Light

"When the great night comes, everything takes on a note of deep dejection, and every soul is seized by an inexpressible longing for light." 

Carl Jung

The great night.  Oh, I wish I could be this deep.  Jung was in a jungle in Africa when he thought of this, studying real things.  The jungles, the cultures, and in this particular instance a celebration of the rising sun.  He describes an incredible sunrise and the incredible meaning of it to the people who lived where he was visiting at the time.  He continues, "within the soul from its primordial beginnings there has been a desire for light and an irrepressible urge to rise out of the primal darkness." 

When I need an uplift, I grab a book (any book) and open it to whatever page I happen to open it to and start reading.  It works every time.  And it's wonderful for someone like me who loves instant gratification.  I told someone once that I need a "right here and right now" kind of God, one I don't have to meditate for a hundred years to access (although that probably wouldn't hurt me either).

I need a God who can surface in an instant.  And it's funny, coincidental, or miraculous (however you prefer to look at it), there's been such a message in every book I've ever picked up in this way.  Even books on physics and algebra (eew!).  This morning I picked up Jung's book and read about longing for light.

Now, I'm not studying cultures around the world.  In fact, the thing I'm forced to study seems terribly isolated and idiosyncratic at times.  That "thing" is myself.  And right now I'm up against what is, so far, one of my darkest demons.  Discipline.  Or, I should say, my lack of wanting to provide it.  

In particular, I don't want to discipline Cale.  I wish I could tell you this is because he's autistic so it wouldn't work, or because I have deep seeded issues around discipline and don't feel comfortable disciplining children at all.  Those are the things I like to tell myself, but they're both total crap.  Cale needs discipline just like any other child.  And my deepest seeded issues with discipline are that my strengths have rarely, if ever, included firmness, clearness, and consistency.

I'm not talking about punishment by the way - about swatting Cale's bottom on Thursday for his prolonged tantrum.  I can do that any old time.  It doesn't require the "light" Jung is talking about.  In fact, I don't know that punishment can survive in the "light" Jung is talking about.  I'm talking about discipline.  It's a whole hell of a lot harder than punishing him, especially since he doesn't react normally to life in the first place.  Discipline requires light.

With Cale I've had to break down and think about things that I just do intuitively with Alden and Isabel.  This is going to sound so rudimentary but I need to process through it.  You, however, are welcome to skip to the bottom of the post if you'd like because this is going to sound like a text book for the next few paragraphs.  It's the good old ABC's of a behavior - Antecedent (what precedes the behavior), Behavior (the behavior itself), and the Consequence (what happens right after the behavior).  This stuff isn't new or profound and is probably in every parenting handbook on the planet, but the ABC's can be very useful for me to remember when I need to simplify things again after my mind has complicated them.

The first thing I have to do when I see a behavior is to figure out the function of that behavior.  This can be tricky and it requires my undivided presence.  What is really going on here?  Why is the child behaving this way?  What is it they're trying to get, avoid, or accomplish with this behavior?

The function of a behavior isn't always as it first appears.  Children don't necessarily think the same way we adults do.  And Cale doesn't even think the same way other children do.  An example - Cale and I were at Walgreen's.  I looked down and saw him slowly pulling a Kusch ball out of a box full of Kusch balls that sat on a low toy shelf.  I automatically thought he wanted me to buy it for him (that's what Alden or Isabel would want).  However, I've learned to stop and watch, to pay attention, and to try and think about things from Cale's perspective.

He quickly put the ball back in the box, then slowly took it out again, then quickly back in, then slowly out.  And I realized that what he was enjoying at that moment was putting an item "where it belonged."  It was almost as if it were a bit risky to take it out of "where it belonged" in the first place, a little exciting, and okay as long as he could quickly get it back into "where it belonged."  If I had taken the ball from him (even if he could see I was purchasing it for him) I would've prevented him from putting it back "where it belonged" (which was the function) and I would've seen a massive unwanted behavior.

This unwanted behavior would've continued for as long as the ball was away from "where it belonged" or until he had exhausted himself from screaming and had fallen asleep.  And every time I would've tried to give him that ball to play with, he would've been reminded that the ball was not "where it belonged" and he would've gotten upset all over again.  He didn't want the ball.  He wanted the ball to be "where it belonged."  I was able to catch an unwanted behavior in the Antecedent stage (ie - before it occurred) because I realized that the function of his playing with the ball wasn't what I initially thought it was.  So I didn't try to buy it.  Instead I said, "Okay, time to go bye-bye."  He happily put the Kusch ball back "where it belonged" and walked out the door with me smiling.

When I do actually see an unwanted behavior and once I'm clear about what the function of that unwanted behavior is, then I have to figure out what behavior I want to see instead.  I have to decide on a target behavior (ie - what specific behavior I do want to see).  Often times the target behavior can act as a replacement for the unwanted behavior, but serve the same function.  Not always though.  Sometimes no just means no.

If the function of an unwanted behavior is to get attention, for example, first I as the parent have to decide exactly what I want the target behavior to be.  Do I want the child to seek attention appropriately right then or do I want them to be able to leave me alone for twenty minutes?  Sometimes unwanted behavior looks appropriate.  A child will get your attention in an appropriate manner four hundred and fifty thousand times in one hour.  Maybe this is one of those times he/she will have too sooth/entertain themselves for a little while.  I have to figure out exactly what the problem is and decide exactly what I want to see instead.

I have to get very clear with myself exactly what behavior I want to see and not have any reservations what-so-ever about it.  I can't go changing my mind, my expectation, mid-situation.  It's not fair to my kids.  It can't be a guessing game if it's to be effective.  I have to be consistent.  So I first have to make a firm decision on what target behavior I'm after, then I have to clearly communicate it or teach it to my child, and then I have to insist on it all the way through that particular situation.

If the function of a behavior is to get attention and the target behavior is for them to do it appropriately, then I might tell them I expect calm, grown-up words instead of whining, crying, or misbehaving to get attention.  I tell them as clearly as possible, "You can only get my attention by using your grown-up words (saying "excuse me" instead of interrupting, talking quietly, whatever is appropriate for the child)."  We might have a brief discussion about what that means exactly, but then that's the expectation.

It's most effective at my house to avoid the unwanted behavior from the Antecedent (before unwanted behavior occurs) as often as possible, so I try to pay attention to my kids each and every time single time there's any appropriate seeking.  "What a wonderful job asking so nicely!" etc.

In an ideal world a child would have so much attention already they'd never have to seek it negatively, but alas we don't live in an ideal world.  When the unwanted behavior (whining, crying, or misbehaving) happens, then I have to address it via Consequences.  In a nut shell, I can't let the whining, crying, or misbehaving work to get attention.  I can't allow attention of any kind to be the consequence of the whining, crying, or misbehaving or else the child will learn that whining, crying, and misbehaving are, in fact, very effective ways of getting attention.

I have to completely and totally ignore any whining, crying, or misbehaving because getting attention is the function of the whining, crying, or misbehaving.  If the child is little and still needs to learn the target behavior (if he/she doesn't know it already) then I also have to teach the target behavior (wait until the child is tugging on me and crying into my face, then, "I'm waiting to hear your calm, grown-up words" might be my initial prompt.  Then the prompting is slowly faded out until I'm confident the child knows what to do).

If they know what to do and still won't do it (if it's actually just defiance) then I just don't given them any attention until I see the target behavior (calm, grown up words).  If they start doing something dangerous or start trashing the house then I intervene physically without words or eye contact (as little attention as possible) until they decide to try the target behavior.  Oh, this makes them really mad.  With my kids, there's always an increase in the unwanted behaviors first while they test me to see if I'm really serious.  Then, suddenly it seems, I start seeing the target behavior most of the time.

Here's an example of using the ABC's with Alden and Isabel:  I want Alden and Isabel to sit at the table to eat their food.  With three kids it's too messy, nor is it safe, to allow them to run around and eat food wherever they want.  First, what's the "function" of not sitting at the table?  Sitting at the table isn't particularly fun for them so they want to avoid it.  So the function is avoidance. 

The target behavior is that they sit at the table to eat.  And since the function is avoidance, avoiding it absolutely isn't an option.

Again, it's most effective in our house to avoid an unwanted behavior at the Antecedent rather than wait until after and provide consequences, so we have a meal time routine.  Food is not allowed unless it is "meal time."  Meals are at certain times (roughly) every day and the kids know exactly what's expected of all of us (bottoms on the chair, feet on the floor, etc.) during meals.  We all sit down and eat together and Shane and I are right there to enforce the expectation.

We've had meals where someone has screamed at the table for the duration of dinner time, but because we were clear about our target behavior which was sitting at the table (not being quiet) we didn't let them leave because of their screaming.  If we had then they would've learned that screaming is an effective way to get out of sitting at the table.  Before long, everyone realized how much more pleasant it was to cooperate.  We also have a routine for meal completion - we say we're finished, ask to leave, put waste into the trash and plates into the sink.  This is required of Cale as well.  It works most of the time.  But sometimes unexpected instances do occur and we see unwanted behavior as a result, making an actual consequence unavoidable.

I give Alden and Isabel ice-cream cones and tell them to sit at the table with them.  I'm tired and busy with Cale and can't sit with them.  Moments later I find them running around in the living room with their ice-cream cones.  They've been ignored all evening and I didn't catch the behavior at the Antecedent (didn't foresee what would happen if I didn't sit with them) so now I've seen unwanted behavior and I have to implement a consequence.

But what's the right consequence?  What I've done in the past has been to take it personally and scold them, "I've told you a million times to sit at the table with your food!  Why don't you listen to me?  I've explained to you over and over why you can't run around with food!  What are we going to do to get you to sit down while you eat like a civilized person?!" etc., etc.

It seems to work too, in the moment.  They quickly run to the table with their ice-cream and eat in tears because they feel like bad kids.  And I've become someone I don't want to be.  A bitch.  Scolding them is nothing more than punishment, an emotional spanking.  It works to distinguish the immediate behavior but it doesn't involve any real learning so the effect, I'm afraid, is usually temporary.

So what's the correct response if I really want them to eat at the table?  Oh, it's the one I HATE to do.  I'd rather yell.  I'd seriously rather punish them and then let them have their ice cream at the table.  "They never get treats," my head will tell me, "they have it so tough, no attention, a distracted mother whose spread too thin, the poor things deserve this ice-cream.  Plus, those ice cream cones were $5.00 for a box of six.  Do I really want them wasted?"  This stuff isn't necessarily easy on the mind, but the required action is really very simple.

Usually, although I'm not perfect, I do the right thing.  I quietly and without saying a word take both ice-cream cones and drop them into the garbage can.  Much more effective and I haven't had to yell, scold, question listening skills, or be angry in any way.  I haven't had to be someone I don't want to be.

It's a lot easier for me to like my kids when I can continue to like who I am in relationship to them, so I try to implement consequences with as few words as possible.  The only explanation I may offer is, "You knew the rule."  And what's so great about this is that they don't have to feel like bad kids.  I can even comfort them, feel sorry for them about it, tell them I love them and that they're wonderful children.  I can even tell them that the "choice" they made wasn't a "bad" choice.  It simply brought them a certain result (one they didn't happen to want).  There's no value judgment what-so-ever.  I can hug and love on them all I want!  But I can't give them the ice-cream.

It goes against every single natural inclination I have!  But I do it anyway and my kids have learned to sit at the table to eat, even when I'm not watching.  They really are well behaved kids.  Too well behaved sometimes I think.

This all sounds great doesn't it?  And with Alden and Isabel I can see this stuff clear as a bell.  But with Cale I can't see it two inches in front of my face.  Here's a rough sketch of what Cale's behaviors look like right now.

Long bouts of continuous screaming beginning with the slam of some beloved household item.  He runs around knocking things over - small tables with lamps on them, plants, chairs, pulling the cushions off the chairs and sofa and throwing everything he can get his hands on.  He throws water glasses, lamps, shoes, toys, straight at the heads of his brother and sister, at my head, he hits me, pinches me, you get the drift.

He's broken his closet doors again, many of his toys, and the screws holding the lock onto the outside of his bedroom door are slowly working their way out of the cheap, soft particle board the molding is made of.  My old houses always had wood molding that you couldn't pull a smooth nail out of without the use of a hammer and propped up foot.  But the lovely, fake, Harmony Lane house is just full of things that look sturdy, but are in reality as flimsy as the props on a stage.

He throws his entire plate of food on the floor at the introduction of every single meal, sending a million cereal pieces into the center of a large splat of gooey fruit smoothie followed by hamburger, water, raisins, cut up pickles, and shattered glass.  He's fast about it too.  He waits until I get up or turn around for half a second to grab the ketchup or answer one of Alden's questions, then he quickly pushes his drink and plate off the table.

As I desperately grab for paper towels, or regular towels, neither of which stay anywhere near the table for some reason (oh that's right, they're all covered in cereal, dried smoothie, and broken glass on the laundry room floor) he throws his brother's plate, then his sister's, and then mine, and if I'm still trying to keep the children out of the pile and clean it up, then he starts in on anything else that's around - movies, items of clean laundry, toys, shoes, therapy aides, etc. and throws them into the pile.

His sister, who has big time dietary issues of her own, crawls under the table and cries with her hands over her ears while Cale screams and throws things.  She can't stand loud noises, and Cale has again become virtually anything but.  I finally lost my mind on Thursday and swatted his bottom, becoming someone I don't want to be.  And I've been beating myself up inside ever since.

Jeeez, do you think the unwanted behaviors have been bringing Cale what he wants?  You bet they have, to some extent anyway.  And someone finally came along to show me where I was snagged.  This post has gotten too long.  I'll finish it up with the next one.

Light - Part 2

"What is the function," Cale's OT asked me Tuesday afternoon, "of Cale's recent behaviors?"

Attention?  Avoidance?  Communication?  He hates his food?  He's crazy?!  I've been with him all day every day for five days in a row and I have spring break coming up!!  I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE!!!!

"He's communicating," I said yawning, exhausted.

"Communicating what?" he asked.

What's going on in Cale's life at present is exactly what keeps me from wanting to discipline him.  First of all, he's hurt and angry and he has no words with which to express it.  Therefore, I've been allowing him to communicate this in the only way he knows how - trashing my house.  His hab./respite care provider quit.  She had spent twenty hours a week with Cale for almost a year.  Now she's gone, he misses her, and he's sick of me.  It was my fault.

Cale needs intensive, daily ABA based therapy (from what I've been told - twenty hours a week or more is required if it's to be very effective for someone with a communication deficit as profound as Cale's).  However, finding a hab. worker that's already trained in ABA is difficult, so SARRC (Southwest Autism Resource and Research Center - God bless them) has been sending a therapist over to our house once a week for three hours to train our hab. worker and myself how to do ABA with Cale.  And we're supposed to do this ABA therapy with him every day - we get ten hours a week of hab. during which our hab. worker was supposed to be doing it, then Shane and I have to pick up the other ten on our own time in the afternoons and evenings (this on top of all his other therapies, homework, dinner, etc.).

My hab. worker had spent almost a year basically just babysitting Cale and suddenly she was required to show up at particular times every day to do intensive, difficult to learn ABA therapy that Cale tends to fight with every fiber of his being.  It isn't fun.  In fact it's outright exhausting.  There were many days I didn't say anything when she wanted to take him to Walmart instead of doing ABA therapy - we both dreaded it and wanted to avoid it.  But one day, she came to do hab.  She rushed in the door twenty minutes after she was supposed to show up for work and asked me, "Do you mind if I just take him with me?  I have to pick up my kids from school."

I had let this type of thing happen over and over again, yet in that particular instant I had a "moment of clarity."  This wasn't going to work.  So I had a heart to heart with her and explained that this ABA therapy may be my son's only chance at communicating some day, "You must be wondering why I'm suddenly being such a freak about this.  We need you to use the ten hours of hab. a week doing the ABA therapy.  Shane and I are already struggling to find the time to do the other ten a week we have to do on our own.  Please understand, we all have to take this very seriously.  This is my son, my baby, and it may be his only chance at learning how to talk."

She did get serious about it and did it every day.  She made it almost two weeks before she quit.  I learned during my first year of teaching high school (years ago) that it's better to start out strict and then lighten up as you go rather than to start out light and then try to tighten up once you see the flaws.  It's a lesson I'd forgotten.  I messed up and now Cale misses her. 

The other things going are Cale's eating problems.  I'm looking for a feeding therapist but they are very hard to come by.  We're on several waiting lists.  Cale has oral problems - it's his nerves or the processing of oral information or something like that.  I don't exactly understand it, but basically, he can't feel food in his mouth the way he should.  And when a food doesn't work out right (he tries to swallow too soon because he can't tell it's not chewed up all the way - he chokes a lot, I'm an expert at the Heimlich maneuver - or he bites his tongue and cheeks because he can't tell exactly where the food is at in his mouth, or I've made a mistake and the food is simply too hot) he completely stops eating that particular food.  He won't touch it again.

So what's happened is, very slowly over the last couple of years, he's become more and more rigid about what he'll eat and has had less and less practice eating a variety of foods.  So the "oral problems" have become worse and worse.  Now if I do get him to try a new food, he chews until it turns to mush in his mouth and then he starts gagging - not necessarily because he can't control the food to some extent, but because he thinks he can't.  He triggers his own gag reflex.

He's officially down to crackers, Rice Chex, bacon, and raisins.  These he feels he can control completely.  The problem is that his cholesterol has spiked (if you don't eat any real fiber it raises your cholesterol quickly - just an FYI).  Also, he's sick to death of crackers, Rice Chex, bacon, and raisins, but won't eat anything else because it's so unpleasant for him.

The doctors and therapists have all recommended I keep putting a variety of foods in front of him, both preferred and non-preferred foods.  They want meal time to be as pleasant as possible for Cale (for him to still eat the only four remaining foods he can tolerate) but they also want him to be exposed to a variety of foods.  "He must be desensitized to different foods," they say.  How can pleasant and desensitized both be in the same set of directions I would like to know?

So I put a variety of food in front of him at every single meal time and he has never ceased to throw the entire plate onto the floor.  We're officially sitting at the table and holding his plate down while he eats, or screams, depending.  So the other two kids don't get juice, or spoons, or whatever they ask me for, "Mommy's busy with Cale (again).  You'll have to get your own juice, even though the damn jug is bigger than you are.  Good luck!"  I really did come to my wits end with this whole situation. 

I explained every bit of this to the patient OT.  It was necessary to discover the exact function of Cale's behaviors, and of mine.

"Cale's has some oral problems," he explained, "but I think his "not eating" is at least partly behavioral.  He should practice eating different foods.

"And how the hell am I supposed to get him to practice eating different foods?  He won't EAT different foods," I reminded him.  The OT is the person, after all, whose supposed to deal with the sensory processing issues.

"I'll show you," he said, and he did something I couldn't believe.  He sat Cale down with peanut butter (a true offender) and crackers and raisins (preferred foods).  Cale wouldn't open his mouth so he smeared the peanut butter on his lips.  He had to smell it, to feel it on the outside of his mouth.  Then he spread the peanut butter onto a tiny piece of cracker and literally pushed it into Cale's mouth.

Cale cried and gagged and screamed and gagged.  Then he gave him a raisin which Cale took thankfully for some relief.  Then, Cale had to eat another tiny piece of cracker with peanut butter on it.  The OT actually pushed it into his mouth every time.  Cale screamed and gagged and I found myself thinking, "He's force feeding my son."

Then, my son looked at the OT and said something ALL of his therapists (and me and Shane) have been working on with him for MONTHS.  We've been trying to get him to say, "NO," rather than throw his plate of food on the floor FOR MONTHS.  The OT wasn't giving him the option of throwing the food on the floor and the OT kept pushing the cracker/peanut butter into his mouth, so he looked the OT in the eyes and said, clearly and with perfect intent, "NO!  NOOO!!"

This was a huge achievement, however because the "target behavior" wasn't communication (the "target behavior" was that he experience the food) at that particular moment, he couldn't honor it.  I knew that, but as I watched the OT continue to push tiny pieces of cracker/peanut butter into Cale's mouth in spite of his communication attempt, a great revulsion welled up in me.

"I can't stand this!" I thought, as massive, sharp points of mama grizzly bear fur began pushing it's way up through thick, psychic skin.  Adrenalin, shaking, tears, the whole nine yards.  Physically I could've pushed over a house.

My mind went crazy, flooding instantly with a thousand rationalizations.  It was like I thought if I could just come up with enough of them all at once, maybe I could pick one sufficient enough to alleviate any guilt about stopping him from force-feeding my son, "You can't force feed a kid!  You just put food in front of a kid that's all!  We're supposed to keep it pleasant!  I can't just sit here and let him do this!  He's gonna expect me to force feed him next!  I can't do that!  I can't do anything for Cale!  His own mother is right here watching this spectacle and not keeping him safe!  How can he ever trust me again?!  I'm a horrible, horrible mother!!!"

Cale was screaming and gagging and crying and saying, "NO!"  My heart beat so fast, my chest hurt, my eyes swelled up so fast.  I sat there holding back tears and standing, as if on my tongue, on top of an instinct more powerful than anything I'd ever experienced before, keeping it from advancing full force onto this guy who was only trying to help.  I really couldn't stand it for one more second.

Thankfully, I suddenly thought to pray.  "God please help" was the only thing I could think.  And I was suddenly brought into the present moment.  More than that though.  It was like I was looking through a tunnel, a telescope specifically designed for that exact moment in time.  Everything began moving in slow motion.  I could see it clearly.  The situation didn't change a drop, but it stopped upsetting me instantaneously.  My emotions just switched off.  And the situation suddenly became fascinating to me, interesting - like a lecture in college.  And I was able to watch exactly what he was doing so that I could repeat it.

After roughly a minute and a half (if that long), Cale was taking the bites right out of the OT's hand and eating them without assistance.  Then the OT stopped and looked at me.  He had tears in his eyes.

"I couldn't honor the "NO," he explained.

"I know," I replied.

We sat silently for a few moments, Cale's chewing the loudest thing in the room.

Then he continued, "If I thought he couldn't physically handle the food, I wouldn't do this.  But I think his "not eating" is mostly behavioral.  Yes, he has some oral problems.  But the way to cope with those is to practice eating different things.  And it's going to have to begin with some desensitization.  Do this every day for five minutes at lunch time when you're alone.  Don't do it at meal time with your family.  Honor NO at every other time except for the five minutes during lunch every day, a time he needs to understand is adult, not child, led.  Avoidance isn't an option for that short five minutes at lunch time every day.  He'll come to expect it and see as routine and he'll figure out that it's really not so bad."

I sighed.

"You require Alden and Isabel to eat non-preferred foods before preferred ones don't you, vegetables before desert for example?  Cale's no different."

He is right.  The function of the behavior is communication and avoidance - I communicate that I don't want the food by throwing the plate AND I avoid having to eat it by throwing the plate, screaming, gagging, etc.  And I've taught him that these behaviors are effective in both functions.

If Cale continues down this road then physical intervention will be in his future anyway so I might as well intervene now.  The OT will be doing some other things also to address the oral sensory processing, but we decided it'll be my job to make him eat non-preferred foods at the designated time every day (alternating with bites of preferred foods for relief).  I'll do peanut butter for two weeks, first on a crunchy (preferred) food like a cracker or a piece of cereal and then a spoonful alone.  After two weeks I'll do another food at that designated time every day, then another, and another, etc.

Next we moved on to addressing the tantruming.  We never have to wait long for an opportunity.  Cale fell off the swing and fell six inches onto the ground.  He started throwing a huge fit.  We checked him over to make sure he wasn't hurt and came to the conclusion that it had probably scared him more than anything.  He hit me when I tried to pick him up, so I left him on the ground.  The OT asked me, "What's the function of this behavior?"

"Well, he could be hurt," I answered.

"I don't think he's hurt.  And even if he is, being hurt isn't a reason to hit someone," he said.

"Well, he's probably just mad because he's fallen off the swing," I said, "It's communication again.  But the hard part for me is that I can't communicate a replacement (target) behavior to him in a way he'll understand.  And he can't communicate at all!"

Aaaww.  And we have our snag.

"He's communicating clearly to me," he said, "Now let's communicate to him that this isn't the way to communicate."

Cale came inside and started trashing the room we were in.  We ignored the screaming but it wasn't appropriate to simply ignore the trashing.  Cale pushed over a chair.  The OT pulled Cale over to it and said, "Pick it up."  He took Cale's hands and made him pick it up.  Cale got even more mad and threw a bowl of cereal that was on the table.  The OT said quietly but firmly, "Pick it up."  He set the bowl upright and Cale put all the little cereal pieces back in, screaming at the top of his little lungs the whole time.  Then he ran over and pulled a cushion off the couch, his upset increasing with intense speed.  I went over and pointed at the cushion, "Pick it up," I said.  He picked it up, put it back, and threw himself on the ground screaming.

I said to the OT, "I could stop this right now by prompting "hug."  He'd say it and get a hug and the tantrum would stop.  Maybe."

He asked me, "Do you want to teach him that this is an effective way to get affection?  Do you think this is an effective way to get affection?"

"Well, kind of... yeah," I said, as I thought about the tantrumy blog-post I'd just published just hours before.

He was kind enough not to actually say, "No wonder you have a tantruming five year old."

We continued to talk, more to distract me from Cale's screaming I think.  And when Cale threw the next thing I went over and said, "No throw.  Pick it up."  He picked it up and put it back and, realizing he wasn't going to get away with acting this way (whether he knew of a better way of communicating or not), he tried even harder.  The OT said, "Remember, it's going to get worse before it gets better."

Cale screamed harder and threw more and more things.  I made him pick up each one of them without the slightest hint excitement in my voice or the slightest sign of affection.

Finally, Cale's cry went from being angry to being sad.  Then, he stopped for a second to take a breath.

"Good quiet Cale!!!!!!!!!!" the OT said.  Cale walked over to him and tried to get into his arms.

"Up?" he asked.

"Uuu," Cale said, so the OT picked him up and hugged him tightly.

Cale continued to cry, but didn't scream or throw anything, for another forty five minutes before he stopped. Ugh.  This is what it's like to discipline Cale.

What I've had to be reminded of is that Cale will not become motivated to do the hard work it's going to take for him to learn to communicate appropriately as long as his current, disruptive behaviors are effective.  And I'm the one who has to make sure they're not effective.  I'm also learning all about appropriate non-verbal communication.  Taking my hand and at least trying to say, "Come here," which is coming out "baaaul er" and leading me to things rather than screaming, handing me a cup for water instead of screaming, etc.

I just thank God we have people in our lives who can reign it all back in again, and a God in my life that help me stop and see if I just ask.

The darkness Jung talks about is, "a darkness altogether different from natural night..."  I know all about that - mis-perception, self-centeredness, laziness, confusion, anger, guilt, fear, all the things that keep me from seeing what's really going on.  But "The moment in which light comes is God," he says, "That moment brings redemption, release... The longing for light is the longing for consciousness."

It was a lot for one therapy session.  And when Shane got home from work I laid down on the couch without so much as a small explanation.  Shane made dinner and let me sleep through it, God bless him.  And after dinner he came into the living room and woke me up, "Sweetie!  SWEETIE!"

"What," I answered.

"I handed Cale a piece of Granola and he ate it!  And when I handed him the next piece he said, "NO!"  He finally said NO!!"

I smiled into his excited and magnificent green eyes, "That's wonderful sweetie."

Freedom

I could've sworn I had a copy of Dante's Divine Comedy.  I sifted through book after book today looking for it to no avail.  I'd like to have it.  I'm just sure it would make me feel smarter.  But I must've sold the trilogy back to the college bookstore for beer money so I could drink until I puked at the feet of some gorgeous football player.  I used to be the girl who chose oblivion over books and boys on a regular basis.  Yeah I know.  That's probably why I don't feel very smart.

The reason I wanted the trilogy today is because I remember something about Dante talking to Sisyphus in Inferno.  I was trying to remember exactly what Sisyphus is being punished for.  Sisyphus is the ancient Greek guy who has to push the massive boulder all the way up to the top of a steep mountain only to watch it roll back down again, repeating this process for all of eternity.

If I remember right, this is his punishment for defying the Gods and for being an all around, general, selfish and self-centered asshole to everyone he ever came into contact with.  But lately I've been wondering if he didn't do something a bit more specific to deserve such a dark mythological destiny. 

I've just re-applied for ALTCCS for Isabel for the third time and I'm already being questioned about why she needs therapy.  "Well," I said, "The doctors keep telling me she needs therapy."

"Is she having behaviors?"

"Come over here and look at her bloody lip," I replied.

Silence.

"Every time you deny her there's more of a chance you'll be taking care of her for the rest of her life," I continued.

I'm not even kind to the state anymore.  I'm very tired of this.  They're coming two weeks from today for a new interview.  Apparently, the criteria changed slightly when Isabel turned six.  Thankfully they'll be focusing more on her "behaviors" now and less on whether or not she can pee in the toilet.

So how did she get a bloody lip?  Excellent question.  Are you comfortable?

Isabel was in a regular education classroom for pre-school last year.  She got off the bus nearly every day after school and cried in my lap for about fifteen minutes.  I grew to expect it and made sure that her brothers were in front of a movie at "drop off" time so I could give her my undivided attention.

She was never really able to tell me what was wrong.  Instead she would say things like, "They all looked at me," and/or "Why couldn't it be my turn?"  I knew these incidents in and of themselves weren't likely to cause a person to cry for fifteen minutes, sometimes longer, hours after they had occurred.

What slowly became clear to me was that it wasn't any particular incident that upset her.  Instead it was a gradual accumulation of stress throughout the day, partly due to her strange sensory issues (watch Temple Grandin, it's such an inspiring story - and Isabel's sensory processing is turning out to be a lot like Temple's) and partly due to not being able to communicate effectively and/or not being able to understand other people.  This stress would then be released all at once when she got to a safe place (home).

This is the reason I had her put at a new school in a self-contained kindergarten class for high-functioning autistic kids this year.  That and because they told me that they'd know what to do with her.
  
Well, according to her teachers, she has done so well in her self-contained classroom (academically she's not behind at all) that they've decided to begin the mainstreaming process.  So right after Christmas break, they put her into a regular kindergarten classroom in the mornings followed by afternoons in the self-contained classroom.

During the first two days of this she came home from school and cried until dinner time.  Then when I tried to get her to eat her dinner she started screaming.  I sent her to her room and there she kicked her bedroom door as hard as she could and gave herself a bloody lip by banging her face repeatedly into the wall.  She did this for roughly two hours after dinner the first night and for only about forty five minutes the second night.

On day three I decided to steal a sensory tool idea from Cale's occupational therapist.  He told me that Temple Grandin's "squeeze machine" not only helped her calm under extreme stress, but that it also helped her overall stress level so that she was able to stay calmer throughout the whole day (I have to use what I learn in movies because Isabel doesn't get therapists of her own until ALTCCS decides she does).

So I bought ACE bandages and wrapped Isabel's arms and legs in them the moment she came in the door after school.  She looked like a little, baby mummy.  I left the bandages on for about fifteen minutes during which Isabel looked at me with immense relief and said, "That feels soooo good Mom."  So we started doing this after school every day for fifteen to twenty minutes and the tantrums stopped.

I wrote both her special education teacher and her regular ed. teacher to let them know what had been happening with Isabel in the evenings.  I explained that it was probably her usual accumulation of stress aggravated slightly by the change in her routine.

I told them about the sensory tools (the ACE bandages) that were working at home and asked if they would have the school's occupational therapist use a weighted vest (a sensory tool commonly used at school - same basic effect, sort of, as the ACE bandages) on Isabel for fifteen to twenty minutes each day after she got back to the special ed. classroom in the afternoons.  I didn't think this would be a big deal and I thought it might help Isabel not have to wait until almost 3:30pm each day to be relieved.  Then I would also use the ACE bandages after school each day and between the two, hopefully, her overall stress level would stay lower.

I also asked them for documentation about the social skills support they're giving her (a brief weekly description of one of her social interactions - again, not a big deal).  It's actually in her I.E.P. that they'd send me these descriptions but they've never actually done it.

Both teachers replied to my e-mail with, and I'm paraphrasing, "We are so surprised at what you're telling us.  We haven't seen any disruptive behavior at school.  Isabel's doing great here."

I sort of expected this response from the regular ed. teacher, but getting this response from the special ed. teacher too was really quite unnerving.  This guy teaches Autistic children exclusively, has for years, and is considered an expert Autism teacher in the area.  I kind of wanted to write him back and tell him it's time for a brush-up on his training, but I didn't.  I paused.  And prayed.  And I still had to call a friend for a brief venting session.  But I had my mind back within the hour. 

Then, later the same day, they wrote me again informing me that they had pulled Isabel out of class to talk to her about why she kicked the door at home.  They told me that Isabel hung her head down and said, "I was mad at Mom for making me drink my fruit shake."  If I had been there I would've followed that up with, "Yes, she's right.  This happens nearly every evening at dinner time.  However, it hasn't caused a tantrum in almost two years now.  Let alone a two hour long tantrum."

The part that's really discouraging (and somewhat revealing) to me is that I think they might have actually expected her to be able to tell them the truth.  What did they expect her to say?  Can you imagine any six year, let alone an Autistic one, saying this?  "Listen.  What I am experiencing shouldn't be judged as good or bad.  It has nothing what-so-ever to do with defiance.  It's simply a gradual accumulation of stress throughout each day and is due, in part, to the fact that I feel every single sensory experience waayyy too intensely.  It's also aggravated by the fact that I think in a completely literal way and I don't fully comprehend the meaning of peoples' words, actions, or facial expressions.  Therefore I often sense, but don't understand why, I'm misunderstanding or being misunderstood."

"This stress becomes more and more intense as the day progresses and makes my mind and body feel out of control, like I might actually, literally, fly away.  Sometimes it actually hurts me.  It's very uncomfortable and makes me want to cry.  But instead of crying at school where I want more than anything in the world to be loved and accepted, I try very hard to wait until I get home (or to another safe place).  Then, when triggered by something small, I go insane.  I'm able to release this stress appropriately (ie - before it's necessary to go insane) by being "squeezed" and/or "grounded" in some other way before I reach a breaking point.  An effective tool for this would be a weighted vest (and/or other O.T. support) for fifteen to twenty minutes during the school day in addition to the I.E.P. specified social skills support."

Instead, of course, she told them about the fruit shake.  Then they preceded to scold her with, "kids at school do not kick things or hit things when they're mad."  So she got in trouble at school for kicking the door at home.  Excellent.  Now no place is safe.

Luckily though, this probably isn't what my daughter actually heard. I don't think this could've translated, in Isabel language, into being in trouble.  The statement was said as a fact, "kids at school do not kick things or hit things when they're mad."  There's nothing about being in trouble in that statement nor is it clear what this has to do with her kicking the door at home.  Isabel probably thought, "Huh.  That's very interesting.  I wonder why she's telling me this."  And the next time Isabel sees someone at school hit or kick something, she's going to wonder why that nice lady lied to her.

The teachers informed me that if Isabel was having problems that those problems were happening at home because of fruit shakes, not at school, and that the school's O.T. would continue doing the same things she's always done.  They also informed me that they could send me descriptions of her social interactions but that they couldn't see how it was necessary due to the fact that they'd all be positive (I'm not kidding).  Then they concluded with, "She is going to thrive in her new environment."

Uh huh.  She is going to "thrive" until the honeymoon period of being in a new class wears off.  Then she's going to get comfortable in your class and stop trying so hard to be "good."  And one day, quite suddenly, that cute, sweet, well-behaved little peanut with the giant green eyes and long, beautiful eyelashes that you thought you had in your class?  Her face is going to split down the center and peel right off of her head, revealing the rest of her true colors.  Maybe Cale's occupational therapist's ideas won't sound quite so stupid at that point.

Sigh...

I already have a rough idea of what my rights are as a parent participant on "the I.E.P. team," but I'm looking for an advocacy class to sign us up for anyways.  I think we should learn the laws and try to become our own advocates.  It could get awfully expensive to hire an advocate every time we come across an I.E.P. team that wants to minimize it's workload.  And yes, I realize that my daughter is only in kindergarten.  But we have two Autistic kids and twelve years of school to get them through.  It can't hurt to be armed with the facts. 

And all I can do to try to get Isabel therapy is keep re-applying for ALTCCS (state medicaid basically) and hope they'll help her.  That and I can occasionally call Shane's medical insurance company and remind them that they're bastards for not covering anything for Autism.  But these are the only bits of footwork I can really do.  And I'll do them over and over and over again because when I'm on my death bed I want to know I did everything I could for my kids.  But the rest of it, the results, what will become of Isabel and Cale, I'll have to leave up to God.  Just watch.  The joke will be on me and Alden will turn out to be the difficult one!

You know?  God's done a good job with me.  There was a time, not even six months ago I bet, when talking (and writing) about this stuff made me absolutely crazy.  I somehow felt personally responsible for the suffering of my kids and I thought that if I could just figure "it" out, get "it" right, get "it" to go a particular way, whatever "it" was, then maybe we could all be okay.  I probably felt like this because my heart was still so heavy about my childrens' newly discovered condition, but it was also because I didn't have the faith yet that I could be okay no matter what. 

It's been a dark year that way, getting to that kind of faith.  I've, personally, had to take a good hard look at all of the worst possible outcomes for my children.  I've had to walk head on, straight through the thickest parts of all the various possibilities and feel the hopelessness in each one of them.

I had to come to accept, first and foremost, that my kids will never become "normal."  Then I had to realize that regression is as common as the rain, that just because one of my kids manage to reach a certain point through diet, medication, therapy, whatever, doesn't mean they won't slide right back down to where they were before within just a matter of days.  I had to give up hope of them getting better and/or staying better.

Just because Cale says a few words today, doesn't mean he won't be silent as a ladybug tomorrow.  This one I've experienced over and over again.  And just because Isabel hasn't banged her head on the ground today, doesn't mean she won't do so tomorrow.  In fact, she might really hurt herself one of these times.  I've not only had to come to accept that one of these times I might not be able to get there in time to stop her, but I've also felt it necessary to take action to protect myself.  I've made the doctors and the state document her "behaviors," AND the fact that I've been begging for help for almost three years now, over and over and over again so they can't act shocked should she one day crack her skull.

I had to come to accept that peace and predictability might never be a reality in my home again.  Ever.  Not even after they've grown up.  That gone are the days of being able to do what I want to do when I want to do it (grocery shopping for example).  And that the self-harming and the screaming might never stop.  Peace and predictability might actually be gone forever.

I had to search for and find the lowest common denominators, the worst case scenarios, the stories about Autistic people who never learn to talk, who can never look at you and smile, who never become potty-trained, who become so violent they can't stay at home, who go live in institutions and who might be able to visit the beach with their families on the weekends depending entirely on a whole variety of little things, who might be forgotten about forever after the death of their parents, etc., etc., etc.

I had to remember the first time I visited my nephew, the one who sat in his room in the dark in front of a T.V. who couldn't look at me, didn't smile, didn't in any way acknowledge that we were in the room.  I had to remember trying to look into his eyes.  I had to remember that I thought, "I could never survive a child like this.  I'd die from a broken heart."  Then I had to make a decision that I would indeed live for him and all those who are like him.

I had to read about the Autism parents who said they had to learn to live without hope.  I had to listen at support group to the parents who honestly didn't know how much longer they could do it all for.  And I had to hear about the few who actually decided not to do it anymore.  I had to listen.  Had to feel it.  Had to let it sink to the bottoms of my toes.

I had to grapple with all that hopelessness until I got so tired that I simply had to stop grappling.  Then I had no choice but to accept my fate and go down.  I quit fighting and just sunk deep under the weight of it, hoping I'd eventually get used to not being able to breathe.  I thought I'd have to learn to embrace being crushed.  Enjoy it.  "Have faith!" as the drippy, blond church goer once said.  I thought this hopelessness would just be my reality from then on.  That that's what true acceptance of reality meant.  I finally surrendered to it. Accepted it with every single cell in my entire body.

Then one day I simply fell out the bottom.  And I was free.  Free of more than just hopelessness.  My children were okay, and my nephew, the parents at support group, etc., etc., etc.  They were all okay, ARE okay, whether they get better or not or change or not, no matter how things go or don't, in this life of ours.  It's okay.  And I've had a terribly difficult time trying to get real upset about anything since.

Through the hopelessness came the biggest and most unexpected gift.  I had always wanted to be okay no matter what.  I just didn't know that that's what I had always wanted.

Suddenly I'm always noticing all these wonderful little things about my children, like what they do for the people in their daily lives.  For example - The bus driver's assistant has been trying every single morning all year long to get Cale to say, "bye bye" to me when I put him on the bus in the mornings.  And this morning he looked right at me and said it for the first time, "bye-bye."

Now, you know and I know that it's a total crap shoot as to whether or not he'll ever do that again.  But she doesn't know that.  She sucked in a big gasp of air as her jaw hit the floor.  She looked wide-eyed at Cale, then me, then Cale, then me, and finally said, tearing up, "He said it!"  And I savored that moment like it would be the very last.  What a gift.  Good job baby Cale, not only for saying it, but for putting a spark of happiness in her day.

Albert Camus wrote an essay published in 1942 in which he talked about Sisyphus.  Camus was a French existentialist who believed that nothing in life, of and by itself, has any meaning.  That nothing happens "for a reason."  Camus believed that life itself is essentially pointless.  Like Sisyphus's task.  Therefore happiness cannot be found by getting things to go a certain way or by reaching a certain goal.  In Sisyphus's case, by finally getting the rock to the top of the hill.  It's just going to roll back down again and there is no deep and meaningful reason why.

He believed that life means what we make it mean.  That we can create just as much (or just as little I suppose) meaning as we want to in this life.  That the pleasure can be in the task itself (pushing the rock up the hill), if we put it there. He said that once Sisyphus fully accepted the hopelessness and futility of his task, and the certainty of his fate, only then could he reach "contented acceptance."  He concluded this essay with, "The struggle itself is enough to fill a man's heart.  One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Reindeer Food

Christmas is my favorite holiday!  Oh...did I say that about Thanksgiving?  Yeah, the people who know me best would be happy to tell you that I say that about every holiday.  The fact is that I really just love celebrating.  It doesn't really matter what we're celebrating.  It's simply my favorite thing to do.

Unfortunately, having kids has ruined many holidays.  That sounds terrible doesn't it?  But it's not.  It's really a matter of perspective.  The first time I heard my father-in-law talk about how he used to secretly hope that one of his kids would get picked off by a fast moving bus when they were little, I was horrified.  Now that I've had my children, I can put that into it's proper place and double over laughing so hard I just about pee my pants.  A much more mature response don't you think?

I shouldn't use the word "ruined" exactly.  Rather, my children have made the holidays "very loud with all the screaming."  Yeah.  That's more accurate.  And I usually find ways to enjoy anyways.  I'm not someone who's easily deterred from celebration.  I've come to realize that for me, suffering because of another's behavior is a matter of choice.  It's not always an easy choice and sometimes I still chose to suffer.  But other times I chose not to, no matter how much screaming is going on.  Still, I have always wished for a holiday when everyone could just be happy.  I've had kids for seven and a half years now.  Seven and a half years.  And before this Christmas, we had never had a holiday during which everyone was happy.

I used to wait for my children to "get" Christmas.  When I had my first baby, Alden, I couldn't wait for Christmas.  I don't know why I thought he would be as excited as I was.  He was only six months old.  He wasn't excited at all.  Instead he pooped in his Christmas outfit, tried to eat the Christmas decorations, and got fussy just in time for the opening of the presents.  I ended up alone in the bedroom nursing him to sleep while everyone else had fun.   Now he celebrates Christmas properly.  He gets so excited he screams like a little girl.

Isabel, who was two weeks old during her first Christmas, was dressed in red, fuzzy pajamas and passed from family member to family member getting snuggled.  She was sooo cute.  It wasn't bad by any means, but I couldn't wait for the day she'd recognize presents under the tree.  Now she recognizes them.  She has very little impulse control.  If she feels like doing something, she just does it right then and there.  She was opening the presents under the tree for three days before Christmas this year.  I had to keep wrapping them back up and telling her she had to wait.

And Cale...well...I've come to accept that Cale will probably never "get" Christmas.  He'll probably never recognize holidays as anything special at all.  I've also come to accept that that's not really so bad.  After all, he has been blessed with a mommy who can celebrate enough for the both of us.  With him I always just tend to hope that he won't scream the WHOLE time we were trying to celebrate.

Cale started a new medication about three weeks before Christmas.  And I'll have you know that I was never, EVER going to be a person who would allow psych. meds. anywhere near her children.  But, of course, that was before I had Cale.  I always told myself that if I had a child with problems, I'd help them with diet only thank you very much.  Now, I'm not discounting diet.  Diet changes alone have done wonders for Isabel, but diet alone hasn't done shit for Cale.  This is partly because we struggle so much to get nutritious food past his lips.

Anyways, do you know what I've come to realize?  That all my half ass attempts to understand the "human psyche" (a patched together bachelors degree in psychology before I found my real passion) have helped me to come to know just enough to be dangerous.  I've come to find out that I actually don't know everything.

Cale has become a completely different child.  It sounds so cliche, but the experience of it has actually been quite powerful.  He's become a calm, smiley, cuddly, present, interactive, and less rigid child.  He's saying a few words regularly and when he starts to cry, I give him a word for what he's trying to get.  And instead of ignoring me and immediately trying to climb onto to the top of the refrigerator, he's stops, still enough in his mind to be able to hear what I'm saying.  Then he says the word I gave him, sort of, and gets what he wants.  He's finding power in his word attempts and he hasn't had one sustained tantrum since he started the medication.  Not one.  It's amazing what you grow to appreciate.  Who cares that he doesn't "get" Christmas.  He hasn't screamed in weeks!

The medication is called Risperdal and from what I understand it's a serious anti-psychotic, part stimulant and part tranquilizer.  The stimulant addresses the ADHD and the combination of the two stabilizes mood and addresses extreme or exaggerated feelings and behaviors.

When a person gets extremely upset (as Cale tends to do over very small things such as dropping a piece of cereal out of his bowl onto the floor), a dose of adrenaline and a dose of cortisol shoot straight into the blood stream preparing the body for a "fight" or "flight" response.  Then, of course, the person has a "fight" or "flight" response (he comes unglued, throws the entire bowl of cereal, screams at the top of his lungs and bangs his head into the walls for at least twenty minutes straight, pinching the face of anyone who tries to comfort him).

This type of reaction is appropriate if, say, one were to find a mountain lion in one's kitchen.  However, since Cale can't tell the difference between a mountain lion and a piece of cereal hitting the floor (because he's so rigid in his thinking - one emotional response fits all negative situations), it's helpful for these shots of adrenaline and cortisol to be blocked.  That's partly what this medication does.  It keeps him from going over the edge.  Now, when he gets upset, it's much like how we would react to cereal hitting the floor.  It's irritating, but certainly not worth blowing a gasket over.

We usually go home for the holidays but we decided to stay put this year and celebrate Christmas in our tract house, christening it with the final stage of being home.  Since Cale was on this medication and not so wild anymore, we actually dared to allow all five of us to decorate a Christmas tree.  It took three straight hours of hanging countless bulbs and school-made, Popsicle stick ornaments to end up with a tree about to fall over from all the decorations being in the lower, left hand corner.  Cale helped by shattering all the pesky glass ornaments onto the floor and bouncing the plastic ones off of it too, just to check.  "The medication is working," Shane and I said to each other, "Look how calm and happy he is shattering those ornaments!"  Again, it's amazing what you grow to appreciate.

"Santa is coming tonight!" I shrieked on Christmas Eve., way more excited than any thirty-five year old should ever get about anything.  The look in Alden and Isabel's eyes was totally worth the blood vessel I almost popped in the midst of my enthusiasm.  We hung the stockings above the pre-fab. gas fireplace with care, and I managed to convince both Alden and Isabel that Santa really would be able to squeeze that massive gut of his through the gas line into the house.  Then we set out milk and cookies for Santa and "reindeer food" for the reindeer.  "It fills the reindeer with magic," I told the kids, "helping them to do the extraordinary!"

It was almost eleven o'clock before my kids finally fell asleep.  Shane and I had eaten Santa's cookies, making sure to leave big crumbs on the plate, and I was outside like a crazy person at midnight sprinkling "reindeer food" so I could prove the reindeer had really had their snack as they were taking off from the roof.

As I was standing in the driveway in my pajamas, feeling very tired and slightly sick from Santa's cookies, I stopped for a moment and looked down at the handful of "reindeer food" I was holding.  The intensity of the longing seemed silly, especially since I knew how much happier Cale had been during the past few weeks.  But I guess I still didn't trust it.  So I found myself wishing that the odd little mixture of Quaker Oatmeal and glitter might give us a little magic for the next morning too.  Then I sprinkled it onto the cement.

The kids burst in at 7am Christmas morning to inform me that Santa had filled the stockings and left presents.  Cale burst in with them, just excited because they were excited.  I instinctively wondered how long his "happiness" would last.  It was the first time he'd be in a house full of people, noise, and chaos (he usually disappears or screams under such conditions) since he started the medication.  "This is where the rubber will meet the road," I thought.

Groggily, Shane and I made our way down the stairs.  We made coffee and threw the casserole in the oven as family started showing up for the big morning.  The tree was bright and sparkly and completely brown.  I really hadn't noticed how dead it had become until our family members saw it.  I got it way too early in the first place and I really don't know how to care for them properly, so the little brown needles fell onto the floor in miniature, prickly truck loads as we pulled the presents out.   Still, it seemed to be turning into a beautiful morning.

We were half way through opening our presents when I realized how noisy it was with all the talking, laughter, and chaos.  It was even bothersome to me, yet Cale was still in the room.  He was sitting on the stairs looking at his presents, wondering, I'm sure, what they were.  I walked over and opened two of them for him.  He doesn't usually play with new toys (the rigid thinking again).  In fact, it usually takes him quite a long time to warm up to a new toy.  But he immediately started playing with his new toys in the midst of all the noise, and that's when I started to cry.  It was Christmas.  And everyone was happy.  He didn't cry one time on Christmas day.

The psychiatrist is a genius in my opinion.  The last time we saw her (just before Cale started the Risperdal) I told her I'd been giving him espresso for the ADHD and she didn't even bat an eye, "Well," she said, "the stimulants we give for ADHD are much stronger than coffee."

After I confessed to just how much coffee I'd been giving him and how much better he was doing in his therapies as a result, she decided to do a stimulant based medication instead of a non-stimulant based one even though he's only four years old.  She was interested to see how he'd do with the Risperdal since this medication has helped some of her other young, Autistic patients.

I haven't seen her again yet since he started it, but our next appointment is in January.  My plan is to kiss her a thousand times.  Do you think she'll mind?  I'll have to tell her that Dr. Chickenshit (the G.I. specialist she was so insistent that we see) refused to address the nutrition component for Cale's high cholesterol.  Hopefully she'll have some other ideas because the only problem with the Risperdal is that it has two side effects.  Can you guess what they are?  Yes.  Of course!  They're constipation and high-cholesterol.  And if this medication spikes his cholesterol even higher than it already is, she'll have to take him right off of it.

Oh hell.  The saga continues I guess.  But I'll tell you what.  If we never again have a Christmas when everyone is happy, I'll still have gotten my wish.  Thank you "reindeer food."

Flipping the Beetle

I've been to the mountains near Prescott a couple of times this year for blessed little weekends away from everything I think I know, quiet spots in the hurricane that goes on in this head of mine.  I went up once in September and again in October.  These mountains aren't like the ones I'm used to in Montana.  They aren't tall or jagged and my ears don't pop on the way up to them.  They're more like a soggy version of the Bull Mountains near Roundup Montana.  The only difference is that they're covered in leafy as well as pine trees.

When I was up there in October, the leafy trees were dripping giant chunks of orange and yellow and reddish brown, a seasonal occurrence that doesn't happen where I live.  The trees in my yard are green year round, so the leaves in this place filled a small longing.

The leaves had become heavy on their branches.  Occasionally one would snap free from the place where it had grown.  At first it would seem reluctant to accept it's sudden freedom and would stay suspended in the air for a long moment.  Then it would begin it's decent, glittering through the air all the way to the ground before landing softly on some quiet patch.  Sometimes a gust of wind would come up through the valley and blast a million sparkly leaves free.  They would fill the sky for that long moment, the dappled sunshine lighting them up from behind, before glittering in giant golden waves all the way to the ground.  It was a great big sparkly leaf show that baby Cale would've just loved.

This area, for some time now, has been having a real problem with beetles killing it's trees.  These beetles were everywhere during the weekend in September.  The women I'd gone up with and I had to be careful not to step on them.  They were huge, shiny, and gross.  They were stupid too.  Everywhere I looked they were lying on the ground on their backs, wiggling their little legs helplessly in the air unable to get up.  No one bothered helping them either because everyone knows what they've been doing to the trees.

One night I left my friends by the fire and went to use the bathroom.  As I entered I almost stepped on one of these beetles.  It was right in the middle of my path.  At first I stepped over it and moved on, but then I couldn't help but go back and kneel down to get a close up look.

It was so big.  I was completely creeped out by it but deeply intrigued at the same time.  It's shiny shell began and ended in sporadic places, a miniature, black coat of arms over the top of soft, yellowish tissue.  It had a weird head with tentacles sticking out what I thought was it's face.  It was belly up with it's round back stuck to the ground, it's little finger-like arms and legs wiggling frantically and creating enough momentum to twist it's body around in little half circles.  "How do you guys even get onto your backs?" I asked it.  The logistics of it seemed impossible, yet there it was.

I really wanted to to turn it upright again but I couldn't bear the thought of touching it.  I could just picture its arms and legs enclosing around my hand, like a bunch of little black fingers, and then not letting go.  Then I'd be stuck with it on my hand and have to freak out, screeching and trying to shake it lose, and then flicking it with the possibility of it landing on some other part of my body.  I shuttered at the thought and said, "Sorry dude.  You're on your own."

I went into the bathroom stall feeling a little guilty and immediately began producing rationalizations.  Then I began lecturing the naughty thing from behind the stall door, "If I get you up you'll probably go bite a tree and make it sick.  Do you know what you and all your little buddies are doing to the forest around here?  Of course you don't.  You're not smart.  You can't even stay on your damn feet."

I listened.  I could still hear it pattering around on the ground near the entrance.  "Stupid beetle," I finished.  

I came out out of the stall and began washing my hands.  Unfortunately, there was a mirror above the sink.  As I looked into it I began arguing with myself,

"I can't just leave it there like that.  Who am I anyway?"

"You're a decent person who cares about the forest."

"No I'm not.  I don't give a shit about the forest.  I just don't want to touch the gross beetle."

"You want all these trees to be here for Cale someday don't you?"

"Yeah, but I really don't think this one beetle is going to bring down the forest.  Besides, if I leave it there like that it will die."

"It should die.  It's gross."

"Maybe," I thought as I stared into my own eyes, "But is that who I am?  I'll think about this all night.  I'll probably come down here at three o'clock in the morning with a stick and try to save the damn thing.  Shit.  I may as well just do it now."

I searched around outside for awhile for just the right stick.  It had to be very long.  I finally found one that was pretty good so I went back in to where the beetle was still stuck to the ground, it's little arms and legs still wiggling frantically.  I slid the stick under it's back and closed my eyes, pretending it was nothing more than a shiny, black pancake.  Then I flipped it over.  It did look much more decent on it's feet.  It stood there for a moment regaining it's bearings.  Then it started it's long walk back towards the trees.

I recently told a friend of mine that all of the answers we need regarding Cale just show right up for us.  "They just show right up!" is exactly what I typed - with a smile on my face and all of the confidence of a woman with some faith.  I guess I didn't want to sound scared.  Heaven forbid.  What the hell's the matter with me that I don't want to sound scared when the truth, quite frankly, is that I get scared out of my fucking mind.  That I don't always trust I'll be able to figure out the right thing to do and that I certainly don't trust anyone else to be able to either.  Maybe if I just keep acting like I have faith, keep saying it, then I'll actually grow some.

Cale had some blood work come back abnormal last month.  The biggest concern was his cholesterol.  The psychiatrist and the pediatrician both panicked and immediately sent Cale to three different specialists (Cardiologist, Gastroenterology specialist, and allergy specialist) to find out why a four year old would have incredibly high cholesterol (the fourth specialist was the E.N.T. for his ears).  For the next week we had doctors appointments every single day (and we haven't even begun to address the ears) quickly followed by testing, testing, and more testing.  And after all of this testing, guess what they found wrong?  Nothing.  Well that's not true.  They discovered that he's allergic to wheat and corn.  I wasn't feeding him wheat anyway, and I stopped the corn that day.

Cale will only eat Rice Chex, Corn Chex (which I've stopped now), and bacon.  He pukes if anything other than these foods manage to sneak they're way into his mouth.  This is due to his "sensory processing issues" and his "rigidity" which would both take me too long to explain.  So just trust me.  He only eats Chex and bacon. 

The only thing these specialists can guess is that his bad cholesterol is elevated because of all the simple carbs. (Chex) he eats, but not because of the fat (bacon) he eats.  His good cholesterol is also high which means he's not eating too much fat.  So the bacon is fine, but putting Benefiber in his water twice a day is just simply not enough fiber.  In a nut shell, Cale needs more food over all than just Rice Chex and bacon.  Fruits, vegetables, and whole grains preferably (but not wheat or corn).  But, like I said, he pukes.

The only thing that has become clear to me in all of this is that some form of nutritional support is necessary for Cale.  And, of course, that is where these twenty first century, western medicine only, doctors have stopped dead in their tracks.

My medical professionals won't touch Autism from a nutritional standpoint with a ten foot pole.  They touch many other disorders from a nutritional standpoint.  But not Cale's Autism.  You know why?  I personally think it's because they're assholes.  Or maybe that's just how I'm feeling at this particular moment :)

It's really because there's a lot of controversy surrounding nutrition and Autism.  I personally try to stay out such debates most of the time, but from what I understand my medical professionals have a "professional landscape" they have to protect the reputation of and they don't want anything "quacky," even it's it's helpful, to compromise it.  I don't know for sure but it seems like they won't entertain anything that isn't scientifically proven (and, of course, they're excruciatingly slow to prove anything scientifically) because they don't want to seem like quacks.  All I do know for sure is that the medical professionals in our lives won't treat my son for high cholesterol from a nutritional standpoint. 

"The biopsy results of his stomach and upper intestines came back normal," the G.I. specialist looked me in eye today.

"Great!"  I said, "So now we know that he's able to absorb nutrition properly?"

"Yes," he said.

"That's excellent news.  So now what?" I asked.

"So just keep giving him the (fiberless) constipation medication twice a day," he continued.

"And?" I asked.

"And we should maybe see him back in two to three months," he concluded.

I couldn't believe it.  I'd always heard about it but I guess I thought that, being an actual medical necessity for Cale, this case might be different.  But no.

Something took me over completely.  I'm not ordinarily a confrontational person.  In fact, I hate confrontation of any kind.  I kind of wanted to just quietly go home and find a different doctor, but, like I said, something took me over.  I suddenly grew a ball sack and thought to myself, "How will these bastards ever face this if parents just keep quietly going home and finding different doctors?"  So I decided to try and get him to flip the beetle.

"The cardiologist said that his cholesterol is high due to the lack of variety in his diet.  And you agree?" I asked.

"Uuuh...yes," he answered.

"Well if nothing is wrong with his stomach or intestines, if he's physically able to absorb nutrition adequately, then it's simply a matter of getting proper nutrition into him to get that cholesterol to come down.  Right?"

"Uuh...well...yes.  I could have you see our nutritionist but you're already putting all of the right foods in front of him.  So I really don't think they'd be able to teach you anything new."

"Right," I said, "my knowledge about food isn't the problem.  It's the fact that he's Autistic and won't eat that's the problem."

He was sitting on a short stool.  He put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands for just a moment.  Then he sat back up again and said, "Yes, he should eat more fruits and vegetables."

"But he won't," I reminded.

"He has lost weight since I saw him a few weeks ago, but all we can do is continue to monitor his weight.  You could give him Pedia-Sure," he tried.

"Pedia-Sure is made with milk.  We don't do gluten or casein, remember?" I reminded him for what felt like the six hundredth time.

His face went back into his hands and I could hear his breathing change.  I thought he might actually be hyperventilating for a moment.  Then he sat back up and said, "All I can do from a medical standpoint is put him on medication to force the cholesterol down, but it wouldn't be a pretty process."

"You wouldn't immediately start a forty year old on medication for high cholesterol, let alone a four year old would you?  No.  You'd start with diet.  I do want to see your nutritionist," I said.

His face went back into his hands so I couldn't see his eyes.  He breathed and squirmed on that stool, his head down near his knees.  He was wrestling with it.  "Come on," I whispered in my head, "Flip it over.  Come on!!"

He sat up again and repeated, "All I can do from a medical standpoint is put him on medication," his face going right back into his hands after the words came out of his mouth.

"I can give Cale liquids out of a medicine syringe.  He'll take anything if I offer him a sucker afterward.  Do you have a Pedia-sure that's casein free?" I asked.  And that snapped him.

He came up out of his chair repeating loudly, "All I can do from a medical standpoint is put him on medication for the cholesterol.  We'll repeat the blood work in two to three months and if his cholesterol is still high we'll start medication."  He made it clear that the discussion was over.

Just in case you're confused, what I was asking Dr. Chickenshit for was medicinal food.  Some sort of highly concentrated, easy to absorb, nutrient filled, liquid supplementation.  Something that I'd really rather not hop on line and try to take a flying crap shoot guess about myself.  Something that should be prescribed and monitored by a doctor.  I know he knows about such things because I had a conversation about it with his nurse the day we took Cale in for the endoscopy.  And she told me that he knows about it, but won't touch it.

Cale is four years old, has severe developmental delays, is losing weight, and has high cholesterol.  Ordinarily, I would think, they'd want to make sure that the right nutrition was entering such a person's body.  But unfortunately, such things aren't "medically proven" yet or something for Autistic kids, and the doctor needs to protect the reputation of his western medical landscape - or himself - rather than help my son.  He decided who he is.  And it looked like it hurt.  Poor guy.  How would you like to be put in the position of not feeling able to help a real beetle?  And my guess is that he's put in that position a lot.  Maybe that's why he reacted so strongly.  Or maybe he was just constipated and this is all in my imagination.

I was just reminded of a dear friend of mine who likes to say, "God is bigger than the boogie man."  And I'm reminded again of who I want to be when I'm looking in the mirror.  Do I really want to be afraid all the time?  No.  I really don't.  I know the answers will come.  They always have before and I have no reason to suspect that it'll be any different this time.  It just doesn't always happen in my way or in my time.  But they still always come.    

I could've walked around for the rest of that weekend flipping those beetles over.  It was tempting.  There were so many poor, helpless, stupid little things.  But I guess my heart just isn't that big.  "Besides," I kept rationalizing, "helping those beetles one by one could actually bring the whole forest down over time."  In the end I only helped the one.  And when I went back down to the bathroom on our last day there, guess who was right back in the same spot, little black legs wiggling in the air?  Stupid beetle.

The Thanksgiving "Mumpkin"

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  I'd like to say this is because I'm so thankful for everything, but it's really because of the food.  I mean, at what other time during the year can one pig out like that and not be considered a total glutton?

Christmas is my second favorite, but only because I love watching my kids squeal in delight.  They don't do that on Thanksgiving.  They start to get excited when I tell them everyone's coming over for dinner, but when they ask, "What will we be doing when they get here?!" somehow, "Eating TURKEY!!" just doesn't produce the same effect as "Opening your CHRISTMAS PRESENTS!!"  It's kind of funny watching them try to figure out my enthusiasm.

I want everything to be perfect for Thanksgiving at my house.  I always have.  It was always perfect at my grandmother's house when I was growing up, and it's only right that I should carry on the tradition.  My dream has always been to have a comfortable, family home for holiday dinners.  A quiet reprieve for my family from the grind of daily life.  A place of warmth where everyone can celebrate beauty, abundance, and togetherness - where we can laugh and remember what life is really about and why we live it.  I've always wanted it to be a beautiful place on Thanksgiving, perfect for reflecting on the passage of the year and for celebrating fresh hopes, new dreams, and all the anticipation of a new holiday season. 

I pour all of my energy into creating an environment like this for Thanksgiving.  In addition to the cooking, I always try to do some sort of creative decorating project.  "I am an artist after all," I always think, "There should be something beautiful to look at around here."  And I tend to focus on the table because that, after all, is where the food will be.

There are times when I'd really like to wiggle my nose and turn into Martha Stewart.  However, I always end up as some semblance of Roseanne Barr on Meth instead.  This is because when things begin to look like they're not going to go my way, I attempt to force them into submission.

This year I found a wonderful table centerpiece in a magazine.  It was called a "Mumpkin" and was basically a pumpkin that was covered in flowers.  It looked adorable in the picture and seemed easy enough to do, so I bought pumpkins and mums and followed the directions.  It said to take a nail and a hammer and gently poke holes into the pumpkin all over.  Then it said to stick the mums into all the little holes and the end result would be a perfect, pumpkin shaped, flower covered centerpiece.

At first I set the pumpkin neatly onto a piece of newspaper on the kitchen table and began trying to tap the nail into it.  It was a very hard pumpkin though.  Pretty soon I had the pumpkin in between my knees, trying hard to pound the nail holes "gently" into it.  After about twenty minutes I had succeeded in creating two holes and had sore hands because I kept hitting my fingers with the hammer every time the nail would finally slide off to one side.  I was becoming quite impatient by this point.  "God," I thought, "This is going to take all night!  And I don't have ALL NIGHT to make a freakin' centerpiece!"  So I asked Shane for his drill.

Upon hearing the request for the drill, Shane stopped and looked at what I was doing for a moment.  I could tell that a thought entered his mind, wrestled with whether or not it should find words, and then, defeated, gently slid away.  Reluctantly, but without saying a word, he went into the garage and produced a drill.

I held that pumpkin down, fired up that drill, and went at it as though this had become a personal matter. It went well at first.  The drill bit dug successfully through the hard, outer layer and finally sunk deep into the pumpkin.  But then, as I pulled the bit back out again, it pulled long strings of pumpkin guts out with it.  I really wanted my idea to work so I kept drilling the holes anyway, but before long it looked like the pumpkin had actually exploded in the kitchen.  I had little pumpkin flesh dots and strings of guts all over the table, the walls, the floor, and me.  There were strings stuck to my pants, covering my shirt, dripping off of my face, and the pumpkin looked like a disheveled head with long orange hair.

I did my best to stuff the gut strings back inside all of the little holes, and the flowers did end up covering up most of the pumpkin's indecency, but the whole process took me over an hour and half to complete.  And the pumpkin, which turned out to be quite lopsided, kept falling onto it's side on the table.  It's little green stem wasn't poking through the flowers out the top like it was supposed to be.  It was poking out the front.  Shane kept giggling at it when he walked by. 

We bought all new dishes for Thanksgiving this year.  Cale recently went through an obsession with the sound of shattering glass and broke nearly all of my dishes one by one.  He would wait until I was busy and then push a chair over to the counter.  He'd climb onto the counter top and open the cupboard, grab a dish, stand up holding the dish over his head as high as he could reach, and then drop it onto the kitchen floor.  He'd absolutely squeal in delight over the sounds of the shattering glass.  I would generally be upstairs doing something and hear the chair scooting across the kitchen floor.  Then I'd run to the kitchen as fast as I could, catch the very end of his display, and then catch him mid-air as he dove off the counter towards the glass on the floor.  Oh how that scared me.

The only glass things that survived were the couple of remaining pieces from an old set of nesting bowls that were a wedding gift from the dad of one of my oldest friends.  He didn't get them because I hid them.  The only actual dishes that survived were a few plastic kid plates and an old Corning ware set that was a hand me down from my Mom.  This I didn't hide.  It's an incredible set really.  Not only is it inexplicably ugly, but each piece has managed to bounce repeatedly off of granite without even the slightest chip.

When Thanksgiving day arrived, we were faced the question of how to set the table with all the new dishes with Cale around.  He climbs onto tables quickly and easily, and we feared that the temptation would be too great for him if we simply left breakable dishes out at his disposal.  And since I'm a Martha Stewart wanna-be, paper plates would not have sufficed for Thanksgiving dinner.

We knew we'd be busy cooking and wouldn't be able to keep an eye on the table all day, and we knew that once Cale discovered the dishes on the table it would mean grabbing him off the table top and putting him back onto the floor six hundred and fifty thousand times during the course of the afternoon, so we thought hard and came up with a brilliant plan.

We decided that all the new dishes would stay on top of the refrigerator until Cale went down for his nap.  Then we'd set the table and not get him up from his nap until we all sat down to eat.  Now, Cale doesn't actually sleep at nap time anymore but sometimes we pretend he does so that we can get things done.  He plays well in his room by himself and this is often a comfort to him.  However, as we found out, if he stays in there too long, he's very energetic when he comes out.

We locked him in his room at nap time (judge if you want, I don't mind) and there he stayed quietly for about an hour and a half.  Then, as soon as we were all sitting down to dinner, Shane's mom got Cale up, changed his diaper, and then put him in his booster chair at the table to join us.  I thought for sure this was a fool proof plan.

Well, shockingly, the last thing extreme ADHD boy wanted to do after being in his room for so long was to sit down at the table.  So he unbuckled himself, got out of his booster chair, and ran away.  I went and got him and put him back in his chair again, showing him his food.  But he immediately unbuckled himself, got out of his chair, and ran away again.

"Did you give him coffee today?" Shane asked me in a whisper.

"Three teaspoons," I whispered back, "but coffee quickly loses it's effectiveness and you have to drink more and more to get the same effect.  That's why they don't use it for ADHD on a permanent basis."

"Did you call the psychiatrist yesterday?" he asked.

"Yes, but she's out until Monday," I answered.

"Oh," he continued, "We shouldn't have left him in his room all that time.  Now the last thing he'll want to do is sit still."

"Well," I answered, "it was either that or a pile of broken dishes.  It's hopeless to try to figure out the right answer ahead of time isn't it?  Oh, I thought for sure this would work!"

I tried one more time, for good measure, to put him back in his chair at the table with us but he simply unbuckled himself again, got out of his chair again, and ran away again.  That time we let him go.

I figured that with everyone eating off the dishes there wouldn't be much danger of crazy boy shattering anything so we decided to let him go ahead and run around.  I really didn't want to chance him ruining the dinner that I'd worked so hard to make perfect.  I didn't want to give him any reason, what-so-ever, to start screaming.  Because when Cale starts screaming, he's not always able to stop.  Sometimes he'll cry for an hour straight before he finally calms or falls asleep.

One of his therapists recently explained to me that kids with Autism struggle a great deal with self-regulation.  What that means is that once they get worked up, they aren't always able to calm down.  A friend of mine from the support group has an Autistic son who sometimes screams for five hours straight before he finally calms down or falls asleep.  It happens.  But I didn't want it happening while our family was trying to enjoy our perfect Thanksgiving dinner.

Well, of course, it didn't take two minutes before he got pissed off about something in the family room and started screaming.  We brought him to the table again, offered him food, offered him toys, hugs, markers, suckers, all of his favorite things in a desperate attempt to sooth him, anything to quiet him just long enough for the family to enjoy dinner.  But he didn't quiet.  He kept screaming and screaming in spite of our efforts, so I finally locked him in his room again where his screaming wouldn't be quite so loud for all of us.  Then he continued to scream and slam himself into the walls while the rest of us ate turkey and pretended to be a civilized family.

"So," I asked my dad in between bites of stuffing, "how were the roads on the way down?"

AAAAAaaaHAHAHAHAHAhAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHAAAAaaaaaaa!!!!  Slam, Slam, SLAM!!  aaaaahhhhhhahhhhahhhhha!!!!!  SLAAM!

"Uuh well, you know, they were uuh pretty bad for the first hundred miles or so but then they lightened up," he answered, his eyes trailing up the stairs.

SLAM, slam, AAAAAAAUUUUUUUUHHHHHAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaahhhhhhaaaaAAAAa!!!!!!!!!

"Mom didn't make it to Grandma's because of the roads," I continued, "I guess they're bad all over Montana."

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaHHHHaaaaHHHHHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaHHHHHaaaaaa!!!

"Uhh, yea, they're bad all over up north," he replied.

AAAAAAAAhhaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaa!!  Slam, SLAMMM!!!!!

"How long do you plan to stay in Arizona Jack?" Shane's Mom asked my dad.

AAAAAAHHAAHHAA SLam SLAM!!! aaaaaaahahaAAAHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

"Oh, huh, probably through New Years," he answered.

aaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHHAAAAHAHAhAhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!

"This turkey is so moist Shane," she said, a piece of meat dripping off her fork.

"We bought a Butterball and Shane brined it last night," I butted in, "It is good isn't it?"

AAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhaaaaahaaaaaa!!!  Slam.  SlaaammMM.  SLAAAAAMMMMM!

"It's very good Shane, really tender," everyone complimented enthusiastically.

On the outside I continued to make chit chat about snow, white meat versus dark meat, and pumpkin soup.  But on the inside I was fuuuuuming.  It dawned on me as I sat there that a year ago, on Thanksgiving day, I didn't even know yet that anything was wrong with Cale.  He sat quietly at the table with us and ate turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie.  Now he only eats cereal if he eats anything at all.  He has regressed in so many ways since a year ago, and his progression looks like one step forward, two steps back, three steps forward, one step back, etc.  He is moving forward (at least I think he is), but it's untidy and unpredictable at best.

I felt angry.  In fact, I found myself wishing that I could drill holes into God's head.

"Why did you give me a child that ruins Thanksgiving?" I said to God under my breath, "It's not enough that our whole world has to revolve around him the rest of the year?  You can't give us ONE meal in peace?  We're supposed to be enjoying a quiet reprieve.  We're supposed to be reflecting on the passage of the year and celebrating beauty, togetherness, fresh hopes, and new dreams.  How are we supposed to do that with all this damn screaming?  My parents are going to have a terrible experience at my house!  How could you do this?!  And how many Thanksgivings will he ruin anyway?  How long is he going to be like this?  Oh that's right.  FOREVER.  He's going to be like this FOREVER!!!"

I had just about started to cry, right there at the table, when I looked down at the "Mumpkin" I had worked so hard to create.  It was pointing it's little green phallic symbol right at me.

I think I might've actually giggled out loud.  I mean, really?  How seriously did I have to take myself, and my "perfect" Thanksgiving, anyway?

I looked over at Alden and Isabel and they were eating their dinner, playing with their food, and competing for their grandparents' attention like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  I looked over at Shane and he was still talking about soaking the turkey the night before.  And I realized that my beautiful family had learned to enjoy themselves in spite of the elephant in the room (the thing we all weren't talking about).  So I probably should to.  

Our poor parents, who aren't quite as used to Cale as we are, at first kept looking up the stairs like an eagle might burst through the bedroom door and take flight in the living room.  But even they, rather quickly, began laughing and enjoying themselves.  And it dawned on me that it will probably always be a must, at my house, to carry on and enjoy whether our little elephant is happy or not.  It also dawned on me that Thanksgiving dinners are going to be different around here than I'd always before dreamed, but that doesn't mean they aren't going to be perfect.  

As I sat there reflecting on just how much laughing and enjoying are a matter of choice no matter what is going on around me, Cale began to quiet.  And I realized once again that I need to be consistent in my feelings and actions even if, and probably most especially when, my child can't be consistent in his.  Change the things I can change, and accept the things I can't.

Do I wish he could've joined us for dinner?  Oh...you'll never know how badly.  It does something unspeakable to me when I can't comfort my son, and the idea that he might spend holidays alone because he cannot behave appropriately terrifies me to death.  But I have to trust that God knows what he's doing with Cale.  And I have to trust that he knows what he's doing with me, even if it's as silly as pointing green stems in my direction.  Anything to get me to laugh at myself and lighten the hell up.