Third Anniversary Lists II: Attachment Disorders

[I apologize, again, for weird formatting - it seems to be stemming from my blogger template and I cannot seem to fix it without causing more problems...:( ]

During the bus portion  of the second leg of our mainland China adoption journey – from Nanchang Airport to Nanchang City – our guide, whom we called “Rose,” stood up in the front of our bus and announced “Girls from Jiangxi province are known for being beautiful. Oh – and your daughters are going to be VERY SPICY!”

Now, I don’t know so much about how little Ashley, Brooke and Jade turned out…And from what little I know they seemed to be coming along quite mildly…But I can assure you that Z [whose original Chinese name we kept] is most decidedly “spicy.”

The other day, she asked me, “Mama, why am I still so angry from being in an orphanage when that was so long ago?”

“I think part of it is that you are a really smart kid, who had a lot of feelings even at a very young age,” I told her, “and I think part of it is that you naturally have a strong temper!”

As with autism, if you’ve met one kid with an attachment disorder, you’ve met one kid with an attachment disorder. My Z would probably have been “spicy” no matter how she grew up. Still, some things tend to be shared by people who have attachment disorders, such as certain types of behavioral issues that may be otherwise uncommon. Attachment disorders in children often necessitate therapeutic parenting, which looks very different from “normal” parenting -- and was, for the Full Spectrums, a MAJOR revelation.  I’ve written every year on this specific topic to share our experiences and what we’ve learned. Here are the past two posts on this subject:

http://fullspectrummama.blogspot.com/2013/01/first-anniversary-lists-ii-attachment.html

http://fullspectrummama.blogspot.com/2014/01/second-anniversary-lists-ii-attachment.html

Here are some details on the three main strategies for attachment disorders that I have tried over the past year, restoring omniscience, channeling and venting:

1. RE-ESTABLISHING OMNISCIENCE

To demonstrate the importance of this strategy, I offer this anecdote:

Full Spectrum Mama, having found Z in possession of something of questionable origin (i.e. not from known source and never seen before by FSM): “Where’d you get that?”

Full Spectrum daughter, Z: “In my room.”

FSM: “Well, I’ve never seen it before. So I am asking you where it came from.”

Z: [Blank.]

It’s that moment when your kid realizes you Don’t Know Everything. That moment gets more loaded when your child has an attachment disorder and the typical attachment disordered tendency to…appropriate things. LOTS of things.

The worst part of the blank non-reponse is, as several loved ones noted: Why not a better story? Something along the lines of “Someone gave it to me,” or, “I won it at school.”

Why not? Because I don’t even merit that! Anyway, she’s known for some time that if she gets too specific, her story may be refuted (see, most recently, new rhinestone hair-doodad collection, courtesy of “Ayi Fern”…”No! Full Spectrum Grandmother!”...”No…”).

Hence; “In my room.”

Back in the day when I could be convincing in my omniscience I was able to coax the truth out of Z. Then we could make things right by returning things whence they came and making amends. I would say, “In five minutes, I will give you a chance to tell the truth about that,” and, in five minutes, she would. Then we would figure out a solution.

We are entering a new realm now.

I have only one hope for a way out without getting professional help: RESTORE OMNISCIENCE. Just today, Z asked me, “Mama, can you fry stewed meat?”

“Why on earth would you ask me that? You know I am vegetarian…Oh, wait…because I…know everything?”

The response was something between an eye roll and a nod.

Sigh. I’ll be…in my room.

So let’s say OMNISCIENCE isn’t happening right now. What are some alternatives?

2. CHANNELING

This may be a bit trial-and-error, but I have found that CHANNELLING disordered behaviors, especially compulsive ones, can be very effective. The idea with channeling is to replace a disordered activity with something more healthy and pro-social. You may have to try a bunch of alternatives before you hit upon one that works, or you may just get lucky! I wrote about one major 2014 success in WADS. 

3. VENTING

Not long ago, Z was on an extended tear of “zesty” behavior: constantly testing, pushing, on edge…Having some experience with these cycles, I was able to keep her adequately on point, but only barely – and it was exhausting. As I have written in previous posts on this subject, boundaries are key; as I learned from our therapist, who specializes in attachment disorders, even small boundaries must be held in order to keep attachment disordered fears in check. So basically I have to be holding my ground on every little thing as she, typically, gets increasingly relentless…It’s not the most pleasant scenario.

Anyway, after a few weeks where I could sense Z was struggling quite a bit with something, she got angry (I don’t even remember what about) and stomped her foot and had the most comical expression on her face that I laughed when I looked at her. She became furious and stomped up to her room where she began to rage and throw and break things and scream ceaselessly for some time. After which she emerged, apologized, and has remained pleasant ever since.

I am not trying to advise you to send your child around the bend by teasing – which I did NOT mean to do! – just advocating for the occasional recognition of a tantrum as, perhaps somewhat paradoxically, a potential healing tool. The occasional VENTING session can be extraordinarily cathartic.

Next in the Anniversary Lists Series: Choosing Your Battles!!!

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

Speech – III/Tools - II

In “Laugh Like a…” and “Gortles vs. Vocal Fry” I began to write about the Full Spectrum of speech expressed by my children and our family approaches to some of our challenges in that realm. These include, on the one hand, exceptional sassiness or dorkiness of oral interaction styles and, on the other, widely disparate levels of verbal agility.

Here are two more topics to consider: repetition and volume.

G and Z loooove to repeat. Single words, questions, quotations, astute observations, not-so-astute observations, random sounds…all are fodder for extensive repetition. This shared habit is rooted in two very different sources: G’s mind seems to get drawn into a pattern - he’ll blurt out a word or phrase from time to time, sometimes for days, as the neural impulse strikes; Z likes uninterrupted attention, which speech can bring, but she also self-soothes – and learns --with patter.

We use the same tool inclusive of these two distinct contexts. Since it works well in our household, it just might work in a wide range of families. I therefore offer:

A Good Rule for Parents and People:

1.     The One Time Rule

Things may only be said ONE TIME.  If something is repeated, Mama – often in cahoots with the currently non-repeating child – may utter the powerful phrase, “One Time Rule”…as many times as is necessary.

a.     The Awesome [or insert your dreadful trending word here] Rule

Each child may utter the word “awesome” ONE TIME per diem.

For some reason, this has worked. Good thing, because we have yet to work out the Consequences.

Partly because of low tone, G also has issues with volume modulation. More specifically, he speaks very, very loudly, especially when excited (and he’s an enthusiastic guy). His speech volume is probably the single biggest obstacle to other kids’ acceptance and comfort in his presence.

When we are together as a family, I might say, “Stop shouting in my ear,” “Turn it Down, please,” or “I am RIGHT HERE.” I don’t want to humiliate him in public, though, so we have devised a sort of turning-down-a-radio-dial type motion that is meant to indicate to him that he needs to try to modulate his voice to a quieter level.

Alas, unless he is looking right at my finger, he doesn’t notice this signal! My gesture, then, gets bigger and bigger, progressing initially to something resembling the “cuckoo” finger swirl and then evolving, as it widens, into a one-handed version of Jazz Hands.

In contrast, and no, I am not making this up just to, as it were, fill my proverbial Spectrum, Z has issues with speaking at LOW volume. Specifically, she prefers to speak At All Times, and so, if she has been asked to be quiet, she simply speaks much, much more quietly, typically in a very special language of her very own. This brings us to:

2.  The No Poltergeist Voices Rule

If your attachment disordered, or otherwise anxiously garrulous, or perhaps even happily loquacious child has not stopped speaking in approximately seven hours (years) and if he or she insists upon whispering “ZI-guh-sa-ba ZI-guh-sa-ba” over and over near your ear while you are on the phone for Three Minutes after Paying Attention to her or him the Entire Day (or some similar situation), simply invoke the No Poltergeist Voices Rule.

This might work.

Jazz Hands!

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

Need…Help…

A year ago last month, we first sought refuge with our attachment disorder specialist therapist. Neither Progressive nor Old School nor any other parenting efforts with Z seemed to be working and home life had become nightmarish. Within days of our first session we were able to make significant changes and improvements to our actions, Z’s behavior and quality of life for our whole family.

The therapist’s most useful suggestion was to tell Z, at the very first sign of acting out, “You need help. It’s my job as your mother to help you.” I would take her into my lap and bundle her up into a snuggle position and say this, sometimes tailoring it to particular circumstances, i.e., “You need help right now with being a good listener,” or “…with doing safe things.”

In this way, I would stay in charge, thereby helping Z to feel safe, yet at the same time be nurturing and loving. This strategy nipped many a giant blowout in the bud, which saved lots of energy for Z to grow in more healthy ways.  It would not be hyperbole to say this plain phrase changed our lives considerably.

Z, however, is far too smart for such a simple approach. It took a few months, but it was not very long before, in inimitable Z fashion, she wrangled control of these words of wisdom.  If, by some chance, I missed her signals that she was decompensating, or if I was just too dang tired or busy to drop everything and get down on the floor and “help” her, and, if, then, things degenerated and she began a ginormous tantrum she would often begin screaming at me along the following lines: “YOU BETTER HELP ME! I HATE YOU! YOU WON”T HELP ME AND I TOLD YOU TO HELP ME!” and so forth.

One might well argue that a parent’s duty is to help their child, no matter how distasteful the prospect might seem at a given moment.  Z’s attitude in this context is certainly not conducive to cuddly, helpful helping, but FSM is a big girl and usually able to transcend such reactions. The larger issue is the fact that Z is able to wrest control of the situation, and put Mama in a position of being unable to do the very thing she needs to do (“help her”) because allowing Z to be in charge would be destabilizing and frightening for her, especially in meltdown mode.

I have a WROE (wide range of emotions) when stuff like this happens. Somewhere, rather deep down at the moment, I feel love and empathy for my child. I partly feel the way I felt when Z was little and would cry in this jagged, angry way that made me feel like running away from an enraged spitfire, rather than mothering a small and helpless baby. An aunt told me these sounds are known as  “non-attachment-promoting crying,” because parents do not naturally respond to such sounds in positive, nurturing ways. Also, I am confused: I have no idea what to say instead of “You need help,” and the phrases I do come up with in the moment are either unprintable or saccharine. I want to mean what I say.

In addition to never going anywhere again (please see http://fullspectrummama.blogspot.com/2012/06/diet-i-diarrhea.html) I am also never going to a party again. Invariably, I find myself flying solo at parties (Pardner is a chef and is essentially gone from Thursday morning early until late Sunday evening) with two hopped up kids, feeling overwhelmed before the sweat beads even form on my single margarita.

G starts to get anxious days in advance: “Will there be anyone there I know?” “What if there is no one for me to play with?” I try to give him strategies for socializing, but by the time we arrive he is in full needy force, hitting the ground running, armed with his customary, hand-extended, no-eye-contact “Hello-my-name-is-G–I-like-Legos” introductory act. When this falls flat, he usually follows me around saying, “There is no one here I know,” and “No one wants to play with me.”

Z, falling as she does on the high social acuity slice of the spectrum, makes friends immediately. At this particular party, her new friends helped her climb about ten feet up in a tree and then removed the ladder and left her there. She asked a passerby to let me know that she had climbed high up in a tree, and to please come look… Neither passersby nor little friends seemed to notice the potential danger in a small child being several times her height in a tree with no way to get down. She comes across as that capable, after all.

Post-rescue, while I was cheering G on in a race, in which he would come in near last but not notice (go G! Seriously!) I happened to look inside to the drinks table, where Z had a two-liter bottle of cola in two hands and was pouring what remained of it down her gullet.

I ran inside.

“What are you doing?” I asked, aghast. (This is exactly what one is not supposed to do: children with attachment disorders need surety from their parents.)

“You said I could have a drink,” she replied in a saucy tone. Several admiring girls a bit younger than Z stood around watching wide-eyed.

“Didn’t you know that I did not mean coke? That children don’t drink caffeine?” (Wrong question: see above.)

“Yes.” (Reluctantly, with sulkface.)

“I guess right now you need help with making healthy choices,” I told her, pulling her to my side and taking the empty bottle. ”You are going to stick with me for awhile.”

I thought she would like being doted upon. Apparently, at this particular juncture, doting was humiliating.

What next ensued can only be described as a major, whomping, shame rage tantrum. After offering clear guidelines in a deceptively calm voice as to the consequence of being removed from the party if she could not stop raging, I carried her kicking and screaming to the car. I shut her in while she flailed and shouted and tore anything in the car she could get her hands on. 

Having previously childproofed the car, I had only to remove G’s precious “Complete Pokemon Guide” as a precaution. I sat down on the hood with that large, well-worn book in my lap, and tried to wave cheerily to the faraway people enjoying themselves in a variety of pastimes on the lawn. G had given up on the party kids and followed me to the car. He lounged companionably next to me. We watched the festivities with mixed feelings: it would have been fun to be casually part of it all…But was that really a realistic option?

Inside the car, the screams raged on, punctuated by punches to windows and seats.  G and I tried to be positive, chatting about what a lovely, green day it was. When I turned my attention to the sounds I could hear Z shouting, over and over, “I! NEED! HELP! YOU! STUPID! MAMA!”

A sort of funny thing about all this – funniness being, I suppose, relative and contextual – is Z’s miraculous resilience. Once she decides she is done with a tantrum, she appears to be immediately 100% fine…Unlike the rest of us, who are still reeling hours later.

I returned to my perch on the trunk to wait for that eventuality. G is, unfortunately, accustomed to Z losing her temper and was, fortunately, unphased by the state of affairs. “Hey,” he said, noting the Pokemon guidebook, “This seems like a great time for a Pokemon battle!”

“It sure is,” I sighed, and mustered a smile. “Sounds fun!”

I meant it. Sure to be better’n the parenting battle I had just lost to a gaggle of little girls and a large bottle of soda.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

Tripping

We visited Great Gram in North Carolina for school vacation week. Although my beloved Gram looks to me like the most beautiful person on earth, the children were naturally wary of the old, bony lady lying in a “rest home” bed. G had grown up knowing her well, but in more vital times; she’d been declining since Z’s arrival home. After adjourning to the hallway for a wee chat – to wit, FSM hissing, “I know she looks a bit scary but she is your ancestor and neither of you would be here if not for her and she loves you even if she doesn’t always know who you and this will probably be the last time you see her so get in there and give her a hug!” – a decent amount of sugar ensued, after which we set out to explore the area.

Traveling with G and Z seems to exaggerate some of their atypical ways of coping, simultaneously highlighting their anxieties and differences while drawing out their remarkable dual propensities for joy. I kept noticing how -- despite Pardner’s and my sometimes near-constant admonitions (to “not hug strangers,” to “not take your clothes off here,” to “listen and allow the tour guide to speak…” (at the International Civil Rights Center & Museum - http://www.sitinmovement.org/)  -- both children possess a huge capacity for laughter and making things fun. 

Of course, being my Full Spectrum babies, they express this in their own special ways. In an unfamiliar environment, G copes with total pokemon immersion, embodying different personae for each situation.  Self-regulation in terms of appetite, sleep and so forth go out the window, and parental regulation becomes more crucial. He rises above largely by crafting pokemon-based jokes at every turn.

Z copes via incessant planning, especially of destinations and menus, as well as by recruiting any likely candidates (candidate pool: anyone who thinks little girls are cute) for unbridled, extensive conversation and free samples. Regulation of environments – social, internal, spatial – becomes paramount. She lightens up, though, with abandon -- and a scurvy belly chuckle for her brother’s every pokemon joke. 

This tendency toward enjoyment – heck, let’s call it Play -- was delightful to see. It functioned, too, as a counterbalance for my realization that my children have a great deal to learn if they are ever to function well outside of their comfort zones.

In our Full Spectrum, strengths and weaknesses are integrally connected. Case in point: We are driving around and realize we have gone the wrong way. Pardner announces that he will have to make a U-turn. Z announces, in her inimitably regal way,  “I don’t want to make a U-turn. I want to take a ME turn.” We – all of us -- laughed about this for the rest of the trip, even though the fact that it was actually true for Z was mildly disconcerting.

Now that both children are in school, spending twenty-four hours a day together was freshly grueling and amazing. Each late night would find Full Spectrum Mama and Pardner lying on the bed staring vacantly at the Holiday Inn television with mouths agape, shell-shocked, knowing full well that G and Z would start their preliminary grunting and fidgeting around at five in the morning…yet nonetheless unable to sleep.

This experience has confirmed my long-standing hunch that traveling with kids should henceforward be referred to not as vacation, per se, but as “tripping.”

The day we got home, I was thrilled to see an article in the local paper about a child in a neighboring town with autism who was graduating from high school and exploring his next steps. I expected to learn about resources in our community and people with whom I might connect. I began to feel sick to my stomach as some of the language in the piece sank in: “trying to determine what was wrong with her son” was the phrase I still cannot shake.

Language around disability is so loaded. Labeling and differentiating language may be useful in accessing services and, in some contexts, increasing understanding. But great care must be used. Although all those involved in the article must have meant well, I remain disappointed by the overall implication that there is something about people with autism that needs to be “fixed.” Such language might fittingly be used in some cases of attachment disorder, an often dis-abling condition that results from difficult circumstances and which may, with luck, ultimately be healed. Autism, in contrast, involves – among other things -- different ways of perceiving, processing and interacting with the world. These modes may well be held as equally valid to those of neurotypical individuals.

Maybe this is not the current mainstream, on-the-streets perspective? After all, there is a vast spectrum of variety in perceiver and perceived...especially with children who are remarkably hard to miss. 

Two new spectra coalesced from watching G and Z interact with strangers during our trip.  For G, a spectrum of tolerance emerged; for Z, one of engagement.

Figure I – Reaction Spectrum: Tolerance                    Figure II – Reaction Spectrum: Engagement

Adults tend to be engaged and/or charmed by Z. It can take quite some time before they realize – if they ever do – that they have been embroiled in a long, in-depth discourse with someone barely three feet tall and six (“six and a half, Mama!”) years old. This stage we will refer to as “disbelief.” Her relentlessness sporadically results in annoyance and more or less successful attempts at extrication. More frequently she is adored, even worshipped, for the tiny deity that she is. Obeisances are offered and accepted. Thanks will be proffered by Herself…if prompted.

The attachment disorder specialist with whom we are working recently told me that it is “harder for the really charming children to get the help they need because they get away with so much.” Z presents a scintillating exterior that diverts her adoring audiences’ gaze from her inner pain and her external transgressions. With inner healing, perhaps her dazzling shine will become more of a comfortable glow. 

The general adult-stranger reaction to my aspergian son seems to be one of tolerance. More negative reactions to his sometimes over-friendly or otherwise inappropriate behaviors include confusion and even anger. On the other hand, a decent proportion of people will go slightly out of their way to accommodate him – and a select few seem to truly appreciate his openheartedness and originality. There are even those who seem to celebrate his free spirit and flailing body.

The spectrum of stances taken by his fellow children, they of lesser patience and knowledge, veers slightly more toward perplexity and annoyance. With both adults and children, however, I get a lot of questioning glances, raised eyebrows and rolled eyes. I try to deflect such unspoken queries both because (this is one of many things I have learned about myself in parenting a child with autism) most direct eye contact makes me uncomfortable and because I demand that G be accepted on his own terms.

After one particularly stressful day in North Carolina, Pardner wondered whether “everybody has to, in some sense accommodate G.”

I disagreed: “I think the people who get G really get him!  If everybody were like G, the world would be a much better place. But,” I conceded, “much, much messier.”

I suppose I fit into the celebratory faction. Unlike the mother quoted above, I have never thought for a millisecond that there was anything “wrong” with my son. Calling someone “differently-abled” may be a cliché, but it is also deep truth.  The gifts of truth and heart and generosity that come with G could never be compensated for by “normality.”

One of Rudolph Steiner’s first students was a boy with autism. Steiner came to believe that people with autism were partly still in the angelic realm. That is, their engagement with the mundane world was limited because of an ongoing partial immersion in another dimension, one closer to source/truth. Thus the calculations and deceptions of ordinary people are alien to those with autism.

Steiner remains a controversial figure. I both agree and disagree with Steiner’s stance on autism: for one thing, the word “angel” can be a polarizing one; for another, people with autism are as varied as those without it…Yet there is something to be said for such a positive view of this “disability.” Stay tuned: perhaps another spectrum or two is called for.

Whatever their religious, philosophical or personal status, those people who wholeheartedly accept all children are angels to us. Neutrality is fine too, though surprisingly rare.

Love – and never colluding with the eye rollers,

Full Spectrum Mama

Tools

…In which I expound, dear readers, upon a small spectrum of handy-to-la famiglia FSM tools that might be useful and/or laughable in your rainbows.

The “My Bad”

We all aspire to the wielding of copious quantities of positive tools like respect, patience, unconditional love and consistency.

My favorite progressive tool, though, is more negative.

My mother’s generation – whether traditional or hippie-mama – often felt pressure to act as if mothering felt happy and easy at all times, as if motherhood was totally fulfilling and came naturally to all mothers. Parents, especially fathers, were deemed omnipotent and all-knowing.

As our culture has become – however incrementally – more open and less sexist, we have gained some additional tools at our disposal. We are now free to admit to each other that parenting is sometimes hard, and often baffling, and that – even as we fiercely, fully love them Every Second -- we sometimes don’t entirely like our kids at a given moment.

It may be even more important that we are able to admit to our children (friends, family, partners…) that we ourselves are human. So, I celebrate the following three phrases:

“I don’t know.”
“I messed up.”
“I ‘m sorry.”

The use of these phrases demonstrates that parents (friends, family, partners…) are fallible human beings who will try to figure stuff out and do better next time. Just like kids can be – if shown the possibility.

The “My Bad” is liberating, but by no means a license to ill. At its best, though, it offers possibilities of redemption, learning, healing.

The “Locked” Door

Among other things, Z’s agenda includes using the stovetop and oven at 2am. Because of this, I have had to confine her to her room until I officially get her up in the morning. This involves keeping a chamber pot in her room and my “locking”[closing] the door every night after I put her to bed. Somewhat paradoxically for Miss Independence – but well within guidelines set by the aforementioned therapist -- this has been a very comforting process for Z herself.

The first (initially) unknown-to-me reader of FSM -- and someone I think of as a real live guardian angel -- has degrees in Education of Young Children, Child Assessment and Development, and Psychiatric Social Work (with specialty in the field of children and families).  She also has decades of experience working with children. She keeps me on track and within the bounds of my knowledge while still tolerating, even celebrating, my flights of fancy. Any errors, of course, are all mine.

She recently asked me,  “How do you as a mother create a safe home for Z while still feeling your home is as you want it to be?” My answer was…I don’t. I used to wear a lot of jewelry, for example, until some of my most precious pieces disappeared. Some did reappear, only in different and unsalvageable forms.  Now my jewelry is so hidden away that just getting to it is way too much trouble for a busy mama.

Some other nighttime concerns, besides stove on-house fire-gas explosion and jewelry-ruined-gone include:

food-hoarded-infestations-grody stuff-smears-rot-botulism

lotions/creams/polishes-ingested-poisoning thereby

pets-tied up-enslaved

Z has her own jewelry and creams and an array of dolls and stuffies, but they are never quite enough. Her night machinations made this very clear. Admittedly, with her high level of competence we might teach her how to use the stove, etc. in the not-so-distant future.  Until then, we say that Z “isn’t ready to get up on her own.” We try to meet her where she is on the developmental spectrum, protecting and nurturing the baby inside, while allowing for her exceptionally high acumen on mental and physical spectra by essentially baby-proofing the house for a really, really advanced baby.

Oppressing Z was a concern, but her “locked” door liberated her from her compulsion to do verboten “projects” in the night and allowed her to sleep soundly, thereby enabling her to not only feel better but to feel better about herself.

Humor

Also from my children’s therapist-angel reader came the suggestion to use humor. She reasoned that with all the progress Z had been making I might begin to use wit in our interactions. Instead of sticking firm and strong to my “put the dish in the sink” order, for instance, I might -- according to therapist-angel -- say, ”Put the dish on the floor.” Essentially, I should continue to contain Z's actions -- but with a light touch.

Yeah, I am not ready for that yet. The therapist Pardner and I go to who specializes in attachment disorders suggested the same thing. He thought, for example, that when Z looks at one of her adoring aunties and haughtily points to her plate to indicate that more food must be provided I should say “Oh…is that a plate?” I told him,  “Please. Just tell me one thing to say for all situations. Funny is too confusing. In those moments I can’t remember more than that.” Someday I do very much want to be funny. For now, I aim for functional.

Ripping Bag

Z likes to rip. She likes to rip Everything. She rips paper into tiny strips, all of a size. She rips clothing -- seam from seam, or expanding upon a pinhole or snag.  She rips horns off beloved childhood unicorns saved especially for my some-day daughter. (I’m not bitter about that one.)

One day, after yet another ripping disastrophe, it occurred to me to fill a bag with stuff that Z not only could but Should rip. It was a great success and has substantially reduced free-form ripping.

Feel free to riff on this: what about a smashing bag? A coloring-on box? A food-hoarding bunker?

One Battle a Day

G has the typical aspergian penchant for obsession. Pokemon has been a focus for almost six years.  In order to make time for other activities and foci, such as eating and sleeping, we have devised a system in which we have one extended, all-out Pokemon battle a day, after which we have some time for discussion. A potential additional benefit to this system is that G begins to get the notion that other people have interests of their own.

When he raises the subject I can say, “Is this Pokemon time? Oh, you want to talk about Gyarados’s hit points? Good. We’ll talk about that during Pokemon time.” Ideally in this context, I don’t squish G’s interests, just corral them.

One battle a day is enough for anybody.

You flick, I tick

From time to time, G begins to develop a tick. The latest has been a sort of flicking of his fingers that seems to happen when he gets excited or anxious. Hoping to help him (and not his neurological hiccups) be the one in charge of his body I started a policy of “you flick, I tick[le].” That is, whenever he starts flicking his fingers, I tickle him. 

It is probably somewhat annoying, although he tolerates me.

“You flick, I tick” is also related to my “you flap, I clap” policy, for when G starts flapping his hands compulsively. These are intended as neither punitive nor judgmental; they should be merely observational. And, as I tell him, hey, if you love to flap, just keep on flapping…and I will keep on clapping. I like to clap -- and I love to tickle.

Tickling seems to be a good tool, also, when either child gets Stuck in a mood or thought process. Of course, this assumes a certain base level of receptivity to being tickled at a given moment.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could tickle ourselves out of being stuck?

 

And, finally…

The “Mombulance” (also available in “Dad” and “Person” models)

“Wheee-oooh, Whee-oooh…” You hear the siren in the distance. It approaches…closer and closer. To your surprise, it pulls up outside of your door! You venture onto your stoop. A hunky paramedic steps out (gender – up to you).

“Ma’am,” s/he orders, “Step away from the residence. Put down the crayon, computer, dishcloth, phone and banana peel.”

Several other paramedics roll a stretcher toward you. As you climb onto it you note that a nanny and several fun, inclusive kids are headed toward your house, loaded with healthy, delicious snacks, games and educational yet entertaining dvds.  You see a special caddy full of trashy magazines affixed to the side of the stretcher. You wave sweetly to your children, who don’t even notice you are leaving. As you are rolled into the ambulance you see that you are surrounded by clean, uncluttered, chic-yet-soothing décor.

Hunky Paramedic hands you a beverage, informs you that en-route massage is available by request, and closes the back doors of the Mombulance.

You are All. Alone. Ahhh.

Ok, I made that one up.

If anyone has suggestions about moderating random sounds that seem to sound good to G Inside his head but sound really bad to those Outside his head and/or on curbing jewelry appropriation and repurposing please to inform.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

Would You Rather…II

Many people worry. I don’t remember worrying much before becoming a mother, but back then I used to, how you say, “sleep.” All parents worry, I know. To be sure, we all have different worries -- but one thing we do share for sure is a novel and intensified capacity for terror. It’s almost as if when we become parents – however our families are formed – many of us develop an extra mental organ (or augment the one we already had) …Let us call it the extrapolator-catastrophizer gland.

The frenzied activity of this new (or newly expanded) organ is certainly enough to lead to a wide range of emotions, or what Pardner and I refer to as WROE (pronounced “roh”). After all, our children are our hearts walking around -- outside of us! -- in an uncertain world.*

I imagine the average parent shoves elements of many of the following sorts of concerns into their extrapolator-catastrophizer gland:

Happiness

Money

Manners

Grades

School Quality

Family Issues

Perfect Parent, the attempt to be

Health

Friends**

Popularity

Safety

Success

Bad People, contact with kids thereof

College

Athletic Ability

Some parents with “special needs” children might consider themselves lucky or wish to have these concerns, rather than worrying about, say, whether their child will ever walk or read or live a full, satisfying life. Some parents of children who inhabit areas of the spectrum other than “normal” may share these “normal” concerns, too, of course. In any case, although all parents -- and some people -- share this capacity for worry, I have to speculate that the extrapolator-catastrophizer gland of parents with “high needs” or “special needs” children may be slightly more taxed than average.  But let’s explore this assertion – because I am not actually sure it is true.

 

Figure 1: Venn Diagram: People, Parents, “Special Needs” Parents, Gland

Above, we see the scientific, spectrum-based proof that we all share more than we differ. I think within that context it becomes acceptable and safe, even useful, to make distinctions.

Relativism makes the Ethics teacher in FSM nuts. Of course context has weight, but some things just are right and wrong. Sure, everybody has their troubles, but some things Just Are harder than others. I have friends who are raising children who may never talk, never interact…who try for not days, not months, but Years to communicate with their child(ren) and cannot get through…and they keep trying. I have friends who are raising multiple, non-typical kids on their own on practically nothing. I have been a single mother. I have been broke. I have been a single, broke mother of two extraordinary and challenging children. I’m neither broke nor single now and it’s just plain easier. I am not saying it’s better, necessarily, but on a purely practical level it is, without question, more easierer.

My dear friend Noodle has two children. Her son is a well-adjusted, neurotypical, socially at-ease, sweet, lovable dude, and her daughter is a brilliant, non-neurotypical, evil mastermind, Goth genius, Feminist Riot Grrrl artiste. Noodle says parenting her daughter is simply exponentially harder. She worries about her more than she does her son. Period.

This may be partly because there is more material for to fret. For example, when your child is neurologically inward-focused, you tend to catastrophize about basic practical matters – safety, hygiene, self-sufficiency. When your child is delayed in developing a superego (a.k.a. conscience), you tend to extrapolate to larger potential dirty deeds. Think “Mean Girls.” Think Enron. 

These concerns do not just regard individuals or families, but society as a whole. For instance, in a piece on last week's "troubling" new CDC figures on autism (1 in 88 children today is on the autism spectrum; 1 in 54 boys) commentators on today's "On Point" (http://onpoint.wbur.org/2012/04/02/autism-numbers-skyrocket) discussed some of the challenges in parenting "special needs" children and the need for supporting parents, children and communities now -- and as these many, many children make their way into adulthood. 

On the other hand, there are people with traditional two-parent families, good job(s), plenty o’ dough and neuro- and psychotypical children who are consumed by angst.

Maybe the size of each individual extrapolator-catastrophizer gland is set – and we each worry according to its putative capacity. Or, most likely, there is a Full Spectrum of extrapolator-catastrophizer tendencies as well. If, for any given individual, we take into account the specific activity level of their E-C gland and their actual life concerns as input I think we are going to need a matrix here.

                      Figure 2: A Matrix: Extrapolator-Catastrophizer Gland Activity/Situation

My worries about G being able to live the life he wants to live and Z not becoming a grifter feel like they would fit into that matrix in a reasonable spot. I hope that Z will allow herself to feel and not just Rule, but I don’t worry over her popularity or job prospects.  I hope that G will develop a capacity to Pay Attention to the World, but I don’t waste time worrying over whether he is a sweet, honest person.

My worries are not entirely coincidental with the most regular concerns, but they are also distant on the spectrum from both mountains-out-of-molehills AND the concerns of those who deal daily with challenges much greater than mine.  It’s a decent place to be, all things considered, so let’s proceed from the pity party to the party. I suspect laughter may be the key to moderating the effects of an active extrapolator-catastrophizer gland.

Want to make me laugh? How's about a game of “would you rather…”

Would you rather…eat frozen moose poo shavings*** garnished with your choice of grubs (mashed, guts oozing [but, possibly this is good, dead] or live and writhing) or do a modern dance interpretation of your favorite poem in front of all of your facebook friends?

Would you rather…eat a puss-smeared band-aid that you found on the subway floor or drink dumpster juice from the bottom of a smelly kitchen dumpster that has been out in the blazing sun?****

Would you rather…be stung by an angry hornet or drink a cup of sour milk with a straw made of a rotten old bone?

Would you rather…have the kids you have – with all their challenges and quirks and catastrophizer-extrapolator exacerbating facets – or some other kids (or no kids)?

Would you rather…be yourself or someone else? Live now or in the future…?

Extrapolating and catastrophizing,

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* Thank you, Elizabeth Stone, for putting this concept into words!

** I love this quote re: friends from Ask Moxie (http://www.askmoxie.org/2012/03/qa-helping-your-child-develop-confidence-and-become-a-friend.html): “I would go through another 10 unmedicated labors, 20 bouts of mastitis, two solid years of potty training, and an infinite number of sharp jabs to the kidney in the middle of the night if I never had to worry about my child making friends.” Thanks, @Elysia, for the reference.

***"Humorous" moose reference: quite likely evidence of living too long in Vermont.

**** This entry courtesy of a reader with a very sick mind. When I asked, merely in passing, if she had any good new “would you rathers” her response could barely be contained in an email.

Helicopters in Our Rainbow

G had a major project due last week. He was to create a poster to illustrate and outline a presentation on his research on Grover Cleveland. His written report had gone well, mostly because he enjoyed it, but I was concerned about this more public aspect of the work. Difficulties in reading social cues and a lack of interest in appearances, both aspects of aspergers syndrome, sometimes conspire in undermining G’s classroom endeavors.

Here’s a Full Spectrum question: how much and in what ways should we help our children with homework? There is a veritable rainbow of answers to this query. It’s an ultra-regular problem, but when a child has learning differences it feels perhaps even more confusing both vis-à-vis home and school. The spectre of becoming a helicopter parent is never far from parents of many “special needs” children. In school, because G has a diagnosis, some teachers may have lower expectations of him. Luckily this year, his teachers – who are wise, experienced and huge of heart – seem to get my boy.

So, home…and G himself. I know he is capable of doing just as well as other students (and even better in certain areas), but does G know that? Encouraging him to accomplish things on his own is one way he may gain this self-knowledge.

Tuesday Evening: The Project
I gave G some guidance, including drawing up a draft outline for him, in standard outline format (roman numerals, capital letters, etc.). Then I let him complete the poster on his own. Some (vast) part of me wanted to hover over him and make sure he made something that would measure up – by mainstream standards -- to the other kids’ work. But more than that I wanted him to express himself, and hoped it would build confidence and satisfaction to feel trusted and do a good job.

He proudly brought me his poster. He had entitled it, “Uncle Jumbo.” “Good start,” I told him. “Catchy.” He’d decided the day before that our pictures of Cleveland from the encyclopedia were adequate for the final presentation. He had affixed copies of these two small black and white pictures on an angle and his handwriting slanted precipitously likewise. The outline read from right to left. But he had lots and lots of information in there and had learned a lot and had a fine time doing so. All in all, it seemed he’d done a darn good job for a fourth grader.

Wednesday Morning: The Turn-In
My heart sank when I saw the other posters. Straight lines, multiple color photos and computer-generated text abounded. I knew no one could’ve worked harder or more earnestly on their posters than G had, but these looked so, so much more…professional.

As I walked back to my car after drop-off I suddenly realized that other parents must have been giving a lot more input to these projects than I had deemed appropriate. Basically, I had over-underestimated the “normal” level of parental involvement in schoolwork. Between parental non-involvement and helicopter parenting (and beyond) there must be a continuum of genuinely helpful help. I decided I’d missed the mark this time, and that I should’ve at the very least recommended straight lines.


Postlude: Tuesday Afternoon: Pickup
The kindergarteners all walk down the hallway carrying shapes made by linking toothpicks together with mini-marshmallows. Each child proudly bears his or her little diamond or square with the greatest of care.

G and his one friend (who is coming home with us) approach, having noted the marshmallows. I have a cache of vegetarian marshmallows at home and I promise to serve them as snack. I often agree to things I would not otherwise do in order to encourage this rare and precious friendship. Then I further agree -- again, against my best instinct -- that we can go straight home instead of going to the library to download extra pictures of Grover Cleveland for G’s poster (which is due the next day), the faster to eat marshmallows and play.

Next comes Z, sashaying down the hall with the most spectacular assemblage in her arms. Her marshmallow project is in a different universe, nay, a whole different Reality than the others. One of the great aspects of having a child who was adopted is one can really go to town with bragging: “Hey, I can’t take any credit but…this kid is spectacular, eh?”

                                                    Figure 1: Z, Marshmallow Mastermind


Hers was by far the most technically adept and visionary marshmallow project in the whole bunch. Z, while extremely clever and quick, is not generally the most assiduous student, so I reckoned the candy element was a key factor in the magnitude and fabulousness of her creation.

Later that evening, as G worked on his poster, I would read his report card to find he has been “off his game” this winter. He has been focusing more energy than usual on social issues – somewhat to the detriment of his academics -- because his one friend is so important to him. Learning to share this friend or to be apart from him sometimes has been a challenge – and a strain on both boys. I would realize that by caving in to not going to the library I had reinforced this trend.

Later that week his teachers would assure me that social tension is, for fourth graders, essentially “normal.” Social learning is something most upper elementary students are struggling to balance with academic learning as increased intellectual demands jockey with more complex social dynamics.

In the end, even after getting a look at the other students’ posters, G felt really great about his project. In the interest of more conventional success, I could have done the bulk of the work myself. Otherwise, even in the quiet, socially unchallenging environs of our home, no amount of friendly cajoling, firm guidance or menacing threats could have gotten G to produce a precision-masterpiece equivalent to Z’s for his presentation on Uncle Jumbo.

But…marshmallows might’ve worked.

Had I only known!

Extremely occasionally, Full Spectrum Mama discovers A Secret to the Universe. This is one of those rare moments. The secret is…Marshmallows. If all schoolwork -- all activities and interactions -- could just involve marshmallows, everything would be perfect. Sweet, soft marshmallows (vegetarian for us, please) could sweeten the toughest endeavor of any child (any person!) – and cushion the frequent falls of every imperfect parent (and other human people).

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama

Pay Attention! To the World!

What are the odds that someone would put on two shirts, one over the other, both inside out and both backwards? Sounds unlikely, no?

Actually, Full Spectrum Mama…what ARE the odds? Harkening back to graduate school statistics, I have in fact calculated the random chances that one would simultaneously wear two shirts inside out and backward (*see below): just over six percent. Yet G seems to wear his shirts this way roughly 60% of the time.

Three seasons of the year here in New England, we layer two shirts for warmth -- but we only wear them once. It occurs to me that the odds might be slightly higher in the case of pajamas: you take ‘em off, they are inside out…You put ‘em back on: inside out. Thus, one ought reasonably to conclude that there might be a higher than six percent chance in the matter of the double-backward-inside-out (DBIO) pajama tops. We wear pajamas for a week, barring mishaps, with double layers on top during the aforementioned three chilly seasons. I have in fact calculated that for each of the week’s seven wearings the daily DBIO odds are as high as 14% (*see below). But I would wager that in the pajama realm we are looking at more like a 90% DBIO scenario.

Figure 1: DBIO Pajama Tops, with faint smile



There might be an element of intentionality to this sartorial situation. G invariably smiles slightly when I bring up how remarkable his shirt-luck is…is it pride that tickles him? Or is he sheepish? Is he a rebel with a cause, albeit an obscure one?

You’ll notice I haven’t even mentioned underwear- or pajama bottom-orientation.

If G cares about something, he WILL change it however he sees fit. However he simply does not agree that shirt-orientation is important. He has a point, I know; even so, I would like to see him express his iconoclasm in a way that won’t make the fourth grade girls tease him.

One of G’s earlier, tentative diagnoses was Attention Deficit Disorder. I knew this was completely wrong: he could focus on something he was fascinated by for hours at a time. His internal capacity to concentrate – often on internal topics – sometimes seemed much higher than average. In fact, he’d be near-unresponsive if absorbed in certain toys or a book. That label was discarded for others, deciding not to label, and so on…Some of you will recognize this cycle…In any case, ADD was not a label that stuck.

Caring about something, paying attention, merits awareness about that thing. Here are some other things G doesn’t care to be all that aware of: prestige, the despotism of custom (http://www.victorianweb.org/philosophy/mill/block.html), the coolness-level or age of playmates, sleeping past 5am, order and cleaning of most sorts, safety. Some of these are great (I am never pressured by him to buy the latest trendy clothes, for instance), and some can be challenging. It’s the latter that presents some tough choices for this Full Spectrum Mama. I just wish I could convey – in a way that really made sense to him – those things that would keep him safe and out of harm’s way. Of course emotional harm is a piece of this, but I would start with fundamental survival tips. I have to find ways to make these external things matter to him somehow.

Lately, sometimes several times a day, I find myself holding G’s precious face tightly in my hands and looking right into his eyes. “Pay attention! To the World!” I say. “Please! Look into my eyes and really hear me: You have to be aware of the world around you.”

I’m one to talk. According to an informal survey of “people who walk with me,” I frequently almost walk out into the street at bad times. I (by choice) didn’t get my drivers’ license until my late thirties  (there was a two-week driving salvo in my early twenties that ended with my vowing never to drive again). Granted I am a native New Yorker but it was more about self-limiting: it struck me as neurologically overwhelming, what with all those Factors (Directions! Other drivers! Turning!)! Driving was neither something I thought I would do well or enjoy, and I didn’t start to try until it became an incontrovertible necessity.

Obviously, I am not the world’s finest safety representative. As well, I never thought I would be a bastion of conformity-recommendation but here I am informing my son, “This is the way people do things” (i.e. wear shirts). On the other hand, daughter Z is all-too-aware of her surroundings and of “normal” ways of doing things. It probably goes without saying that she dons all clothing 100% correctly, 100% of the time.

One notion I had when starting this blog was that a useful parenting idea that holds true for Both of my two disparate children might be a useful parenting idea (not suggestion or rule, just idea!) for ALL parents. The topic of paying attention does not seem to generate any such overarching ideas. Here, I parent a very Full Spectrum-Of-Two. For just one example, take driving: I actually believe Z could be a safe and reliable, if, one might say, potentially “strong on the offense,” driver at age six, while G (and, perhaps, I) would best be served by using public transportation in perpetuity.

Balanced attentiveness to what’s inside and what’s outside is not a given around these parts. Manifestations of focus -- chosen and not-chosen, obsessive or “normal,” healthy and less-so – vary widely in our family.

The ways we (all of us) apportion attention are strikingly different. Children with different attention styles need at times to be parented in different ways. How? Hmm. I do at least maintain that the practice of paying attention to what our children and we ourselves are Paying Attention To is important, especially so when we are not dealing with “neurotypical” or “psychotypical” individuals.

When I am giving some version of a Pay Attention Lecture to G, I become -- on my better days -- aware that Z is listening. She is an excellent listener, regardless of whether she chooses to agree with what she is told. I want to say to her, “NO! Not You! You need to pay LESS attention to the world and more attention to your heart and to let go a bit!”

Luckily, I am able to follow up my Pay Attention lectures to G with Anti-Pay-Attention lectures to Z because G is not listening 93.75% of the time.

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama


* I believe one calculates this as follows: there are four options for each shirt if the dresser is paying ZERO attention:
1. backward, right side out
2. backward, inside out
3. forward, right side out
4. forward, inside out.

Therefore, there is a one-in-four chance of randomly donning a shirt backward and inside out (BIO). So for two shirts, since options are not mutually exclusive (vs flipping a penny, for example), we multiply. The chance, then, of wearing two shirts in this way on a given day (DBIO, again, assuming one pays NO attention to proper shirt wearing) is .25 x .25 or .0625. Just over six percent.

As for the pajama-calculation, I estimated with a higher, set rate of inside-out chancedness. In seven possible dressings, I generously eliminated the right side out option for Four, but retained the backwards/forwards measure for those days, resulting in the following calculation: (.0625 x 3) + (.25 x 3) or .1875 + .75 or .9375 for overall chance of the DBIO Pajama Top. I divided this by 7 to get your average chance on a given day: .13392857 or about a 14% chance. From this we may conclude that for a week, random incidence of DBIO-shirt-wearing would be almost assured (93.75%), and not out of the question on any particular day.

Hi! If you are still reading this you might want to ask yourself some questions. Hey, I’m the one who *wrote* it…Just saying.

"Laugh Like a..."

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting Cow.”

“Interrupting Cow—“

“--Moo!”

If you don’t think this joke is funny, or if you think it should be told Only Once, you are probably on a different part of the humor spectrum than we are. Lucky you. We are a very corny, silly family with penchants for repetition and nonsense. Z’s sense of humor tends toward the witty, G’s toward the baffling and awkward; both love a good potty joke. As for me, sometimes I feel as a Full Spectrum Mama that if I am not laughing I might well be crying…So when my head is clear enough to make that choice (which is not a given), I choose the giggle. That shared sense of humor may well be our saving grace.

This happened when Z was four years old. In order for the story to make sense, a few preliminary details are necessary. First, we do not have any broadcast television and live in a pretty idyllic and sheltered rural area. Second, we do not cuss in our home. I believe I may have said the “S” word once or twice, but that’s it. I manage to eff up on a daily basis in plenty of other ways, but non-cussin’ is one area of success. It is possible that Z and G have heard profanities at their father’s house, but always as exclamations, never as vernacular. Finally, at the time this incident occurred, my now-husband (henceforth referred to as “Pardner”) and I were dating, and the kids called him “Shushu” (uncle in Mandarin).

We are at a cute little restaurant in trendy, charming New Hope, PA enjoying some adequate Mexican food on our way home from visiting with family. Again, Z is four, a sassy, going-on-25-going-on-75-four, but nonetheless she is barely as tall as the table at which we are sitting. Our little family – Pardner, G, Z and me – is enjoying some jovial repartee and eating tacos and sides. Z likes her food spicy and G likes his bland, so I have apportioned the food accordingly.

In my memory, I am looking at my yellow rice and lumpy brown pile of beans when Z turns to me and says, “Mama, Susu Pardner makes you laugh like a bitc#!”

I turn to Pardner, sotto voce, “Did she just say laughlikeabitc#?” I feel, simultaneously, a very wide range of emotions. The dominant feeling is: I am about to crack up laughing worse than ever before in my life in a way that will be highly inappropriate on many levels. Also, I will not be able to stop laughing, either, should I start.

I lurch into autopilot-damage-control: “Snitch,” I say, “Where did you learn that funny, funny word?”

“I said Bitc#.”

“Oh, hahahahaha, ditch, yes, that IS funny. Hahaha.”

“Bitc#.”

Has it ever hit you full on that your child, your tiny little child, is already much cooler than you ever have been or could hope to be? The best part was how she said it, all feisty and ghetto, and like she knew what she meant. Head bobbing a little from side to side and the pointed finger going. For real.

Let’s face it, hearing babies and little kids swear is funny. It just is. Cute, too. Yet of course Full Spectrum Mama has to protect her daughter from her own precociousness and from apparent insidious influences. As much as Z has seemed all her life to need nobody, nohow, she’s still a child and she needs guidance.

Somehow I kept a straight face. I used the famous parental move “ignore and move on,” (a.k.a. “Cuban Missile Crisis”). Afterward, I did do my best to figure out where she got the idea to say “laugh like a bitc#,” although I never did find out. I believe she has forgotten this particular phrase, though she still can be plenty fresh. I remind myself on the daily that Z may seem like a cooler, more socially-adept peer, even, ahem, someone who might’ve been mean to me in high school but – she isn’t. She is my little girl. So I need to be the grown-up.


I thought about “laugh like a bitc#” the other day when we were walking home from school. There is a beautiful forested area right next door to our house and I sometimes allow G to walk through it en route. That day he asked, “Mama, may I venture into the woods?” “Why, yes, my son, go in peace,” I replied.

Wonder where he gets his quirky turn of phrase?

G, a major bookworm from birth, has always talked as if he lives in medieval times, or is in a Poke´mon program (he sees them chez the ex). Back in preschool, he would literally ask the other kids questions like, “Would you care to engage in a playful interaction with me?” (Sample, highly effective Z preschool utterance: “Gimme that if you wanna play with me…whatever.”)

How did it evolve that my two children – who have the same parents* -- express such a Full Spectrum of speech patterns? Ways of speaking -- how we tap into the vernacular (or not), how we draw from our reading and other parts of the world around us…how we hit the coolness nail on the head or NOT -- can be seen as more Full and rich Spectrums.

(*Oops, I totally forgot that Z was adopted for a moment there – but let’s agree that certainly she has had the same parental environment as G since she was 9 months old…)

Z remains the sharp-witted queen of kindergarten, whilst G’s courtly language flies about as well in fourth grade as it did back then. Oh, someday he will find his tribe. But…Goddess? PLEASE get him through middle school with his sweet soul intact. And please, please -- I know it is not my girlbaby’s job, but she can handle it -- make Z protect him once they are in high school together.

I will do anything!!!

Laughing like a bitc#,
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama

A Spectrum Rainbow

Let’s scratch that linear spectrum from my first entry. I’m feeling now that a better visual model would be a circular rainbow pie chart deal, with everything connecting in the center and closely related qualities connecting along the perimeter.


Figure 1: An Amended Spectrum


One nice thing about this new and improved circular spectrum is that proximity can be quite telling. I pointed out that the difficulties in connection on the far end of the autism side of that original spectrum reminded me in some ways of the inability to connect on the far end of the attachment disorder side of the spectrum. Within a circle, these two pie slices – far as they might be from “normal” on the perimeter -- might themselves be quite close, with some “unknown” slices in-between. The “normal” slice might be on the opposite side of this thus-far-undefined area.

Here are some ideas for some other Full Spectrums, a veritable Spectrum Rainbow, with illustrations from my own family:


A Dance Spectrum
We do a lot of dancing in our house. All sorts of music. Sometimes we’ll even have a dance-off! I could expound at length on kinds of movement, hip-shakers and non-hip-shakers, rhythm, etc. but it basically comes down to this: If Z is Beyonce, G is Steve Martin in “The Jerk.” ‘Nuff said.

On second thought, it occurs to me that although I personally think I would fall closer to Beyonce than the Jerk on this spectrum, G definitely fancies himself quite the dancer too. Hmm.

A Spatial Self-Awareness Spectrum
Part of my project here is to distinguish and clarify, but I do so more in the ultimate aim of connection than separation. For example, most everybody has some sort of self-awareness in space, so that is a connection. Yet, for a child with Asperger syndrome, self-awareness in terms of place in the physical space one inhabits is fundamentally very different from that self-awareness for a child with an attachment disorder.

I would place Z in a position of extraordinarily high, vigilante-esque self-awareness that is connected integrally with an extraordinarily high level of awareness of others. G would seem to land close to the opposite side of this pie, with little consciousness of his weight and size and position, or of his spatial relations to others.

I am not a neurologist or psychiatrist, just a Mama wondering at and about her children (and children [and people] in general). I do wonder if this self-awareness thread relates in some way to the ways severely autistic children and children with severe attachment disorders may seem similar in their apparent disengagement with the outside world? How might their awareness of self-in-space and self vis-à-vis other people differ? How might it be useful to think of self-awareness in space and in relationships as a way IN to children’s minds and hearts? To healing, where needed?

This spectrum emerges as useful in helping me see that I, as a Full Spectrum Mama, need to help each child move closer to a healthy level of self-awareness in this regard. That’s not always true: sometimes I want to nurture that distance from the “normal” slice of the spectrum. Here, however, I would like to help Z relax her vigilance -- and G to become more attentive.

A Scotch Tape Spectrum
Some people feel perfectly comfortable using reams of scotch tape. Who are these people? Oh, pardon. I meant to write that there are different ways of approaching scotch tape use. Some of us view scotch tape as a precious, non-renewable and expensive resource that must be monitored and used in minimal, just-barely-adequate increments. Others have a “normal” take on tape. They use it when they need it, a reasonable amount…and buy more with little or no angst! And, much as it pains me to admit this, there are those who are quite “free” with their usage. [No need to let me know if you fit in this slice. I accept you. I just do not want to know.]

Z, as you might imagine, is highly responsible and abstemious in her tape-related-habits, even unto the point of Putting the Tape Back; G is a tape-waster par excellence. Left to his own devices, he would use tape for many, many non-approved purposes – and I would never be able to find the roll in any “emergency.” From time to time I have generously bought him his own roll, said roll never to be seen again.

Matters of scotch tape and self-awareness are related, yes they are: ideally I’d like to assist Z in relinquishing her control-freak position on this spectrum, while gently nurturing G in his scotch-tape consciousness.

A Style Spectrum
Here we have Z, dressed always with a flair and pizzazz and ultra-originality that nonetheless manages to scream, “I have fantastic taste!” She may be wearing seven necklaces, but they perfectly complement her nine bracelets. A cape? But of course. And matching veil. Anything she puts on, Z instantly elevates and imbues with sheer gorgeousness and chic.

Next to Z, we have people with some style and then we have a series of “neutral” or “regular” style slices eventually veering toward a lack of style…and then we have G.

My son, despite being conceived, gestated and living the first few years of his life in the East Village, has never looked right in anything fey or trendy. Something about him calls for classic, regular, GUY garb. When G was a baby, we came to call this genre “football-teddy bear clothes.” I have recently managed to sneak him into a skinny cord without too much protest although he has a really, really hard time getting in and out of this particular pant. In fact, G’s pants are usually pulled up to just under his nipples, His shoes are probably on the wrong feet. Anything he puts on looks like it was put on by mistake. Obviously, we are moving away from “normal” here…but where are we going, exactly?

I contend that we are actually edging back closer to the high style slice! I further contend that G may well be edging into what we, in our house, call “meta-cool.” He is so on his own fashion planet that he may well have crossed the pie-border into the slice just adjacent to Z’s super-flair section!


Figure 2: Flair de La Z (with brother)


A Sexuality Spectrum
The increasing acceptance of a rich, full spectrum of sexuality, gender identification and sexual orientation seems to me to be one of the great leaps forward of this new millennium. Nevertheless, so far, my kids have not been taking advantage of the wide range of available options.

We live in a super-liberal area where I would wager the vast majority of parents would answer the questions “Can girls marry girls?” and “Can boys wear dresses?” in the enthusiastic affirmative, Still, Z lives in a pink world of princesses and fairy costumes and Prince Charmings. NB: her favorite doll is named “Donna Poodle Itchy,” which does give me hope for her independent future.

When G was under one year old, he leaned over from his clip-on high chair and kissed a female model on the back of a magazine that was lying on the counter. Although he does sometimes hug his (male) best friend a leetle too long, he seems to be firmly on the hetero slice of the pie and has "always" wanted to “marry” a gal he met in kindergarten.

Wherever they ultimately end up on this spectrum is just fine with Full Spectrum Mama; the only remarkable thing here is that this is one area where Z and G reside in the most average part of the spectrum.

A Sassy Spectrum
Z is monumentally sassy. G is not, in any way, sassy. When I imagine a full sassiness spectrum with these two opposite slices, one intervening side might be varying degrees of silly sass, and the other side might be mean sass. Having abandoned all hope of reducing Z’s sassiness quotient, I now try to steer her more toward the silly side and away from the mean. And I know it wouldn’t hurt for G to develop a sassy quip or two. We’re workin’ on it!

We all fit in somewhere -- and we are all connected.

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama

Control and Therapeutic Parenting

Maybe it was the “vacation” weekend on the Cape when I spent two out of three nights in the car with Z because she refused to stop screaming and was keeping other motel guests awake. And didn’t care. At all. Didn’t care about her crying, sleep-deprived big brother, or even the entreaties of her beloved “Papa” (I believe her exact words were, “Shut up, Papa!” {NOT standard words in our family}).

Or maybe it was when we were in the car and I had a migraine and Z was having a tantrum and I got her attention by explaining very, very quietly, that Mama had a migraine and that “every sound out of her mouth felt like a knife in my brain”…and then she got very, very quiet, took a deep breath, leaned forward and yelled as loud as she could into my ear.

In any case, at a certain point, my partner – who grew up oldest of eight and is, I assure you, unflappable – got the name of a therapist who specializes in children who were adopted and have associated concerns.

In Vermont, heck, in standard liberal parentland everywhere, we like to Respect our children, right? We talk to them about things, reason with them, offer them Choices. In previous generations, this might have been viewed as permissive or, um, irrational, but we are Modern Parents, Enlightened Parents and we know that our children are Human Beings.

I had noticed pretty early on that Z seemed to really like choices. She would think about them and weigh them and often contribute her own additional option. In fact, she liked choices so much that her choosing had become an exhausting element of my life.

For example, if I suggested that Z go upstairs and get ready for bed (pajamas, brush teeth, toilet), she would typically ask, “Can I pee downstairs?” Well, sure…why not? "Can I choose a goodnight book first?" "...OK"

Or if I let her choose toys for the bath, she would choose an entire bathtub full (many of which I had previously told her couldn’t get wet), so we’d have to go through a long negotiation process.

Or –- and this was my stock story whilst commiserating with other mothers of daughters – if I would ask her to put her dishes in the sink, inevitably she would respond, “Can I put them Next To the sink?”

Everything was open to negotiation. Still, this felt progressive to me, especially as compared with other elements of our life together (many of which felt challenging and disconnective). So even though I sometimes wanted to say, “Just do it! Because I said so!” I didn’t.

Meanwhile, Z’s tantrums and certain other habits – hoarding food, stealing, sneaking, lying, general mayhem and human enslavement – continued to escalate. Z seemed profoundly angry and, quite frankly, did not seem to be developing a conscience. I knew that while she might pretend to toe the line when I was in the room, she would do whatever she wanted the instant she was unwatched. I didn’t care so much about most of the basic practical aspects of this, such as spoiled food or ripped clothing (well, the theft and destruction of jewelry was problematic), but I worried about the implications for her later life - and I did worry about safety.

The bottom line was I had NO idea what to do. I had tried all the suggestions of friends and family and none of it had worked. Some of the things she did were developmentally appropriate but many were not. Even the developmentally appropriate things were, when done by Z, on a larger, more Machiavellian scale. The whole Z package was just so over the top: brilliant, adorable, charming…and so, sooo incredibly poorly behaved.

Full Spectrum Mama was accustomed to G, the first child, who lived to do the right thing. G’s very loving, stable start in life, coupled with his innate literalness and natural sweetness, had produced a child who was liable to happily do what was asked of him, so long as he didn’t get distracted en route. Lest you think G is Mr. Perfect Child, I should add that he does indeed get distracted, oh, say half the time – and let’s not get into multi-step instructions.

It seems to me that toward the middle of a Full Spectrum of Doing the Right Thing (according to parents, anyway), children sometimes do what is right and sometimes do not, in either case sometimes because they want to and sometimes because they feel forced. I had one child who was glad to do what FSM asked, basically at all times, because he genuinely believed Mama had her finger on the pulse of cosmic rightness; and one child who didn’t give a rip about right and wrong and only ever did what she was told when directly observed. And often not even then. Her urge to do or get what she wanted felt to her, I suspected, like a matter of survival.

Consequences – another tenet of Modern Parenting – meant NOTHING to her. I would start with the threat of reasonable consequences and sometimes, in the avalanche toward the ridiculous, end up going to extremes. A dispute over whether Z had done something with 2/3 of my $54 jar of Clinique Redness Solution – a huge, wedding-based splurge – resulted in absolutely no admission of guilt from her and my having to enforce no dessert for a month. Because, as you know, Consistency and Follow Through are further tenets of Modern Parenting.

I cajoled. I punished. I warned her. I gave her her own creams. She was invariably back in the medicine cabinet within hours.

Extrapolate from the medicine cabinet to almost every other area of our lives -- I was lost.

During our very first therapy session, the therapist taught me the single most important thing I ever learned as the parent of an attachment-disordered child: [in this context] “therapeutic parenting is control freak parenting.” It turns out that the main thing my daughter needed from me was to help her feel safe. And by what felt to me like honoring her as an individual – giving her choices - I was actually showing her that I didn’t have the answer! Z needed me to tell her what to do. What a revelation!

Have I mentioned I am an extremely controlling person by nature? Knowing this, I have always gone out of my way to Not be a controlling person. It’s not about power for me (as it somewhat is for Z) it’s about my part of the spectrum, self-diagnosed long ago (pre-G!) at being juuust at the tip of the autism range. I am very literal, and there are right and wrong ways to do things. In the abstract, I do know that other people have their own ideas about right and wrong and, in principle, I honor that. But, given half a chance, I could definitely be a total control freak. Drop the constant negotiation and lengthy discussions about every move? “I can do that,” I assured myself.

How could I have known that by allowing my child to make her own choices I was sending her into a tailspin of uncertainty in which she would constantly and anxiously feel the need to exert the control that I was apparently incapable of managing? I began to give her clear direction – and she began to heal.

I explained to G that different children need different rules sometimes, and I think he understands. His particular spot on the spectrum sometimes calls for extraordinary monitoring as well. Figuring out just how to balance control and respect in these relationships is an ongoing project.

In the meantime, as for everybody else, you, too, may put the dish IN the sink, goldang it! Except glasses. Glasses and other breakables Next To the sink, please. And silverware in that cup with the soapy water? Thanks.

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama