SO many books I want to read. SO many things to work on that require a little thought, maybe some quiet. Did I mention there are a ton of books I want so badly to read?
For mother's day, I got to go see The Great Gatsby on opening night with my Mom and that kid I wish was mine, J. I was so crazy about the story that I wanted to re-read it, so I bought it.
Yeah, it's still on the shelf.
I'm discovering why there are so many pristine books on my shelf. So many wonderful pages gathering dust. So many sewing projects left cut out but not sewn, or still just ideas pinned in an online pin board.
Folks, I can't think.
There is a project that is crucial that I need to bang out for church. I've set deadlines for myself other than the deadlines I face there. This is not that big in the grand scheme, but it's important to me and families like ours. And I can't think.
I told Eric I needed time. He gave it as best he can. But through headphones, earplugs, and a shut door I can hear it.
Anxiety.
Upset.
The scream that says, "HE IS IN MY FACE AND I CAN'T HANDLE IT AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO SO I WILL SCREAM."
I WILL RUN AND HIT MY EARS AND I WILL SCREAM.
I WILL HIT THE WALLS WITH MY BALLED, ALREADY ROUND LITTLE BOY FISTS AND I WILL GRUNT, YELL, AND CRY.
Why? Why does he do this? We do not give him what he wants. This behavior has not been met with progress. It has not been rewarded. Not here, not at school.
Why? No... his Grampy taught me to ask "to what end".
So if he's never received praise or positive reinforcement for this behavior, to what end does he continue?
GET UP NO! GET UP NO! GET UP NO!
He screams and stomps and kicks and I have to get up and check.
No.
I have to let Eric deal with it. He can do it. No really... if there's a dad that can handle it, it's him. But my mother-instinct won't stop.
Eventually instinct won and I kicked my legs over the side of the bed and headed to the living room to check. As soon as he saw me he stopped. He smiled.
Okay, so maybe I've reinforced the behavior without realizing it.
It was me, being here in the house, but not present that bothered him. I seldom retreat to my bedroom to work. Usually, what I get done is done in the living room or the kitchen with them laying around me, watching movies, or playing in the floor. Or they're asleep.
Oh, for the ability to tell me that he just misses me. Or that he thinks this is weird. Or to ask me why I'm doing it. Or to tell me he can't handle it, it's just too strange to not have me banging around the kitchen.
I so often feel bad for not getting enough done in a good enough time frame. So many musts. So many shouldn'ts. So many don'ts. So very many DO IT RIGHT NOW's. Try as I might, I can't convince myself that all housework and bettering myself at all should be left on the back burner, that I shouldn't be concerned with what I do and don't do. Even my own health is left to "when I can" which turns into never.
But I will try again. I will be glad with what I have finished and okay with what I haven't. I won't beat myself up for having reinforced that dreaded behavior without realizing it. I won't pick on myself, either, for having made him leave the room because he was laying beside me, yelling out at random.
Once I answered a few questions, we were good for me to go back to work.
Ryan will go to sleep at 8:00?
Yes, absolutely.
I want to take a nap at 7:00.
No, sweetie. You will go to bed at 8:00.
Ryan wants to sleep in the airport!
No, sweetie. You will sleep in your bed.
Ryan wants to sleep in the airport! You will sleep in the airport, MommY!
After that interesting exchange with my dear 8 year old autistic little man, he was happy-skippy-hunkey-dorey. He went right to the table to draw more elevators.
I wish I could say this was unusual behavior, but I'd be lying. It's anything but unusual. This is the kind of thing that makes autism the hardest for us. The shock of the screaming, the yelling out. The piercing of your heart upon hearing his frustration. The inability to help him.
And this was an easy one.
Looking back, this one ranks right up there with Rain Man. The scene where Raymond is being taken on an airplane by his brother, and he won't even make it to the jetway. There's a bad work in here, just FYI.
That about five seconds where Dustin Hoffman's character is hitting his head and screaming?
Ryan does that all. the. time. At least a few times a day, and it's almost never for that short of a time. And so often we have no idea what is causing it. Here it's clear that Raymond just cannot handle flying on anything but Quantas... but even if Charlie had managed to get a flight to LA on Quantas, if this was real life, there's little guarantee that Raymond would fly then, either.
He's an amazing little boy who will grow into a wonderful young man. And this little meltdown, though much longer than the big-screen depiction, does not change that. In the grander picture, this meltdown was pretty short... almost worthy of my "You call that a meltdown?!" rant from the first time I watched this with Eric.
This is our cup. This is his cup. And we will continue to love him, and help him get used to the world. We'll also pray that the world will be less shockable as he learns. We'll share our experiences in a good faith effort to help break the barrier of mystery surrounding folks who look, act, talk, and behave differently... and more extremely... than we do.
Because the same kid who hits his head and screams is the same one who remembers all the road signs, draws all the elevators, and recalls details randomly that amaze us.
This is the same kid who puts his chubby chin on my shoulder and says, "I love you, Mommy."
This is the same kid who says, "Mommy will sit on the couch!" and then proceeds to snuggle me.
This is the same kid who is starting to copy his little brother's likes, because apparently he's pretty cool.
This is the kid whose smile brightens a whole room, and whose giggle tickles my heart.
Thanks be to God for this kid, and for the difficulties, and for all they teach us.
For mother's day, I got to go see The Great Gatsby on opening night with my Mom and that kid I wish was mine, J. I was so crazy about the story that I wanted to re-read it, so I bought it.
Yeah, it's still on the shelf.
I'm discovering why there are so many pristine books on my shelf. So many wonderful pages gathering dust. So many sewing projects left cut out but not sewn, or still just ideas pinned in an online pin board.
Folks, I can't think.
There is a project that is crucial that I need to bang out for church. I've set deadlines for myself other than the deadlines I face there. This is not that big in the grand scheme, but it's important to me and families like ours. And I can't think.
I told Eric I needed time. He gave it as best he can. But through headphones, earplugs, and a shut door I can hear it.
Anxiety.
Upset.
The scream that says, "HE IS IN MY FACE AND I CAN'T HANDLE IT AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO SO I WILL SCREAM."
I WILL RUN AND HIT MY EARS AND I WILL SCREAM.
I WILL HIT THE WALLS WITH MY BALLED, ALREADY ROUND LITTLE BOY FISTS AND I WILL GRUNT, YELL, AND CRY.
Why? Why does he do this? We do not give him what he wants. This behavior has not been met with progress. It has not been rewarded. Not here, not at school.
Why? No... his Grampy taught me to ask "to what end".
So if he's never received praise or positive reinforcement for this behavior, to what end does he continue?
GET UP NO! GET UP NO! GET UP NO!
He screams and stomps and kicks and I have to get up and check.
No.
I have to let Eric deal with it. He can do it. No really... if there's a dad that can handle it, it's him. But my mother-instinct won't stop.
Eventually instinct won and I kicked my legs over the side of the bed and headed to the living room to check. As soon as he saw me he stopped. He smiled.
Okay, so maybe I've reinforced the behavior without realizing it.
It was me, being here in the house, but not present that bothered him. I seldom retreat to my bedroom to work. Usually, what I get done is done in the living room or the kitchen with them laying around me, watching movies, or playing in the floor. Or they're asleep.
Oh, for the ability to tell me that he just misses me. Or that he thinks this is weird. Or to ask me why I'm doing it. Or to tell me he can't handle it, it's just too strange to not have me banging around the kitchen.
I so often feel bad for not getting enough done in a good enough time frame. So many musts. So many shouldn'ts. So many don'ts. So very many DO IT RIGHT NOW's. Try as I might, I can't convince myself that all housework and bettering myself at all should be left on the back burner, that I shouldn't be concerned with what I do and don't do. Even my own health is left to "when I can" which turns into never.
But I will try again. I will be glad with what I have finished and okay with what I haven't. I won't beat myself up for having reinforced that dreaded behavior without realizing it. I won't pick on myself, either, for having made him leave the room because he was laying beside me, yelling out at random.
Once I answered a few questions, we were good for me to go back to work.
Ryan will go to sleep at 8:00?
Yes, absolutely.
I want to take a nap at 7:00.
No, sweetie. You will go to bed at 8:00.
Ryan wants to sleep in the airport!
No, sweetie. You will sleep in your bed.
Ryan wants to sleep in the airport! You will sleep in the airport, MommY!
After that interesting exchange with my dear 8 year old autistic little man, he was happy-skippy-hunkey-dorey. He went right to the table to draw more elevators.
I wish I could say this was unusual behavior, but I'd be lying. It's anything but unusual. This is the kind of thing that makes autism the hardest for us. The shock of the screaming, the yelling out. The piercing of your heart upon hearing his frustration. The inability to help him.
And this was an easy one.
Looking back, this one ranks right up there with Rain Man. The scene where Raymond is being taken on an airplane by his brother, and he won't even make it to the jetway. There's a bad work in here, just FYI.
That about five seconds where Dustin Hoffman's character is hitting his head and screaming?
Ryan does that all. the. time. At least a few times a day, and it's almost never for that short of a time. And so often we have no idea what is causing it. Here it's clear that Raymond just cannot handle flying on anything but Quantas... but even if Charlie had managed to get a flight to LA on Quantas, if this was real life, there's little guarantee that Raymond would fly then, either.
He's an amazing little boy who will grow into a wonderful young man. And this little meltdown, though much longer than the big-screen depiction, does not change that. In the grander picture, this meltdown was pretty short... almost worthy of my "You call that a meltdown?!" rant from the first time I watched this with Eric.
This is our cup. This is his cup. And we will continue to love him, and help him get used to the world. We'll also pray that the world will be less shockable as he learns. We'll share our experiences in a good faith effort to help break the barrier of mystery surrounding folks who look, act, talk, and behave differently... and more extremely... than we do.
Because the same kid who hits his head and screams is the same one who remembers all the road signs, draws all the elevators, and recalls details randomly that amaze us.
This is the same kid who puts his chubby chin on my shoulder and says, "I love you, Mommy."
This is the same kid who says, "Mommy will sit on the couch!" and then proceeds to snuggle me.
This is the same kid who is starting to copy his little brother's likes, because apparently he's pretty cool.
This is the kid whose smile brightens a whole room, and whose giggle tickles my heart.
Thanks be to God for this kid, and for the difficulties, and for all they teach us.
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