Today was Andrew's last day of Junior Kindergarten. It has been such an eventful year, I am kind of glad that it is behind us. His report card showed us everything that last week's assessment showed us, so it was a bit anti-climatic.
The question becomes what will happen for the next two months. Of course, Andrew will get some old-fashioned summer school work, thanks to having two parents who are teachers. We have no money, so there will be no vacation.
I still have some personal goals to accomplish. There are the last 5-8 pounds to drop. I imagine that my visits to the gym will increase to about four days/nights a week. I still have a ton of writing to do on my "book." Next week is the start of a writing class, so that will give me a conducive work environment.
I have to get ready for school and I don't even know what I am teaching. I have to get ready for Student Council and I haven't even contacted my new officers. This last month has been such a haze and maze of Andrew-centric activity that I have let the ball drop in other areas.
I have the new goal of not getting lost in Andrew's diagnosis. I still need to go out and have fun and be me. I'm trying to convince some people to go to Long Island to see a certain singer (GT) in September. I have to keep vigilant to simply be a mom who happens to have a child with autism, not the Autistic Kid's mom.
That's enough to keep me busy for a while.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Just the beginning
The end of the assessment process is just the beginning of a lifelong journey to manage a condition that seems to touch on every aspect of life. Andrew has been diagnosed as mildly to moderately autistic. As much as I had anticipated the results, as much as my intuition told me shortly after we came home with him in 2005, hearing the psychologist talk about the formal results of the testing was a blow for which I had no defense.
The written report is ten pages long and is a combination of the statistical results of Andrew's tests and family and observational narratives. Both my husband and I are teachers, so looking at statistics related to assessment is something we are used to doing. I can't help but think about those parents who are far less educated than we are and how they confront a litany of numbers and percentages. What was most striking to me was Andrew's score on verbal-based skills. He could easily answer many questions aloud. He stumbled, not surprisingly, at defining things in a manner that another person could understand. I remember that his definition for train (an object of obsession) had something to do with tracks and that was it. Overall, his verbal score was in the mid-normal range. His performance skills, on the other hand, were very low - 16th percentile. Tasks in this skill set included pencil and paper tasks (which he did not complete) and grouping pictures together based on similarities. The categorizing test was the one I thought he phoned in. As with any assessment, the picture you get at the time is it. If a child is not trying, that lack of effort is just mixed into the results. Overall, there was nothing in the assessment report that surprised me. I've been living this for four years now.
The report ends with nine recommendations. Some of those tips address the cognitive skills (welcome to Momma's summer school) and some address the social/behavioral issues that he exhibits. The social worker will contact us next week to set up a meeting. From there, we will set up a series of goals to help Andrew. For example, he has been screaming "I NEED HELP" when he grows frustrated at the littlest thing (i.e a Lego won't stick exactly as he wants it). Teaching him breathing exercises to help him regulate himself is very important.
I've received a great deal of encouragement from many people. I've been reminded that I am a fierce and strong and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for this little boy. I told myself that I would give myself one night for crying and then get to the business of living. That's easier said than done. I know that it will take a great effort on everyone's part to help him figure out these social situations that have prevented him from getting any birthday party invitations this year. It will take great effort to help him understand that making eye contact is important. It will take great effort to encourage to one day tell me spontaneously tell me that he loves me(I get jealous when I see his classmates run to their parents and jump in their arms and scream I love you). All of this and balancing it with the life I've been trying to carve out for myself is a daunting task.
Andrew has had to fight from the day he was left on that bus station floor. It is a marvel to me that he has come this far and I know that he will zoom to great heights. If there's one thing we can do as a team, it's to fight for what we need. I am physically and emotionally drained. I'm also grateful that my son is healthy and generally happy. His condition is not disabling and can be managed and somewhat diminished. I need to catch my breathe and get started on a different leg of this journey.
The written report is ten pages long and is a combination of the statistical results of Andrew's tests and family and observational narratives. Both my husband and I are teachers, so looking at statistics related to assessment is something we are used to doing. I can't help but think about those parents who are far less educated than we are and how they confront a litany of numbers and percentages. What was most striking to me was Andrew's score on verbal-based skills. He could easily answer many questions aloud. He stumbled, not surprisingly, at defining things in a manner that another person could understand. I remember that his definition for train (an object of obsession) had something to do with tracks and that was it. Overall, his verbal score was in the mid-normal range. His performance skills, on the other hand, were very low - 16th percentile. Tasks in this skill set included pencil and paper tasks (which he did not complete) and grouping pictures together based on similarities. The categorizing test was the one I thought he phoned in. As with any assessment, the picture you get at the time is it. If a child is not trying, that lack of effort is just mixed into the results. Overall, there was nothing in the assessment report that surprised me. I've been living this for four years now.
The report ends with nine recommendations. Some of those tips address the cognitive skills (welcome to Momma's summer school) and some address the social/behavioral issues that he exhibits. The social worker will contact us next week to set up a meeting. From there, we will set up a series of goals to help Andrew. For example, he has been screaming "I NEED HELP" when he grows frustrated at the littlest thing (i.e a Lego won't stick exactly as he wants it). Teaching him breathing exercises to help him regulate himself is very important.
I've received a great deal of encouragement from many people. I've been reminded that I am a fierce and strong and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for this little boy. I told myself that I would give myself one night for crying and then get to the business of living. That's easier said than done. I know that it will take a great effort on everyone's part to help him figure out these social situations that have prevented him from getting any birthday party invitations this year. It will take great effort to help him understand that making eye contact is important. It will take great effort to encourage to one day tell me spontaneously tell me that he loves me(I get jealous when I see his classmates run to their parents and jump in their arms and scream I love you). All of this and balancing it with the life I've been trying to carve out for myself is a daunting task.
Andrew has had to fight from the day he was left on that bus station floor. It is a marvel to me that he has come this far and I know that he will zoom to great heights. If there's one thing we can do as a team, it's to fight for what we need. I am physically and emotionally drained. I'm also grateful that my son is healthy and generally happy. His condition is not disabling and can be managed and somewhat diminished. I need to catch my breathe and get started on a different leg of this journey.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
What a day!
Today saw the last of the formal tests that have been administered to Andrew as we attempt to find out if he falls somewhere on the autism spectrum. Today's test was an MRI as requested by his doctor. She wanted to eliminated any possible medical reasons for Andrew's behavior, so besides a gazillion blood tests, she also ordered up an MRI.
To prepare for the MRI, Andrew could eat nothing after 8 this morning. Before that time, all he could consume was Jell-o, broth, and clear juice (like apple). When I told him last night that he was going to eat Jell-o for breakfast, he just giggled. In solidarity with my son (and so he wouldn't ask me why I was eating), I had a bowl of cereal and nothing else all day.
The appointment was for 12:15. I wanted him to take it easy and yet I needed to get a couple of jobs done. He helped me water the newly planted hostas and we ran three short errands. As we returned to the car after the third and final stop, the car would not start. It did not click. The only noise it made was a soft whimper, much like the one coming from Andrew in the back seat. A quick glance at the clock showed 10:45. Okay Andrew, we're going to walk. No hat or sunblock. But the route back to our house has full of trucks. I would have taken a bus, but the routes are weird and I would have had to wait for who knows how long. With a boy like Andrew, movement is the best choice. The walk took about 45 minutes (probably less than a journey on the bus). The sun was bright and we encountered very little shade. I was worried about Andrew becoming dehydrated, because he could have nothing to drink before the test. He turned out just fine and I called my husband and left him in charge of handling the car.
I had been preparing Andrew for the test by telling him that he was going to lay on a conveyor belt (like the ones at the grocery store), go into a tunnel where a big camera was going to take a picture of his brain. His reaction? "This is going to be pretty cool." We walked to the hospital (only three blocks) Of course when we got to the clinic, they had been set back in their schedule by an emergency MRI. We went in about an hour after our scheduled appointment. The technician gave Andrew the sedative and about 40 minutes later he was completely zonked out. They wheeled him into the MRI and I returned to the waiting room. A half-hour later, I went and and waited for him to wake up. He slept for another hour and would have slept for more if the technician and I hadn't woken him up. He was extremely groggy and couldn't walk. We were wheeled out to our ride at the front of the hospital.
I had no energy to cook, so pizza and ice cream were on the menu. On Thursday, the psychologist will give us her report. This one will determine if we will be eligible for special services or not. So, until Thursday, I hold my breathe.
To prepare for the MRI, Andrew could eat nothing after 8 this morning. Before that time, all he could consume was Jell-o, broth, and clear juice (like apple). When I told him last night that he was going to eat Jell-o for breakfast, he just giggled. In solidarity with my son (and so he wouldn't ask me why I was eating), I had a bowl of cereal and nothing else all day.
The appointment was for 12:15. I wanted him to take it easy and yet I needed to get a couple of jobs done. He helped me water the newly planted hostas and we ran three short errands. As we returned to the car after the third and final stop, the car would not start. It did not click. The only noise it made was a soft whimper, much like the one coming from Andrew in the back seat. A quick glance at the clock showed 10:45. Okay Andrew, we're going to walk. No hat or sunblock. But the route back to our house has full of trucks. I would have taken a bus, but the routes are weird and I would have had to wait for who knows how long. With a boy like Andrew, movement is the best choice. The walk took about 45 minutes (probably less than a journey on the bus). The sun was bright and we encountered very little shade. I was worried about Andrew becoming dehydrated, because he could have nothing to drink before the test. He turned out just fine and I called my husband and left him in charge of handling the car.
I had been preparing Andrew for the test by telling him that he was going to lay on a conveyor belt (like the ones at the grocery store), go into a tunnel where a big camera was going to take a picture of his brain. His reaction? "This is going to be pretty cool." We walked to the hospital (only three blocks) Of course when we got to the clinic, they had been set back in their schedule by an emergency MRI. We went in about an hour after our scheduled appointment. The technician gave Andrew the sedative and about 40 minutes later he was completely zonked out. They wheeled him into the MRI and I returned to the waiting room. A half-hour later, I went and and waited for him to wake up. He slept for another hour and would have slept for more if the technician and I hadn't woken him up. He was extremely groggy and couldn't walk. We were wheeled out to our ride at the front of the hospital.
I had no energy to cook, so pizza and ice cream were on the menu. On Thursday, the psychologist will give us her report. This one will determine if we will be eligible for special services or not. So, until Thursday, I hold my breathe.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sports
I have a real love/hate relationship with sports. On one hand, I am lucky (some might say) enough to live in a city that can support sports franchises in the four major leagues. I know, it is a bit of a stretch to call the Lions a professional team, but the players do draw a salary. Conversely, I feel that sports play an all too important role in our society.
Some of my happiest memories with my Dad involve sports. We watched endless hours of professional and college athletics together. As a family, we often kept baseball statistics together. Our family never had season tickets to any of the teams in our area, but we usually went to three or four Tigers' games and one or two Red Wings' games (even when they were miserable).
I carried my enthusiasm for sports into adulthood and I found it a useful interest. Men loved that I could wear a mini skirt and talk sports. Dates took me to games using tickets that their companies gave them. Eventually, I took a second job (during my second year of teaching) as an usher at Joe Louis Arena - the home of the Wings. The first game I worked was the now infamous Wings-Avalanche game that broke out in bedlam. The goalies fought. Darren McCarthy beat the hell out of Claude LeMieux. Now that I think about, the blood lust from the crowd was a little frightening. I was completely oblivious at the time, though. The Wings won the Stanley Cup for the first time in 40 some years and I witnessed the whole thing. The following Christmas, I even drank beer out of the Stanley Cup.
Life got busy. I started a Masters program and I had to give up the ushering job. This gave me a chance to think about how weird sports are. Young men (mostly) in high school dream of being a big time athlete. Many push their still growing bodies to ridiculous limits in order to win big college scholarships. As a teacher, I can't help but wonder why we, the richest society on the planet, refuse to more heavily subsidize higher education. These young men could use their brain instead of brawn, Or even better, they could get paid right out of high school to play minor league sports and leave spaces available at universities for those who actually want an education.
These athletes are placed on a pedestal. Their every move is monitored by 24-hour sports television and radio. These forms of media create a crazy amount of faux outrage about something someone in another city wrote about our city. Oh no, someone noticed the abandoned houses in the city - damn them!
I say all this because I will watch the Red Wings tonight. With a little luck, they will win the Stanley Cup tonight and I will feel happy. It will be a tempered happiness. It will not be the same joy I felt in 1997, because I look at it with different eyes.
Some of my happiest memories with my Dad involve sports. We watched endless hours of professional and college athletics together. As a family, we often kept baseball statistics together. Our family never had season tickets to any of the teams in our area, but we usually went to three or four Tigers' games and one or two Red Wings' games (even when they were miserable).
I carried my enthusiasm for sports into adulthood and I found it a useful interest. Men loved that I could wear a mini skirt and talk sports. Dates took me to games using tickets that their companies gave them. Eventually, I took a second job (during my second year of teaching) as an usher at Joe Louis Arena - the home of the Wings. The first game I worked was the now infamous Wings-Avalanche game that broke out in bedlam. The goalies fought. Darren McCarthy beat the hell out of Claude LeMieux. Now that I think about, the blood lust from the crowd was a little frightening. I was completely oblivious at the time, though. The Wings won the Stanley Cup for the first time in 40 some years and I witnessed the whole thing. The following Christmas, I even drank beer out of the Stanley Cup.
Life got busy. I started a Masters program and I had to give up the ushering job. This gave me a chance to think about how weird sports are. Young men (mostly) in high school dream of being a big time athlete. Many push their still growing bodies to ridiculous limits in order to win big college scholarships. As a teacher, I can't help but wonder why we, the richest society on the planet, refuse to more heavily subsidize higher education. These young men could use their brain instead of brawn, Or even better, they could get paid right out of high school to play minor league sports and leave spaces available at universities for those who actually want an education.
These athletes are placed on a pedestal. Their every move is monitored by 24-hour sports television and radio. These forms of media create a crazy amount of faux outrage about something someone in another city wrote about our city. Oh no, someone noticed the abandoned houses in the city - damn them!
I say all this because I will watch the Red Wings tonight. With a little luck, they will win the Stanley Cup tonight and I will feel happy. It will be a tempered happiness. It will not be the same joy I felt in 1997, because I look at it with different eyes.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Grrr - writer's block
In the beginning of April, I was struck by some divine force and wrote prolifically. Not so much on the blog, but on my dream - my book. For the last month, however, I have found that I can't even look at what I've written. Perhaps my mind is too busy with the assessment ride we have been taking lately.
I find this to be very frustrating. I know that there are writers who have children and still manage to accomplish something on a regular basis. I need to figure out for myself how to get to that spot. I sometimes fantasize about going away for a week or two to some secluded spot, in a far away city, in order to find my muse. New York, London, and Paris all come to mind. A small cramped room with something that resembles a kitchen and a busy bar just down the street. I'd spend all day writing and at night, I'd devour the lights and sounds around me.
I'd come home, completed book clutched to my chest and then I'd make dinner.
I find this to be very frustrating. I know that there are writers who have children and still manage to accomplish something on a regular basis. I need to figure out for myself how to get to that spot. I sometimes fantasize about going away for a week or two to some secluded spot, in a far away city, in order to find my muse. New York, London, and Paris all come to mind. A small cramped room with something that resembles a kitchen and a busy bar just down the street. I'd spend all day writing and at night, I'd devour the lights and sounds around me.
I'd come home, completed book clutched to my chest and then I'd make dinner.
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