. How could I just misplace such an important thing?<br />
<br />
In the evening just before dinner, I managed to get a pair of jocks on the boy. Win! This is definitely a good step. However, just as I was serving up dinner, there was that telltale whiff in the air.<br />
<br />
Oh no.....<br />
<br />
Poo in the jocks.<br />
<br />
For the third time that day, I cleaned him up. At least he is clearing his system. I would rather that than have constipation issues on top of everything else.<br />
<br />
Trying to look on the bright side: The one benefit from all this toilet training is that it is saving a lot of pull-ups!<br />
<br />
I put on his night time nappy, and put him to bed. What a day :(<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1311924585407045591.post-74350723724543884262013-04-15T13:12:00.001+10:002013-04-15T13:12:17.310+10:00Toilet Training Day 6<br />
No poo this morning. I'm a bit disappointed. He has been very irritable today, and I'm pretty sure it's all about not being able to 'go', or rather, <i>choosing</i> not to 'go'. I have put him on the toilet a little more today. Trying to pick up my game in that area. So hard. He still fights it, but not as much. I still dread it though.<br />
<br />
We put pants on and go to the park. He stays dry for the whole time we are there, which is about 1.5 hours. Good boy! A couple more times sitting on the toilet through the day. To no avail. I suppose I have to revisit at the aim of that: And that is to encourage him to be comfortable and settled on the toilet. Not so much to have him poo or wee there already. I guess. Wee maybe. Ugh. Who knows. I'm so confused and discouraged right now, I can't even think straight.<br />
<br />
Don't need anymore details of the day other than the fact that he went upstairs to wee again. Anywhere where nobody will notice him is what he aims for. So it was upstairs, on a desk on the landing. He likes to climb stuff, so he was on the desk when he wee'd. I had only just got home from an errand, so didn't have the chance to actually follow him when he first went up there. I had looked around and asked "Where's Erik?". Nobody realised he wasn't actually in the room, or the next room. And so I missed another wee, and I feel like we're not getting anywhere. <br /><br />Depression over the toilet training and even my life's role as a carer to this amazing little guy are sinking in. My life - our lives - are so limited because of him. I wouldn't swap him for anyone, and I wouldn't undo him if I could, but oh sometimes it is hard. To watch life passing you by with things you want to do and achieve and you know you can't, because you have to be on call for this precious life. And I feel guilty for feeling depressed. And it all goes 'round and 'round.<br />
<br />
Later that evening, I notice he needed to wee again. So I take him to the toilet. I let him stand around rather than sit on the seat. I sit down on a little step stool in there and talk and play with him. He finally got so desperate, he just couldn't hold on anymore. As soon as the wee stream started, I grab the bucket to catch the wee. "Good boy Erik! Wee! Good boy!" I gently try to encourage him. He did try to push the bucket away this time. Not very strongly, but still. I am so disappointed when he does. It feels like two steps forward, ten steps back. Still, I caught most of it in the bucket and then emptied it straight into the toilet while he watched. "Wee goes in the toilet Erik. See? Look. Wee in toilet". I gave him a chocolate freckle, and then, being that it was bedtime, put his pj's on and put him straight to bed. I'm emotionally exhausted. Very glad I caught at least one wee today, but so disappointed in all the missed ones.<br />
<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Viviannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10995482065976676352noreply@blogger.com2