Thank You Baldwin Bulldogs, class of 2020

The Mighty is an online group of writers who are trying to make the world a better place. You can find them online at www.themighty.com or you can find them on Facebook. They have published a couple of my blog posts before and the editor asked me to consider participating in their November Thank you challenge. The challenge is to choose someone to write about that I do not say “Thank you” to often enough. This is almost an overwhelming task. How could I possibly choose just one person, or even one group of people, who I am thankful for? I could probably write Thank You notes for a year and not remember everyone that I need to thank. But, this is supposed to be one thank you and it did not take me long at all to decide what I wanted to write about.

My son Tate has autism. He is 13 and in the seventh grade. Tate performs at a grade level far below his peers, academically and socially. I could and should write thank you notes often, to each and every one of the teachers and staff involved in Tate’s individualized education. I definitely do not say it enough. Today however, I am going to say “Thank you” to the seventh grade class at Baldwin City Junior High School.

There are advantages to living in a small town sometimes. Tate will graduate with a class of approximately one hundred students. Tate began kindergarten with about twenty of them. He had the same kids in his class through third grade. Living in a small town, and Tate being the sixth of seven children, produced opportunities for us that many families of a special needs child would not have. I knew all the teachers and many of the parents and students. I was often in the classroom and able to educate Tate’s classmates about autism and Tate’s differences. I wanted “full disclosure” and often asked that the privacy policy be ignored. I talked openly about Tate’s disability and urged teachers to do the same. 

Tate in kindergarten

From the very beginning Tate's peers have treated him with respect and kindness. His classmates could see he needed help with many things and there were always lots of willing helpers available. At the end of their first grade year I thanked the children for being such good friends to Tate and asked them to promise they would help look out for Tate all the way through High School. They agreed, and they have kept their promise thus far.

For five years Tate has had a lunch buddy program so that he can receive social instruction from an adult coach while surrounded by peers. In elementary school, students had a chance to sign-up to be a part of it with their parents’ permission. There was always a waiting list and never a lack of enthusiasm for eating lunch with Tate. The program has evolved somewhat. Now, part of the week Tate sits at a table with peers and no adult. Other days he invites a friend or two to eat with him and a teacher at a smaller table so he can work on social skills. Rarely does a student ask for a “rain check.” If Tate calls, they answer the calling!

A fifth grade track meet

So many children with special needs have to worry about bullies. So many children with special needs are lonely or forgotten. Tate has never been bullied, not even once, that I am aware of; and many of his peers call him “friend” although Tate does not often reciprocate their kindnesses. Tate’s understanding of social skills and reciprocity is greatly lacking. His peers know it and they accept it. They give, asking nothing in return. They include Tate whenever possible. They gently give him social skills instruction when it is needed. They help him with tasks that are difficult for him. They teach him and encourage him. They make him feel like one of “the guys.” It does not matter that he comes in last in all the races. I’ve heard them cheer as if he’s crossed the finish line in record time! It doesn’t matter that he is still reading picture books while they read novels. It does not matter if his presentation is short and very simple compared to theirs. They are excited to see Tate’s achievements even when they are very small.

Buddies: Jordan, Tate, and Ethan

Tate's classmates treat him as a valued member of their class, an equal. For this, I thank them. I thank these students for being kind to Tate and for making his life easier. I thank these students for making my life easier. I do not have to worry or wonder about Tate while he is at school because he has friends who look out for him. Thank You Baldwin Bulldogs, class of 2020.

Note: The letter I wrote for The Mighty caught the attention of People Magazine and that led to an interview and a great article published by Jeff Truesdell. You can read that here: A Lesson In Kindness

Teachers, Share this with your classes. Challenge them to make a difference in the lives of their classmates with special needs. Want to read more? Teaching Tate Social Reciprocity

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What I Learned From Sydney's Mistake

She got in the van as she does every day after school but this day was different. She didn’t start talking a mile a minute, asking me where I had been and what I had done. She did not loudly share with me who she played with at recess or how awful the boys in her classroom behave. She did not ask me what I was making for supper or complain about the school lunch. She did not drop her backpack into the floor and flop down into her booster seat in the back. She did not wrestle with the seatbelt and complain about how hard it was to get fastened. She did not ask me if I had brought her a snack and whine about how hungry she was. She instead eased her backpack off her back, sat it down gently, and came to the center of the van to stand beside my right shoulder. She would not look at my face. She began to talk softly in partial thoughts and broken sentences. I could tell she had something to tell me that was overwhelming, something that was so dreadful she could not bring herself to use the words. I turned around to face her and said, “I cannot understand what is wrong until you tell me. So far, I know that someone is going to email me but that’s all I’ve got. It would be better if you can tell me yourself before I get the email.” She began to cry, huge tears that ran right down her cheeks and dropped to the floor. I pulled her close and told her that it would be okay. Whatever she had done could be fixed. She choked out the name of a student in her class and that they had argued. Sydney had kicked her friend, hard. I looked down at her feet. She had on cowboy boots. I asked all the questions you would expect. “Is she okay? Did you apologize? Did you have to see the principal? What is your punishment?” All Sydney could manage was, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I am sorry.” I turned off the car. We would be late to pick up her brother but sometimes the world has to stop spinning for a minute so a little girl’s hurt can be cared for. As Sydney calmed and we were able to talk, I realized she saw this as a two-fold problem. She was genuinely grieved that she had been naughty, but also she knew she would not be able to relax until it was resolved. I have seen kids cry many times in the last 26 years of parenting. I know the difference between the tears of a child who is truly remorseful and a child who is only sorry they got caught in mischief.

Sydney and I walked back into the school building, her squeezing my right arm as tightly as she could. The hallway seemed so much longer than it usually does as we walked to her classroom, her sniffing and wiping at her face the whole way. We found Sydney’s teacher in the classroom. She is a compassionate, kind, reasonable woman and very easy to talk with. We three were able to put our heads together and decided that it would be appropriate for Sydney to write an apology letter to her classmate. As we left I could see the relief on my little girl’s face. Everything was going to be Okay. When we got home she sat and wrote that letter in her best handwriting and asked for me to check it. She did not argue, or leave it laying on the counter for me to put in her backpack. 

Sydney came to me often throughout the evening to tell me how sorry she was for kicking her friend. Each time I told her that everyone makes mistakes and she had done the right thing by apologizing. At one point Sydney told her older sister what she had done and sobbed again.

You may be wondering why I find this event in the life of my child so

significant. Why is this noteworthy at all? Don’t children sometimes fight? Don’t children sometimes make poor choices? Don’t children sometimes become emotional? Children do all of these things; typically developing children as well as children with disabilities. The thing is.... Sydney is SUPPOSED TO BE kicking her classmates DAILY, but she does not. Sydney is NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE to show regret or remorse. but she can. 

Some of the books I’ve read say children with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS) sit in the principal’s office more than they sit in the classroom. Some of the parents in support groups say their kids with FAS kick, hit, spit, bite, scream, throw things, and hurt others daily without regret. Some of the parents who blog about their children with FAS tell of dangerous, violent behaviors. As hard as Sydney is to deal with each morning before her ADHD medications kick in, and as difficult as she is to teach, she is seldom malicious. She is bossy and a little moody, as are most fourth grade girls. She is silly and giggly and wiggly and loud often, but she is sweet and loving. How did I get so lucky? How did I get the kid whose brain was damaged by alcohol who can still be gentle and kind the majority of the time? How did I get the kid whose brain was damaged by alcohol who can still feel remorse when she hurts someone? I am blessed.

The incident qualified something for me yesterday. I often find myself advocating and arguing that Sydney should not be held to the same standard as her peers. As unfair as it is to hold Sydney accountable for many of her actions due to her brain damage and limited impulse control, it is also unfair to give up on her ability to develop some of the characteristics that others tell me she is not supposed to have. I see some great potential and it is growing. I must maintain my caution so that I do not ask Sydney to do the impossible, all the while challenging her to be all that she can be.

It would seem I am almost proud when I’m telling the story of my child kicking another child.  As sorry as I am that my child caused another child’s pain, I am proud of my little girl for many other reasons. I am delighted she has only lost the very limited amount of self-control she was allotted, and kicked a peer, one time. I am elated that she was tenderhearted enough to care that she had done it. I am pleased she took responsibility and was brave enough to face whatever consequences lay ahead. I am proud she willingly wrote an apology. I am grateful that she loves me and trusted I would help her with her problem. I am overjoyed that she is mine.

If you liked this post and would like to read more, check this out: Mommies Don't Give Their Kids Away  or this: Teaching Sydney

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The Memory That Does Not Fade

I remember the day my precious little boy was diagnosed with autism. Portions of that day have faded but much of it runs in a loop I can play in my mind over and over. I remember the phone call I placed that morning, in a panic, asking if I could get “right in” to see the pediatrician I trusted. I remember the receptionist asking me what symptoms my child was having and I remember telling her my suspicions. I remember the difficulty I had putting those words together and speaking them out loud. I remember her telling me that I could bring him in almost immediately. I remember picking my little boy up and putting him in his car seat, handing him his cloth diaper to hold; and I remember driving the thirty minutes to our appointment time. I prayed the whole way that I was wrong; that what I had found on the Internet during the night was not what Tate would be diagnosed with.

Autism: it had been in the back of my mind for months but I had not seriously considered it. I had not said the word autism and meant it before that; but after putting Tate to bed the evening before, and lying next to him, I had been forced to face the reality that something was wrong. Something was not just “a little off” but something was REALLY terribly wrong. I remember lying next to Tate. He was whispering to someone or something that only he could see. His words were not really words anymore but gibberish. He seemed to know what he was saying but no one else did and it did not matter to him. What had happened to all the language he used to have? Why didn’t he talk to me anymore? What language was he speaking and whom was he speaking to? Where had my little boy gone? I remember getting up out of the bed. I remember that Shawn was snoring. I remember going into the study and googling “mental illness in children.”. After hearing the strange language and the whispering he seemed to be doing to invisible beings, I was sure my little boy must have a mental illness. I remember the hard-backed chair I was sitting in at the desk. I remember typing in the symptoms I had been noting and the things I had been questioning in the weeks leading up to that night. I remember when the word “autism” came upon the screen. I remember taking a test and scoring Tate, afraid to read the results. I remember the first time I ever saw “PDD-NOS” and learned that there were different kinds of autism. I remember running to the bathroom to be sick, tears running down my face. I remember waking Shawn and asking him to come and read the things I had found. I remember Shawn reading, looking at the test I had found and calmly telling me he thought I had just accurately diagnosed Tate. I remember Shawn eventually going back to bed and I remember sitting at the computer the rest of the night shivering, reading, and crying, wondering and worrying.

Our appointment with the pediatrician was set for 11:00. I remember. I had called at 9:00 and the sympathetic girl on the other end of the line had told me to be there at 11:00. I don’t know what I would have done if they had put me off for a day or two. I remember thinking that over and over, “Thank goodness they let me come right away.” I remember sitting in the waiting room. There is a waiting area for well patients and a separate waiting area for the patients who are sick. We waited on the well side and I wished we were only there for an ear infection or a cough. Normally, I hated sitting on the “sick side” amongst the germs. I would have given anything to switch sides that day. I remember the nurse who called us back and I remember sitting in the patient room. I remember which room, in the maze of rooms in that practice, we used that day. Tate sat on the carpeted floor. There were some neat trucks in the room that my other children had often played with. Tate ignored them. His cloth diaper was much more interesting to him. I had brought Tate’s three favorite things with us. I wanted the doctor to see them. He had a cloth diaper, a small set of beads on a blue wire that twisted and turned, and a hardback novel about two inches thick. I cannot remember the name of the book but I believe it had a green cloth cover. Tate could not read it of course, but he loved that book. He would sit with it on his lap and fan the pages of that book for 20 to 30 minutes at a time.

I remember the doctor coming into the room. The door of the room was one that slid on rails instead of opening on hinges. Dr. Loveland, he always called himself “Dr. Chuck” when he spoke to the kids, asked me why I had come. I said, “I think there is something wrong with my baby” and I began to cry. Dr. Loveland handed me a tissue and stood next to me and watched Tate “play.” We watched as Tate tossed his cloth diaper into the air over and over, watching it drop. Tate did not look up and acknowledge the doctor or notice that I was crying. He just tossed that diaper up in the air and watched it fall. I told the doctor that it was Tate’s favorite activity. Dr. Loveland asked, “What do you think?” and I said, “I think he has autism.” Dr. Loveland’s exact words were, “I suspect you are right.” I remember them clearly. He stood and watched Tate and waited quietly until I could talk and then he asked me what kinds of questions I had for him. I remember asking, “What do I do?” and him promising me he would make sure I got all the right phone numbers and contact information for people who could help me. I remember him telling me that I would need to take Tate to a developmental pediatrician for an official diagnosis. I remember asking him what our future would be like and what would happen when Tate was grown. I do not remember his exact words but I do remember that Dr. Loveland did not lie to me. He was very compassionate when he told me that the future would be somewhat limited for Tate. He told me that he had many teenaged and young adult patients with autism and oftentimes parents had to hire help when they were older and their children became adults.

I remember leaving that appointment with a very heavy heart. But I also remember the phone ringing soon after I got home and Dr. Loveland’s nurse making recommendations and giving me phone numbers to call for information and services. I did not feel alone or abandoned. I was not ever treated with anything except compassion and kindness. So many parents with children diagnosed with autism have horrible stories to tell about the way they were told their children have autism or how the doctor treated them. I have nothing but nice things to say about the pediatrician and the people he referred me to.

It is possible that more and more of that day all those years ago will fade from my memory as more time passes. But, I somehow doubt that I will ever forget the compassionate doctor who helped me take my first step into the world of autism. I am so glad it was Dr. Loveland standing beside me that day. Dr. Loveland passed away recently and he will be missed. He was a great man and I am thankful he was in our life. 

Find me on Facebook at Quirks and Chaos. Like what you read? Want to become a follower? Click on the Google Friend Following gadget on this blog. It's over on the right side and asks you to subscribe. Or you can add the URL (the web address in your search bar) to your Reading List. You can do that by clicking the plus sign in front of the URL. Thanks! 

This is a post called: What is Autism or Why Does Tate Act That Way? This is another post about our experience with a great practice of pediatricians: Why I Still Get the Recommended Immunizations