What you see him wearing is what he wore all day. His new footie pajamas from Gagi. He will be 15 and still wearing footie pajamas :)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Day to be 5.
What you see him wearing is what he wore all day. His new footie pajamas from Gagi. He will be 15 and still wearing footie pajamas :)
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Mr. 5 Years Old

In honor of this milestone, we met with our friend and fabulous photographer, Natalie Shivers, to capture Liam as he is right at this moment in time. The thing to know about Natalie is, she is more than a photographer. She is the "child whisperer" as far as I'm concerned. She can connect with Liam in a way that no other photographer has managed to do. And he will pretty much do anything for her (or her son and assistant, Alex!). We love her for the story she gave us in these pictures.
Only 5 years ago, I was preparing to meet our sweet boy. Then, just like that, he changed us, forever.





Monday, November 22, 2010
So thankful...then and now.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
In "their" words.
Ten Things Every Child with Autism Wishes You Knew
by Ellen Notbohm
from the book Ten Things Every Child with Autism Wishes You Knew (2005, Future Horizons, Inc.)
Reprinted in its entirety with permission of author
Some days it seems the only predictable thing about it is the unpredictability. The only consistent attribute—the inconsistency. There is little argument on any level but that autism is baffling, even to those who spend their lives around it. The child who lives with autism may look “normal” but his behavior can be perplexing and downright difficult.
Autism was once thought an “incurable disorder,” but that notion is crumbling in the face knowledge and understanding that is increasing even as you read this. Every day, individuals with autism are showing us that they can overcome, compensate for and otherwise manage many of autism’s most challenging characteristics. Equipping those around our children with simple understanding of autism’s most basic elements has a tremendous impact on their ability to journey towards productive, independent adulthood.
Autism is an extremely complex disorder but for purposes of this one article, we can distill its myriad characteristics into four fundamental areas: sensory processing challenges, speech/language delays and impairments, the elusive social interaction skills and whole child/self-esteem issues. And though these four elements may be common to many children, keep front-of-mind the fact that autism is a spectrum disorder: no two (or ten or twenty) children with autism will be completely alike. Every child will be at a different point on the spectrum. And, just as importantly – every parent, teacher and caregiver will be at a different point on the spectrum. Child or adult, each will have a unique set of needs.
Here are ten things every child with autism wishes you knew:
1. I am a child first. My autism is only one aspect of my total character. It does not define me as a person. Are you a person with thoughts, feelings and many talents, or are you just fat (overweight), myopic (wear glasses) or klutzy (uncoordinated, not good at sports)? Those may be things that I see first when I meet you, but they are not necessarily what you are all about.
As an adult, you have some control over how you define yourself. If you want to single out a single characteristic, you can make that known. As a child, I am still unfolding. Neither you nor I yet know what I may be capable of. Defining me by one characteristic runs the danger of setting up an expectation that may be too low. And if I get a sense that you don’t think I “can do it,” my natural response will be:Why try?
2. My sensory perceptions are disordered. Sensory integration may be the most difficult aspect of autism to understand, but it is arguably the most critical. This means that the ordinary sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touches of everyday that you may not even notice can be downright painful for me. The very environment in which I have to live often seems hostile. I may appear withdrawn or belligerent to you but I am really just trying to defend myself. Here is why a “simple” trip to the grocery store may be hell for me:
My hearing may be hyper-acute. Dozens of people are talking at once. The loudspeaker booms today’s special. Musak whines from the sound system. Cash registers beep and cough, a coffee grinder is chugging. The meat cutter screeches, babies wail, carts creak, the fluorescent lighting hums. My brain can’t filter all the input and I’m in overload!
My sense of smell may be highly sensitive. The fish at the meat counter isn’t quite fresh, the guy standing next to us hasn’t showered today, the deli is handing out sausage samples, the baby in line ahead of us has a poopy diaper, they’re mopping up pickles on aisle 3 with ammonia. . .I can’t sort it all out. I am dangerously nauseated.
Because I am visually oriented (see more on this below), this may be my first sense to become overstimulated. The fluorescent light is not only too bright, it buzzes and hums. The room seems to pulsate and it hurts my eyes. The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing -- the space seems to be constantly changing. There’s glare from windows, too many items for me to be able to focus (I may compensate with "tunnel vision"), moving fans on the ceiling, so many bodies in constant motion. All this affects my vestibular and proprioceptive senses, and now I can’t even tell where my body is in space.
3. Please remember to distinguish between won’t (I choose not to) and can’t (I am not able to).
Receptive and expressive language and vocabulary can be major challenges for me. It isn’t that I don’t listen to instructions. It’s that I can’t understand you. When you call to me from across the room, this is what I hear: “*&^%$#@, Billy.#$%^*&^%$&*. . .” Instead, come speak directly to me in plain words:“Please put your book in your desk, Billy.It’s time to go to lunch.”This tells me what you want me to do and what is going to happen next.Now it is much easier for me to comply.
4. I am a concrete thinker.This means I interpret language very literally. It’s very confusing for me when you say, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” when what you really mean is “Please stop running.”Don’t tell me something is a “piece of cake” when there is no dessert in sight and what you really mean is “this will be easy for you to do.”When you say “Jamie really burned up the track,” I see a kid playing with matches.Please just tell me “Jamie ran very fast.”
Idioms, puns, nuances, double entendres, inference, metaphors, allusions and sarcasm are lost on me.
5. Please be patient with my limited vocabulary. It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when I don’t know the words to describe my feelings.I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened or confused but right now those words are beyond my ability to express.Be alert for body language, withdrawal, agitation or other signs that something is wrong.
Or, there’s a flip side to this:I may sound like a “little professor” or movie star, rattling off words or whole scripts well beyond my developmental age.These are messages I have memorized from the world around me to compensate for my language deficits because I know I am expected to respond when spoken to.They may come from books, TV, the speech of other people.It is called “echolalia.”I don’t necessarily understand the context or the terminology I’m using.I just know that it gets me off the hook for coming up with a reply.
6.Because language is so difficult for me, I am very visually oriented. Please show me how to do something rather than just telling me.And please be prepared to show me many times.Lots of consistent repetition helps me learn.
A visual schedule is extremely helpful as I move through my day.Like your day-timer, it relieves me of the stress of having to remember what comes next, makes for smooth transition between activities, helps me manage my time and meet your expectations.
I won’t lose the need for a visual schedule as I get older, but my “level of representation” may change.Before I can read, I need a visual schedule with photographs or simple drawings.As I get older, a combination of words and pictures may work, and later still, just words.
7. Please focus and build on what I can do rather than what I can’t do. Like any other human, I can’t learn in an environment where I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough and that I need “fixing.”Trying anything new when I am almost sure to be met with criticism, however “constructive,” becomes something to be avoided.Look for my strengths and you will find them. There is more than one “right” way to do most things.
8. Please help me with social interactions. It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the playground, but sometimes it’s just that I simply do not know how to start a conversation or enter a play situation.If you can encourage other children to invite me to join them at kickball or shooting baskets, it may be that I’m delighted to be included.
I do best in structured play activities that have a clear beginning and end.I don’t know how to “read” facial expressions, body language or the emotions of others, so I appreciate ongoing coaching in proper social responses.For example, if I laugh when Emily falls off the slide, it’s not that I think it’s funny. It’s that I don’t know the proper response.Teach me to say “Are you OK?”
9. Try to identify what triggers my meltdowns. Meltdowns, blow-ups, tantrums or whatever you want to call them are even more horrid for me than they are for you.They occur because one or more of my senses has gone into overload. If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented.Keep a log noting times, settings, people, activities.A pattern may emerge.
Try to remember that all behavior is a form of communication.It tells you, when my words cannot, how I perceive something that is happening in my environment.
Parents, keep in mind as well:persistent behavior may have an underlying medical cause.Food allergies and sensitivities, sleep disorders and gastrointestinal problems can all have profound effects on behavior.
10. Love me unconditionally. Banish thoughts like, “If he would just. . . and “Why can’t she. . .”You did not fulfill every last expectation your parents had for you and you wouldn’t like being constantly reminded of it.I did not choose to have autism.But remember that it is happening to me, not you.Without your support, my chances of successful, self-reliant adulthood are slim. With your support and guidance, the possibilities are broader than you might think. I promise you, I am worth it.
And finally, three words:Patience. Patience. Patience. Work to view my autism as a different ability rather than a disability. Look past what you may see as limitations and see the gifts autism has given me. It may be true that I’m not good at eye contact or conversation, but have you noticed that I don’t lie, cheat at games, tattle on my classmates or pass judgment on other people? Also true that I probably won’t be the next Michael Jordan. But with my attention to fine detail and capacity for extraordinary focus, I might be the next Einstein. Or Mozart. Or Van Gogh.
They may have had autism too.
The answer to Alzheimer’s, the enigma of extraterrestrial life—what future achievements from today’s children with autism, children like me, lie ahead?
All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation. Be my advocate, be my friend, and we’ll see just how far I can go.
© 2005, 2010 Ellen Notbohm
Please contact the author for permission to reproduce in any way, including re-posting on the Internet.
Ellen Notbohm is author of Ten Things Every Child with Autism Wishes You Knew, Ten Things Your Student with Autism Wishes You Knew, andThe Autism Trail Guide: Postcards from the Road Less Traveled, all ForeWordBook of the Year finalists. She is also co-author of the award-winning 1001 Great Ideas for Teaching and Raising Children with Autism or Asperger’s, and a contributor to numerous publications and websites around the world.To contact Ellen or explore her work, please visit www.ellennotbohm.com
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Autism Speaks. It's Time to Listen.
These are hand painted (flat ball) ornaments with the Autism puzzle piece on the front (with polka dots for me!) and tied off with Autism Awareness ribbon. I am also doing these on standard round ball ornaments.
*Please note that these are not perfect or professional. Each one is unique and different, just like our kids on the spectrum! But they are all made with love :)
I have left the back side blank for personalization of a name or message.
I have listed these on Etsy (http://www.etsy.com/listing/59224329/autism-aspergers-awareness-christmas) if you or someone you know might be interested. Perfect for a teacher, therapist, grandparent, sibling, or child! OR, you can order from my blog (on the top right hand side) and get them for only $9 each! Shipping is $6.
If you are local or family, etc., please send me an email at Leighlally3@aol.com and we can make payment arrangements.
Thanks for your support!
xoxoxo
Heather
Monday, October 4, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
What Asperger's looks like to us.
Our Asperger’s – not just his.
What Asperger’s Syndrome looks like in OUR home:
It is lining up trains…and trucks…and dinosaurs…and anything else that can be lined up!
It is temper tantrums that other people cannot understand and never will.
It is the most loving little boy, throwing his arms around us a hundred times, saying, “I love you, Mommy!” and “I love you, Daddy!”
It is feeling blessed that he can tell us he loves us.
It is a lollipop in each hand, because everything must be in even amounts.
It is not knowing how to tell the teacher or his classmates “Hello” or “Goodbye” but being able to give and accept hugs.
It is learning his ABCs at 18 months old!
It is not relating to other moms most of the time and wondering what it would feel like if I could.
It is repeating things over and over because it makes sense to him.
It is an intense knowledge of the solar system - and wishing on stars at night.
It is struggling to cope on the soccer field but giving 200% every time.
It is enjoying the after-game snacks and it being all worth it!
It is playing with bubbles.
It is having trouble getting to sleep and not wanting to wake up in the morning.
It is saving his pennies and quarters “for the sick kids.”
It is having a hard time going to the library or the zoo but loving to jump on a trampoline or swim all summer long.
It is swimming underwater with no help at all.
It is one parent not being able to stand on the sideline at soccer games or practice because he is so attached.
It is watching from the fence and bursting with pride anyway.
It is pronouncing “Quetzalcoatlus” better than his parents.
It is exhausted parents who rarely get a break.
It is having so much devotion to their child that they don’t ask for a break.
It is having so much love for their child that they don’t need a break.
It is splashing through every rain puddle.
It is chewing on shirts or blankets because it is calming.
It is a fear of sudden, loud noises because an ordinary noise can be intense.
It is learning to whistle and being very good at it.
It is reliance on routine and having a meltdown when it changes.
It is throwing grass on another kid’s head as a way of saying, “I want to play.”
It is getting so overly excited when a grandparent comes to visit but sometimes not knowing what to say.
It is mastering a computer by the age of 4.
It is Daddy feeling jealous and proud of how skilled his 4 year old son really IS with computers.
It is eating an ice cream cone everyday if he could.
It is a constant need to be snuggled and his parents embracing every second of it.
It is saying “please” and “thank you” more than we could have ever hoped.
It is a rude glance from across the restaurant; it is our son’s giggle that makes us not care.
It is strawberry picking – but mostly just eating!
It is walking on tiptoes because it feels good.
It is not enjoying birthday parties because of all the noise and people.
It is someone telling you that your child is misbehaved or just being a kid. It is you knowing they are wrong.
It is you knowing your child better than anyone else.
It is growing accustomed to leaving events early because he can only handle so much.
It is being amazed with Walt Disney World and riding the same ride over and over and over.
It is tripping over things that anyone else would walk around.
It is being prepared at all times for any potential trigger that will cause a meltdown. It is being exhausted from doing this. It is doing it anyway.
It is helping Mommy in the garden.
It is refusing to color because holding a crayon is difficult.
It is trying to be anything that flies.
It is taking a two hour bath…just because it’s fun!
It is two parents hanging onto each other as tight as they can because to let go is not possible.
It is our beautiful little boy right at the center of it all.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Space Cowboy
Bat (not Batman...just a bat)
Astronaut Bat (this combines his desire to be an astronaut when he grows up with his Halloween costume idea)
and now, as of yesterday...
Indiana Jones. The fact that Indiana Jones requires a whip as part of the costume just sent it right up to the #1 spot on his list. I can see potential problems with him having a whip in his hand.
*Take note that the Indiana Jones costume was inspired by trying on his "Western Day" costume for school. He decided to lose the bandana and make himself Indiana Jones with just the hat.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Take it in.
Our three-year-old son Pierce has autism – and we try our best to plan routine family outings for him and his older sister that we will all enjoy.
As is typical in any family, there are good outings and not-so-successful ones. For me and my husband who are relatively new to this strange new world, it is increasingly difficult to determine what outings will be a great success, and which may prove difficult for Pierce to navigate.
Before school started this year, we wanted to take a trip to Sesame Place. Knowing how Pierce and his older sister loved the Sesame Street characters, and armed with the confidence that Pierce had experienced water parks this summer with success, we were all excited for a fun day. However, this particular outing would prove to not be one of Pierce’s best. Something about the venue did not work with Pierce’s sensory system on this date, and it was a continuous struggle as we worked through the day of meltdowns, flopping on the ground and the consistent screeching of “We. GO. HOOOOOOOMMMMMMME!!”
As difficult as it was, we were determined to stay and allow Pierce’s sister to enjoy the Park.
Late afternoon came; while Dad and sister were adventuring on rides, I tried to coax Pierce into his bathing suit to try a small water park – which generally he would love. But the sand on his feet, the swim diaper, the direction we chose to walk there – everything seemed to be sending him into sensory overload. It was all too apparent that he could not adjust to this environment today.
I found myself questioning again on this afternoon (knowing full well how non-productive this line of thought can be): Why? Why, why, WHY can’t he tell me? Why can’t he tell me why this day, this place, this particular routine was so hurtful. What was it? The music? We’d been to a festival with bands and he danced the day away just weeks ago. The crowds? It was no more crowded than the boardwalk was last weekend. This mystery of why. Times like these, I desperately wished to get in his mind to see the world from his eyes, to try to unlock this puzzle.
So I retrieved a sobbing Pierce from his curled-up position and wrapped him tightly in a towel. We found a lounge chair in a quiet area by the “Mini Tidal Wave Pool” and both relaxed. I sat there whispering to Pierce how much I loved him, and how proud I was of him for all the work he’s done. Sitting there on a beautiful September day, watching all of the children play, I closed my eyes and felt us both relax from the high anxiety of the day. And we slept.
When we both woke up, Pierce looked up – dazed and tired – and smiled the first smile of the day.
“Pierce, do you think we should head home now?”
“Okay, Mommy?”
And off we went to find Dad and his sister.
Good days and difficult days – I reminded myself. And we can’t appreciate the one without the other.
“In Their Own Words” is a series within the Autism Speaks blog which shares the voices of people who have autism, as well as their loved ones.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Written just for me.
My dear friend,
I am so sorry for your pain.
Don’t worry; no one else sees it, I promise. To the rest of the world, you’re fine. But when you’ve been there, you can’t miss it.
I see it in your eyes. That awful, combustible mixture of heart-wrenching pain and abject fear. God, I remember the fear.
I see it in the weight of that invisible cloak that you wear. I remember the coarseness of its fabric on my skin. Like raw wool in the middle of the desert. You see, it was mine for a time.
I never would have wanted to pass it on to you, my love. I remember so well suffocating under the weight of it, struggling for breath, fighting to throw it off while wrapping myself in its awful warmth, clutching its worn edges for dear life.
I know that it feels like it’s permanent, fixed. But one day down the line you will wake up and find that you’ve left it next to the bed. Eventually, you’ll hang it in the closet. You’ll visit it now and then. You’ll try it on for size. You’ll run your fingers over the fabric and remember when you lived in it, when it was constant, when you couldn’t take it off and leave it behind. But soon days will go by before you wear it again, then weeks, then months.
I know you are staring down what looks to be an impossibly steep learning curve. I know it looks like an immovable mountain. It is not. I know you don’t believe me, but step by step you will climb until suddenly, without warning, you will look down. You will see how far you’ve come. You’ll breathe. I promise. You might even be able to take in the view.
You will doubt yourself. You won’t trust your instincts right away. You will be afraid that you don’t have the capacity to be what your baby will need you to be. Worse, you’ll think that you don’t even know what she needs you to be. You do. I promise. You will.
When you became a mother, you held that tiny baby girl in your arms and in an instant, she filled your heart. You were overwhelmed with love. The kind of love you never expected. The kind that knocks the wind out of you. The kind of all encompassing love that you think couldn’t possibly leave room for any other. But it did.
When your son was born, you looked into those big blue eyes and he crawled right into your heart. He made room for himself, didn’t he? He carved out a space all his own. Suddenly your heart was just bigger. And then again when your youngest was born. She made herself right at home there too.
That’s how it happens. When you need capacity you find it. Your heart expands. It just does. It’s elastic. I promise.
You are so much stronger than you think you are. Trust me. I know you. Hell, I am you.
You will find people in your life who get it and some that don’t. You’ll find some that want to get it and some that never will. You’ll find a closeness with people you never thought you had anything in common with. You’ll find comfort and relief with friends who speak your new language. You’ll find your village.
You’ll change. One day you’ll notice a shift. You’ll realize that certain words have dropped out of your lexicon. The ones you hadn’t ever thought could be hurtful. Dude, that’s retarded. Never again. You won’t laugh at vulnerability. You’ll see the world through a lens of sensitivity. The people around you will notice. You’ll change them too.
You will learn to ask for help. You’ll have to. It won’t be easy. You’ll forget sometimes. Life will remind you.
You will read more than you can process. You’ll buy books that you can’t handle reading. You’ll feel guilty that they’re sitting by the side of the bed unopened. Take small bites. The information isn’t going anywhere. Let your heart heal. It will. Breathe. You can.
You will blame yourself. You’ll think you missed signs you should have seen. You’ll be convinced that you should have known. That you should have somehow gotten help earlier. You couldn’t have known. Don’t let yourself live there for long.
You will dig deep and find reserves of energy you never would have believed you had. You will run on adrenaline and crash into dreamless sleep. But you will come through it. I swear, you will. You will find a rhythm.
You will neglect yourself. You will suddenly realize that you haven’t stopped moving. You’ve missed the gym. You’ve taken care of everyone but you. You will forget how important it is to take care of yourself. Listen to me. If you hear nothing else, hear this. You MUST take care of yourself. You are no use to anyone unless you are healthy. I mean that holistically, my friend. HEALTHY. Nourished, rested, soul-fed. Your children deserve that example.
A friend will force you to take a walk. You will go outside. You will look at the sky. Follow the clouds upward. Try to find where they end. You’ll need that. You’ll need the air. You’ll need to remember how small we all really are.
You will question your faith. Or find it. Maybe both.
You will never, ever take progress for granted. Every milestone met, no matter what the timing, will be cause for celebration. Every baby step will be a quantum leap. You will find the people who understand that. You will revel in their support and love and shared excitement.
You will encounter people who care for your child in ways that restore your faith in humanity. You will cherish the teachers and therapists and caregivers who see past your child’s challenges and who truly understand her strengths. They will feel like family.
You will examine and re-examine every one of your own insecurities. You will recognize some of your child’s challenges as your own. You will get to know yourself as you get to know your child. You will look to the tools you have used to mitigate your own challenges. You will share them. You will both be better for it.
You will come to understand that there are gifts in all of this. Tolerance, compassion, understanding. Precious, life altering gifts.
You will worry about your other children. You will feel like you’re not giving them enough time. You will find the time. Yes, you will. No, really. You will. You will discover that the time that means something to them is not big. It’s not a trip to the circus. It doesn’t involve planning. It’s free. You will forget the dog and pony shows. Instead, you will find fifteen minutes before bed. You will close the door. You will sit on the floor. You’ll play Barbies with your daughter or Legos with your son. You’ll talk. You’ll listen. You’ll listen some more. You’ll start to believe they’ll be OK. And they will. You will be a better parent for all of it.
You will find the tools that you need. You will take bits and pieces of different theories and practices. You’ll talk to parents and doctors and therapists. You’ll take something from each of them. You’ll even find value in those you don’t agree with at all. Sometimes the most. From the scraps that you gather, you will start to build your child’s quilt. A little of this, a little of that, a lot of love.
You will speak hesitantly at first, but you’ll find your voice. You will come to see that no one knows your child better than you do. You will respectfully listen to the experts in each field. You will value their experience and their knowledge. But you will ultimately remember that while they are the experts in science, you are the expert in your child.
You will think you can’t handle it. You will be wrong.
This is not an easy road, but its rewards are tremendous. It’s joys are the very sweetest of life’s nectar. You will drink them in and taste and smell and feel every last drop of them.
You will be OK.
You will help your sweet girl be far better than OK. You will show her boundless love. She will know that she is accepted and cherished and celebrated for every last morsel of who she is. She will know that her Mama’s there at every turn. She will believe in herself as you believe in her. She will astound you. Over and over and over again. She will teach you far more than you teach her. She will fly.
You will be OK.
And I will be here for you. Every step of the way.
With love,
Jess
http://adiaryofamom.wordpress.com/2009/05/01/welcome-to-the-club/Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Soccer Mom...or not?
I always imagined I'd be a soccer mom, given the family I married into. But...during Liam's first soccer practice (in which I had to stand back at the fence so that he wouldn't see me and become distracted), a reality swept over me that I just might not get the "privilege" of being a soccer mom. Liam did just as we had read he might do: not look his coach in the eye, not engage in appropriate conversation with his peers, scream when he didn't understand the concept of the game. Oh yeah, and after repeatedly throwing himself on the ground screaming every time he didn't get the ball or someone kicked it away, then he threw in a curve ball: grabbing the ball and running off the field in an attempt to say, "I'll show you!" Coaches and parents found it hysterical, but they aren't raising him. They don't know what this REALLY means.
It's impossible to explain these behaviors to someone who just wants to tell you how you need to discipline your child. Or how having Asperger's doesn't give them an excuse for bad behavior. We are about to embark on a weekend of SERIOUS reading with our new Asperger's books - and I would say that anyone who feels the need to tell us this really needs to pick up an informative book on the syndrome. The very essence of the disorder is that is causes the child to have "meltdowns" that seem inappropriate for their age - not because they are spoiled but because they cannot deal with emotions in the same way that other children can.
So, it's not an excuse. It's the reason.
This fall, my husband and I finally put our reliable 1995 Dodge Intrepid out to pasture and bought a cool 2005 Chrysler SUV. The Intrepid took us through many memorable road trips and safely saw us through a decade of New England winters, but it was time to get a vehicle roomier to accommodate not only my son’s growing legs, but also the ever-increasing mileage we seem to put on our cars.
When the unsuspecting young salesman suggested to me that perhaps a mini-van might best suit our driving needs, I nearly snapped his head off in my reply, “You’ll see me dead before I’ll drive a mini-van.” After pulling the poor guy off the floor, I apologized as I dusted him off and inwardly asked myself what was wrong with me? What is it that makes me sensitive to something so seemingly innocent as the suggestion of driving a mini-van? After some soul searching, the answer became obvious: it’s an association. I associate mini-vans with the stereotypical idea of “soccer mom,” and I am anything but a soccer mom.
Now, I don’t like to think of myself as a judgmental person. In fact, because of the experience of mothering two children with autism spectrum disorder I’ve learned how painful judgment can be when on the receiving end of it, so I try my best to live the golden rule: “Treat others the way you want to be treated.” Therefore, I’ve picked my own brain to get at the roots of my distain for any association with “soccer moms,” as I know there are many soccer moms out there who are very nice ladies (I actually know some), but I think I’ve dug down to the truth and figured out what my hang-up is all about.
When my daughter was around five, many moons ago, she was fully included in the local Kindergarten/ Daycare. All the parents were excited that their kids were of the age to begin recreational soccer. Being a pioneering parent of inclusion in my small town, I signed my girl up for soccer with all her peers and hoped for the best. Needless to say, it was a disaster. My daughter would tantrum when she didn’t get the ball kicked to her, and if she had the ball, she would tantrum when another kid tried to kick it away. She cringed at the sound of the coach’s whistle, became distracted by a bystander’s dog, and picked handfuls of grass in the field to throw over her head. I couldn’t assist her in the practices as I was too busy running after my toddler son, also on the spectrum, who kept heading for the soccer ball on the field, and more frightening, for the woods that lined the field.
Soccer practice was a nightmarish failure, on display to a community that didn’t know how to support us and didn’t seem interested in doing so anyway (I’m sure there were exceptions, but I was too distracted and hurt to notice). Soccer practice was the realization that no matter how much I might support my kids, there were some things that they wouldn’t be able to do successfully. I think this is where my distain for the term “soccer mom” stems from: that early realization that my life as a mother of two children with autism was so different, so removed, and so alien to all those other mothers on the sidelines. I was resentful that they had the luxury of chatting with each other without worry and distraction, spending those lovely fall afternoons making social connections that would tie them to the community while I, tearfully leaving the soccer field with a screaming child under each arm, developed a distain for soccer and all the “normal” moms that happily experienced the sport through their “normal” kids.
Time and wisdom heals old wounds (and allows old soccer balls to deflate and wind up on the bottom of a pile of unused toys in the basement). But seeing me in my SUV, frazzled and disheveled, with my two good looking kids, zooming them from here to there, cell phone to my ear with papers loosely flapping in the back seat, one might easily mistake me for a soccer mom, too. I can’t let that happen. I’ve worked too hard at the autism thing to be mistaken for a parent who has a social life centered on recreational sports. Alas, I am the antithesis of Soccer Mom….I am Spectrum Mom!
The increasing miles put on my car are not for soccer and dance practices, or taking my kids to social outings at the mall or a friend’s house, or to get to the gym for some “me time” at a Pilates class. Instead, my mileage compiles going to and from two different school districts, to therapies half a state away from where we reside, to Special Olympics events, to conferences and appointments regarding autism, IEP’s, transitional services, medication management, legislative issues, and stopping at various drive through restaurants for those French fries that seemingly sustain my son’s very life. I do not chat on my cell phone with friends or neighbors about the latest town gossip, or to complain about how busy my children are with their friends. Instead, I use my cell phone to communicate with the vast network of people with whom I work and I’m involved because of autism.
We are another species from another culture, we Spectrum Moms. Vastly different from Soccer Moms, and yet with slight similarities that may confuse the untrained eye. I want people to be clear about who we are because we deserve the respect that is inherent to working so darned hard. I’ve even designed a car magnet to mock the “soccer mom” magnets so we will recognize each other on the road when the rocking figure in the passenger seat is not obvious enough for us to notice one another. I am proud of all my sisters, Spectrum Moms, as I am of myself, for “perseverating” in the face of indifference, for finding unending strength, courage, and humor in the little things, and for insisting that the world see the beauty in our children as we see it.
So if you see me out on the road with a donut hanging out of my mouth and a “Spectrum Mom” car magnet where you might expect to find a soccer mom decal, honk if you are a Spectrum Mom, too! Your smile, amidst the bags under your eyes and through the Chicken McNugget grease on your car window, will make my day!
Viki Gayhardt is the proud mother of two children with ASD, a board member of the Autism Society of New Hampshire, and a autism family support specialist.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Disclosure.
Liam is extremely bright with above average intelligence, but it is difficult for him to hold a pencil to write his name. He is cheerful and content one minute and easily upset the next. If we had not pushed for further testing and evaluation, Liam may have been viewed as other children whose parents just think their child is misbehaved, doesn't listen, and doesn't talk or communicate. He could easily have been labeled a bad child, when the truth is, he has Asperger's Syndrome. Many of his "meltdowns" he simply cannot help. He is not rude, shy, weird, or bad. He is an "Aspie" :)
Asperger's Syndrome is a neurobiological disorder on the higher end of the Autism spectrum. Individuals with Asperger's have normal to high intelligence, and can function in day to day life. But socially, they struggle. They often do not know how to approach other children and begin conversation. They may stand back and appear awkward, or they may shut down and even cry. Or, they may act in a way that seems inappropriate for their age. Attending a birthday party might be a a stressful occasion for Liam and exhausting for us, as he usually doesn't understand the transitions between games, singing the birthday song, and opening presents. He doesn't always understand what he is supposed to do when he's there. Children with AS often play around other children and talk AT them instead of TO them. They sometimes will repeat words or phrases over and over. They tend to be loners and, in school, may be called "different." They usually have obsessions, sometimes with very odd subjects. At 18 months old, Liam became extremely obsessed with trains. But he also became very upset when the trains were moved out of order. But at the young age of 2, he knew the difference between a freight train and a diesel engine, and so on. His current obsession is dinosaurs. He quickly learns more about each dinosaur than most adults could ever learn. Next week it might be the solar system.
Because not many people know about Asperger's, it is often misdiagnosed with conditions like ADHD, Bi-Polar Disorder, (manic-depressive) and sometimes even Epilepsy. People with AS have a strong sense of smell, taste, and sound. Liam can be in the living room and tell immediately when I open the peanut butter jar by the smell. He has a high sensitivity to sudden, loud noises - a toilet flushing, a semi truck passing, or a group of children singing causes him to cover his ears. They sometimes have what most would consider a "temper tantrum" over something that typically involved a change in routine. They are extremely reliant upon routine and pattern, so transitions are difficult. Children with AS often are slow at speaking, and struggle with fine motor skills. They are often very difficult to potty train, yet they excel in other areas. They have a hard time understanding slang or sarcasm, as they take everything as its literal meaning. Some have difficulty expressing emotion or reading others' emotions or expressions. We have called Liam "quirky" for the last two years because it is difficult to put your finger on what it is about them that is different, but once you learn about it, you can detect these traits.
We were given a diagnosis this week, and the days following have been an emotional roller coaster. Relief, sadness, fear, anxiety, and then relief again. And then fear. We now know the measures to take to help him, but we know it's like starting all over again. We will have to try to prevent every little thing in his life from becoming an obsession (and what might be a normal interest in a child can very easily become an obsession with him overnight), we will have to intentionally change routines in order to teach him that sometimes things do change (because his emotions are not connected to his brain to help him cope with that), we will have to teach him how to socialize, he will literally have to learn how to read social cues, he will spend his life learning to imitate the correct way to respond to others because he was not born with the ability to do it naturally.
But...he is still Liam. He is still the loving, sweet, smart little boy that we love so much. He just happens to have Asperger's.

Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tulips have always been my favorite...
WELCOME TO HOLLAND
by
Emily Perl Kingsley.
c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved
I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......
When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.
After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."
"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."
But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.
The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.
So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.
But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."
And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.
But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.








