This is for the sake of honest accounting.
I prefer talking about Jack's achievements, mostly as encouragement to other parents with late talking kids, but if that is my true motive, it's not fair to leave out the bumps that got us to those achievements...
The bumps we're dealing with before the NEXT achievements.
Maybe I've been painting a distorted picture of how much easier it all gets down the line.
It was never going to be easy. Not when we had a boy. Certainly not when that boy entered middle school. Never mind the late talking. It was never going to be easy...period.
We all remember middle school.
That's what we're dealing with.
That, and something new. Something we've never had before. Maybe you've had it to deal with and thought, "She never talks about Jack going through this, so maybe we should worry." Hormones are a culprit. I'll get to that.
First. A quick and honest spill...(may he forgive me later)...
Two weeks ago, we got a call for him swatting a kid on the arm. Okay, he hit a kid on the arm. This hasn't occurred for four years.
The teacher explained that it was a reaction hit. You know, like when girls hit their boyfriends for calling them flat chested, or something. The boy, I was told, released a balloon into Jack's face, caught Jack off guard, so Jack swatted, assuming the boy was being a mean jerk. The boy was being funny, he thought, and said, 'What the heck?' His teacher saw how it all went down, said it wasn't a big deal, but she let Jack know the swat was unacceptable for his sake, more as a social head's up than anything else --very similar to his second month in first grade, come to think of it. After three or so weeks, this incident didn't knock the wind out of us or anything. The other kid was fine. Boys will be boys. No angry parents to worry about. Not a big deal.
Got another call from his study hall IEP coordinator the following Tuesday, asking if something was going on with Jack. He was short fused at school. Were they doing everything they should be doing?
So, I asked him. Some days, he's all smiles and happiness. Other days, grumpy from the second he comes through the door. The day I asked how school was going, he was more verbal than he's ever been...
"Well, school was great, except for this one bully who made me drop my books in the hallway."
Kid got too close to him and made him drop his books, so he told the kid to get away from him, made a mean face, the kid said, "Ooooh, I'm really scared," and then it was over. Jack picked up his books and went on to the next class.
I said, "Is he just picking on you for some reason?"
"No. (disgusted) Everyone."
"Hm. Well. (the next obvious concern...) Is he bigger than you?"
"Uh...well...I'm thinner."
"I see." He didn't seem to be afraid physically, so I classified it a let the boy handle this on his own if he can situation. "What are you going to do if it happens again?"
"Ignore him and walk away."
I was very proud.
Nothing left to do after that, I decided.
"How was lunch?"
"Great. I sat with the gang."
My heart soared.
Next day..."Did you hang out with the gang at lunch today?" This is me encouraging safety in numbers.
"No."
"No?" *worried tone*
Bursting out: "Well, mom, I don't know what to say to them. I always say the wrong thing!" It was his choice to sit alone, I realized. Not him being pushed out. He was being hard on himself for not keeping up with the dialogue.
"Hey. Listen to yourself! You just spoke to me just fine. You're getting there, kid. You can do it."
"Okay."
"You believe me?"
"I guess."
"You'd BETTER believe me! Come here!" Big squeeze. He squeezed back so hard, my ribs crackled. "I know you can do it. I know it!"
"Thanks, mom." Another big 'take the weight of all this growing up business off me' hug.
Five years ago? That conversation could not have happened. That it did is proof that miracles exist. Patience is the key.
I let it go after that.
A week went by. No issues.
I just got a call from the school.
Twenty minute chat with his coordinator.
"Did he not get enough sleep last night?"
"Probably not. But also..." and I filled her in on the hallway incident.
She filled me in on his math class meltdown.
He got frustrated first period and was lippy with the classroom helper. He was angry with the math assignment, expressed it, then said something such that if she were not a professional, would have hurt her feelings and caused all sorts of alarm (in our old experience). His teacher took him for a walk once the kids were working. Don't know how that went, but the coordinator who called me said it would make sense if the issue right now is social. "Maybe something happened on the bus," she said. "I hadn't thought of that."
I said, 'Yeah.'
She said, "That's the norm for 5th and 6th grade kids, but a kid who is more sensitive and struggles with expressing himself, I'm sure he's under a lot of pressure figuring it out. We will keep an eye on the hallways if we have to. Really, I just hadn't thought about it, but I think that's it. I'm going to talk to the others..."
So. That's what's going on at school.
At home, some other things...
My good pal was diagnosed OCD several years ago. She was visiting one day when Jack was doing some things that I had to vent about.
For example, he will not sit in two seats in the kitchen (they face north, I think), but is just fine in the very same seats (facing west). I asked him why about the seats and he said, "Because," and he blushed.
"Because why?"
"Because," lowered his eyes, then whispered..."They're demon seats."
"Demon seats!?! Huh??"
"Yeah."
"Oh." I went with it. "Is it all right if I sit in them?"
"Yes."
"But you can't?"
"No."
"Why can I sit in them and you can't?"
He didn't know.
My pal explained that people with OCD know it's not rational to others. More pressure. It's a feeling. A real feeling that is hard to ignore. What hasn't worked on the seat thing is me forcing him to sit on them against his will. I knew better than that, surviving toilet training with the kid, but tried it once anyway, and he ran away & I felt horrible. What does work is a deal, "Sit on there for five seconds. You can do it. Show me you can sit there for five seconds." And he did. Smiled the whole time, with one foot on the floor at first. Now, he will oblige and sit for longer, but if I don't bring it up, he is always in one of the safe seats facing west. His sister will move for him if we have company so that it doesn't have to be explained and so he doesn't have to be embarrassed. It's kind of beautiful, really.
This is not a big deal in any respect, but it's there. Got started six months ago.
Also, he will not sit in any seat behind the driver's seat in any car. Witnessing this is how my pal felt comfortable telling me her experience. We were running late, had a car full of people, was filling the car up and Pickles wanted to go into the gas station for gum, so I said, "Go with her, Jack," and he tried to climb over the 85-year-old passenger sitting in the back with him, rather than come out the empty side where I was already holding the door open (up until this time, I thought it was just the seat and didn't suspect it included the door was well). "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? JUST COME OUT THIS DOOR!" But he didn't want to, so...I grabbed him. Figured if I could get him out of the door, his feet on the ground, all would be fine. He was laughing, sort of. I was grumble laughing. Then we were struggling. Actually struggling. He got worried, I got mad, everyone else wasn't sure what they should be doing...'He can come out this side, it's all right,' grandma said, but there was no stopping me at that point. He was coming out that door.
He's tall now. I can wear his clothes now (well, not his pants). He's strong now. This was awkward as hell.
My goal was not good parenting in that moment. My goal was to spare the grandmother in the back of my car from being smooshed by five feet of wriggling knees and elbows. I'd had enough, I confess. The accommodating. It was just going to be a one second break through of the fifth wall or whatever-- I forced it.
I succeeded (let the record show I can still win a wrestling match with my kid). I got his feet on the ground, outside the car, the driver's side. I breathed. Huffed, puffed, ignored the other filler-uppers all their curious glances, brushed him off and was just about to say, "Now, see? Was that so bad?" when he leaped back into the car, crawled over the grandmother's lap, opened her door, and jumped out the other side.
The others chuckled nervously. I did not.
"What. The. HELL!" I yelled. In front of everyone. In front of a grandmother. In front of my kids.
"It's okay, Ange. No harm done."
"I mean, JESUS!" I'm usually empathetic and patient, but this was my weak moment.
I was still cooling when he came back with change for me, handed it to me, then said, "Are you mad? I'm sorry."
"I'm not mad. I just wish you would go out the driver's side door if we need you to."
"I know. I'm sorry."
My pal heard this, felt incredible empathy for Jack, and so told me her stories. Her childhood. The things that frightened her. The physical things she did to ward off the things that frightened her.
"No one ever did anything about it, though," she said. "I think it's better if someone is noticing for you and telling you so you can work on it..."
"You think it's OCD???" I mean, at that point, after everything else...I mean...
"It reminds me of me, is all. I did things just like that. All the time. A therapist once told me that you overcome something, but then it resurfaces as something else."
"As something else??" *I was driving 70 mph down 65 at that point, weaving traffic...Had just resolved to go back to writing now that the kids were doing great in school... just made up my mind...
"Does he have a blood thing?" she asked. I'd known her fifteen years before I found out she had a blood phobia.
"I don't think so, but he won't use our red towels because they make him think of blood. He'll run through the house naked in front of everyone--and he is super modest these days--before he'll use a red towel."
"Yeah," was all she said.
I was on the verge of freaking.
Then.
I remembered how I used to use animals as cover when I went to gather eggs as a kid, because I was absolutely convinced that Native American ghosts were stalking me to get revenge upon those who had stolen their native land...and so, I lured the dogs with the kitchen slops, dropped the slops in the yard so the dogs would eat/stand guard for me, get the eggs as fast as I could (stupidly always got them in the dark), then as soon as I got everything locked up, the woods to my back, the ghost eyes all over me, sounds of twigs snapping, even...I ran like hell, EVERY NIGHT, back to the house, even up the steps of the porch, because you weren't safe on the porch...you had to be INSIDE the doorway to be completely safe. And did I ever tell this to my parents? Apparently not. My mother insists it's all new to her. I was nearly abducted a thousand times by ghosts, but whatever. "Why didn't you go out when it was daylight?" she asked matter-of-factly. The end.
Also, I remembered how I laid myself out like a corpse on my bed, just in case the National Geographic people uncovered me five hundred years later, after the nuclear bombs, etc. Also...I knew for certain that if you stuck your hand into a heater vent, it would be eaten off by...something. That's just a fact.
And...you get the idea where my kid gets his ideas, right?
And truthfully?
I LOVE this friend. She is the most sensitive, honest, open-minded empathetic and nurturing person I know.
So I said, "Oh, hell, if he's like you, I'm lucky. Just tell me what to do for him..."
She's not sure.
Since then, everyone adapted. Friends have even moved a baby seat to accommodate this thing.
Which will disappear.
Just like fearing dentists disappeared.
But then he went through a week of repeating the word "Math" every time he heard it. We had a fun night putting math into every other sentence--was like a Seinfeld episode around here. He didn't just repeat the word. He said it, "Mathhhhh," like how Daffy Duck would say it.
"Are you doing that on purpose??" I had to ask.
"No!"
"So if I say math right now..."
"Mathhhhhhh."
"Are you kidding me? Math."
"Mathhhhhhh."
It was as if someone had hypnotized him to do it. It was so unreal.
Almost as quickly, he stopped repeating the word. I remember...a week later, his dad said "math" and Jack didn't...we were all silent as we waited, but then he smirked. On top of it.
We all applauded.
Then we kind of missed it. A little.
Lately, he's been doing spin moves. Walks three feet, then does a spin move.
"DO you know you're doing that?"
"What?"
"Those spin moves?"
"Huh?"
"You're doing this..." and I showed him.
"I am??"
Do you get it now? This adventure? It's the Rabbit Hole!
Originally, everyone thought he was autistic. Now it's OCD-like quirks. Next year, it could be anything. That brain of his is constantly firing off challenges for all of us. It has made such an impact on our lives -- all of it good, is my point (needing a personal moment at the gas station aside). Might not feel good at first, but we know it's worth figuring out, and once on the other side, we're all better for it.
"What happens if Eleanor just doesn't move for him?" I was asked, regarding the dinner table seating issue.
"She doesn't mind."
"She's a lot nicer than most siblings."
"Yes, she is." She's nice to everyone. Don't know if she's the chicken or the egg, but like I said...she's 7 and has an 85-year-old pen pal.
We're all better people for this. So long as he's happy, I can stay in it for as long as it takes.
So Jack did a spin move out the front door the other morning "Jack, don't do spin moves in the hall at school, okay? Just here at home! No spin moves at school! (aside to Tom) Did he do a spin move?"
"Right before he got on the bus."
"Damnit."
Must be a lot to think about at school to keep from doing the things that others won't understand. Not that the other kids from elementary don't love him for who is. There are new kids now, from other schools. And it's middle school. And it's about fitting in in middle school. It's about not being as different as possible in middle school. He was different and behind socially, tripping over his words before. Now he's at the age where that means almost everything.
I'm cool with it, though. Almost too cool. He'll be fine. Scratched knees. We'll figure it out.
I guess we've been hit in the gut by so many reactionary opinions so many times before, at this point I think of it as the next big important thing I'm about to learn about the human mind.
*It was suggested to me to have him tested for allergies or chemical imbalances or minerals that don't get processed correctly... I do agree it's chemical. I am certain hormones are playing a huge factor. I would love it if a certain diet was noticeably more beneficial. If it turned out that he's allergic to ketchup, we're going to feel like incredible assholes.
What I've noted is that fatigue brings out the "ticks". If he's tired (thinking a lot is tiresome), he's what all the rest of us are, only more so. He doesn't sleep well, however. Never has. More suggestions have been made on what to do about that. We've tried it all (aside from drugs, I mean). He has been a sleepwalker. He has fought sleep to the point of exhaustion. He has bad dreams, he tells me. His mind does not slow down for him. He goes and goes and goes, then thumps. Then gets back up and amazes. I wish I knew how to help him sleep.
I've also noted that if he eats a salad every day for a week, he's fantastic. Spinach, especially. So someone give me theories as to why that is.
In the meantime.
To the late talking parents...
I don't know if it's OCD now or not. I'd say I don't care, but I do car insomuch as I'd love to know more about what's going on with the brain, what chemical, why...what one can do in every day life to make it more user friendly...but I don't care to have a label people can get hung up on. I certainly don't want to have people going all worried on us again--another round sure wouldn't go the same a second time. I've compiled my opinions on everyone since then... I'd come out swinging.
*Just remembered that one of our toilets flushes so loudly, with such gusto, he hurries up his business, flushes, then runs off and closes three doors before the tank has refilled because it sounds like "the sucking noise of hell." Also, the heater kicking on makes him think of hell, so he has to have his door closed--and the fan in the kids' bathroom bothers him so much, he showers in our bathroom.
Sensitive. Imaginative. Good things. Not easy to master. I have to teach him how not to be afraid or angry or disappointed. That's the new job requirement. That easy task.
Nothing we can't deal with.
Please share your stories...not so much your thoughts, as in, 'Yipes! That's not good!' because someone already tried that on me over this and she got an earful. Good thoughts, good ideas, good stories are welcome. Nothing I've just written about is anywhere near the difficulty of a boy who couldn't talk to me when he was four. That's over. We're sailing forward. This is the upgraded version of MERLD.
[This GQ interview of Alex O'Loughlin made me feel tons better, by the way.]
Afternoon update:
He told me that he got frustrated because he was given a red card for not paying attention. He wanted a green card, he said.
"Were you paying attention?"
*sigh* "No."
"Well, what were you thinking of instead of math?"
Some video game I've never heard of, all of the characters, their lengthy biographies...on and on he went.
"You know you can't be thinking about those things when you're supposed to be learning in school."
"I know."
"What are we going to do about that?"
"I don't know."
"I do. I think you need to play less video games." He frowned. "But you know that's the only solution, right?"
"Yeah." He thought. "Maybe I could play werebox instead."
"What's werebox?"
"It's on coolmathgames.com."
"All right. You can play that. But first I think you need a nap."
"Okay."
"AND, you're going to write a note to your teacher, apologizing for today."
"I'll do it. Can I sleep first, though?"
"You look tired. Are you tired?"
"I think so."
"Did you sleep all right last night?"
"No. I had bad dreams."
"What can we do to stop that?"
"Hmm. Where's Stanley?"
He is now asleep, his arm around the happy cat.
***
© Copyright 2011 Angeline Larimer
