Ryan's just a boy who can't say no.

He is notoriously bad at answering yes/no questions.  Faced with a yes/no, he will say Yes almost every time, not because he's agreeable by nature or eager to try new things, but because he does not seem to make the connection between his words and their meaning. If I say, "Do you want to play outside?" he will invariably say Yes; but sometimes that Yes is immediately followed by crying, whining, screaming, throwing himself on the floor, and hiding in the corner - his alternative ways of saying No.

We've been working on yes/no for the better part of the last year, with limited success.

Until today.


Ryan, Stu, and I were at a playground this afternoon.  At our prompting, Ryan was swinging from a low bar on the jungle gym (because it would never occur to him to spontaneously swing with his arms, and we want him to strengthen his grip).  I noticed a rather high row of hanging rings and encouraged Ryan to climb up the stairs to the platform near them.  I showed him that if he wanted to, he could grab the nearest ring and swing from it.


"Here, do you want to swing like a monkey?" I asked him.


With fear in his eyes, Ryan emphatically cried out, "NO!!!"

I grabbed Ryan off the platform, held him tightly, and told him, "Baby, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do."  As he ran off to jump off his favorite rock, I started sobbing all over Stu's shoulder.  That moment has been so long coming.  We were probably the only parents at that park who were totally thrilled to hear their child screaming No.

Totally thrilled.
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I've had a handful of celebrity encounters in my adult life. 

My first temp job, I got to put Donald Trump on hold.

I've served coffee to Frank Oz.  I had to shove my theater's concession stand worker aside to do it, but I did it, and managed to chat him up a little beyond "I love you love you love you."

About ten years ago, Prince hit on me on the N train in Queens.  I turned him down.

Once I got to visit the late Jim Henson's office.  I'm going to imagine his spirit was in the room and count that as an encounter.

And now the latest, and perhaps coolest:  DaMomma approached me to ask if she could interview me.

I've been reading this woman's blog for three or four years - I know all sorts of intimate details about her life, her friends, her three children - but we have never met.  The characters from her stories have become just as real to me as people I actually see in the flesh - I'll be talking to Stu, and will find myself saying, "Oh, guess what Ren did?"  And in my head, DaMomma became this wise mother-figure, always coming up with some brilliant answer to whatever tough neurotypical-child parenting challenge the day had thrown at her.

But, you know, I don't know her.  And she certainly doesn't know me.

But then she read some of my blog (via the link attached to my name in a comment on some post or another of hers), and decided to contact me.  And suddenly there was a sort of relationship, instead of the one-way readership I had experienced the past few years.  Suddenly, I felt like a I had become a character in a favorite book.

She emailed me.  She said, "I've had some requests to do a bit on autism.  Would you be interested in helping me with that?"  Um, yes please!


That SHE contacted ME at all, let alone to ask for my help, made me feel like a freaking rock star.   And having the opportunity to explain my pro-neurodiversity agenda to a large general audience is tremendously exciting to me.  So please check out DaMomma's profile of lil' ole me, and catch up on her awesome adventures in parenting and in watching the last space shuttle launch in person!
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Around age two, children start asserting their independence by trying to do things for themselves.  At least that's what I've read.  I actually haven't seen much of a DIY-impulse around here at all.  Rather than letting the Captain try stepping out of the nest, I generally find myself pushing him, shoving him, dragging him inch by inch out of his tree.  If it were up to Ryan, I'd be holding his food while he bit it.

One of the most independent-like things he does regularly is running ahead of us to get from our apartment to our car.  As soon as we hit the hallway between the buildings of our complex, he books it as fast as he can down the hall, whips around the corner to the right, flings open the fire door, and starts down the stairs to the garage.  He pauses there on the stairs and flashes a maniacal grin when we finally catch up to him there.

The other day, my mother came to visit, and the three of us were heading down to the car to go out for lunch.  Ryan stood patiently in the elevator, playing with some to-be-mailed bills I had handed him.  When the elevator opened, he dashed down the hall as usual.  But instead of turning right to get to the garage, he turned left.

To the left, there's a laundry room, a locked storage room, and a door leading outside.

He wasn't in the laundry room.  And the door to outside was wide open.

I ran outside, screaming his name.  No answer.

I saw Jonathan riding his bike in the street, and I screeched "Did you see Ryan go by here?"  Yes, he said, he ran down the sidewalk.  It suddenly occurred to me what Ryan was doing: he was going to the nearest mailbox.  On the main street.  I ran to catch up.

So you shouldn't worry too much, I should mention that the sidewalk in question is over two blocks long, but with no streets to cross between our building and the mailbox. 

Anyway.

I caught Ryan about three-quarters of the way to the mailbox.  I grabbed his arms, got down low, and freaked the hell out lectured him that he is Never To Leave The House Without Me and that Terrible Things could have happened to him.  He stared blankly.  I couldn't tell if he understood my explanation of The Rules.  He seemed unimpressed with my yelling/imploring/maternal theatrics.  He just wanted to mail the letters, thanks.

I saw my mother approaching us; she had gone searching for Ryan in a different direction.  After determining that Grandma had not had a heart attack, the three of us walked to the mailbox together.  Ryan mailed the bills, and we walked to the car together.  Mostly together.  OK, Ryan was still running ahead of us a little, but he stayed within sight.

It is totally frustrating and unsatisfying to yell at someone who does not react.  How can I know if I've gotten my message across to Ryan?  If Ryan were a neurotypical kid, I could punish him, and he could connect the punishment to the offense, and I would know he had learned something.  With Ryan, I have a hard time knowing what connections he's able to grasp.  I've tried taking away computer games as a penalty for a certain behavioral problem we're trying to correct, but as devastated as he becomes when he's denied his precious PBSkids.org games, the problematic behavior continues unabated, in part, I believe, because he does not really see the cause-effect relationship between offensive behavior and loss of computer privileges.

But we keep up the negative reinforcement model (as well as tons of positive reinforcement - Stickers! Chocolate! Prizes!) anyway, because we hope that eventually he will get it.  We can't just throw up our hands and assume he's incapable of learning.

So I will keep yelling at him, even though he stares blankly, because someday he will hear me.  Hopefully before he gets himself in too much trouble.
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I'm one step closer to being an officially-rostered roller girl. I have completed the Basic Skills portion of my training. Now I move on to pack hours - ten hours (or maybe ten two-hour sessions, I'm not sure how they count it) of practicing skating really close to other girls without knocking anyone over by accident or getting knocked down on purpose.  Phase Three is scrimmage hours.  Phase Four is getting voted into the league.

Even though I'm happier than I've been in ages, Stu is still displeased about this little adventure of mine. When I get all excited about my minor triumphs from practice, he makes a point of saying "congratulations" in the least-congratulatory tone possible. I know he's just being protective of me because he loves me and wants to keep me safe, but I'm tired of making safe decisions.

Skating is the greatest part of my day.  I'm pushing myself as hard as I can for two hours straight.  I'm way past sweaty.  I'm hanging out with strong, courageous women.  And I'm having so freaking much fun.  There is no autism.  There are no IEPs.  There are no guilt trips or other family arguments.  There are no conventions of bullshit politeness.  There's just me, trying to learn a new game one skill at a time.  There's genuine camaraderie as girls cheer each other on through their speed tests.  There's freedom.  There's power.

Sorry it still bothers you, Honey, I really am.  But I have to go work on my arm whips tonight.
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Wednesday night, a Bronx woman buckled under the pressure of taking care of her autistic son, and shot her son and herself to death.

Earlier this week, a Dallas woman killed both her young children because they were autistic and she wanted "normal kids."

There's something broken in our support system.

All parents, whether their children are typical or atypical, need help.  Parents without partners need even more support.  I am fortunate: my husband is present and involved, my parents live nearby and love to spend time with their grandson, I only have one child to care for, and we are not struggling to figure out how to afford food or rent.  I am educated enough to know we are more fortunate than many in this country, and I still feel overwhelmed sometimes by the demands of raising my son.

What could have helped these moms and saved their lives and the lives of their children?  Therapy for themselves?  Access to parent training services?  A network of friends who understand the unique pressures of raising a child with an ASD?  I certainly don't know their individual situations, but I think it's safe to say there were some big holes in their safety nets.

Let's all look out for each other.  Listen to your friends.  Let them vent their frustrations without judging them.  Tell your mommy-friend she's doing a good job.  If you know a single parent, ask if you can watch her kids for an hour or two so she can recharge and take care of herself.  If you have a friend who is raising a child with special needs, do a little research on the child's condition so you can deepen your empathy. 

Ask your friend what she needs.

Be open to actually providing what she needs.
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