FULL FRONTAL - A NEURO-MOMENT

“You need to be your teens’ ‘frontal lobes’ until their brains are fully wired.”

Dear Persons,

  

I found this quote, from The Teenage Brain by Frances Jensen, in an 8/31/15 New Yorker article, “The Terrible Teens: What’s wrong with them?” by the highly-respected Elizabeth Kolbert (all following quotes are from this article unless otherwise specified). Kolbert usually writes searing, devastating pieces on global warming and the environment, but apparently she’s also the mother of three teenage sons, and so had a personal interest in this subject as well. Frances Jensen is herself “a mother, an author, and a neurologist,” who has two sons who have now graduated from their respective (very good) colleges. We will leave aside the question of how these two mothers are so incredibly accomplished, naturally doing so in a totally unbitter way, and now proceed to discuss how and why something is “wrong” with teenage brains.

...Something is wrong with teenage brains. And what that is, is: teens are not yet fully-brained.

This is news?

Even Aristotle (~384-322 BCE) felt that the young are lacking wisdom or even the capacity for reason. In his Nichomachean Ethics, he wrote that youth are so “inexperienced,” and “tend[ing] to follow his [sic] passions” that “studying [here, reason and philosophy] will be vain and unprofitable.”

But Kolbert, Jensen, et al bring the science: Apparently, everything we think of as mature, wise, balanced, reasonable, “civilized, intelligent,” comes from our frontal and prefrontal lobes. Since brain development has been determined to start in the rear sections of the brain and move forward, these areas are the very last to mature. In fact, according to MIT.edu and many other sources, full brain maturity may not occur until far into the 20s, usually around 25 years of age. The BBC News, among others, extends this into the early 30s.

In teens, the frontal and prefrontal lobes of the brain are not yet completely integrated or connected with other more impulsive or pleasure-oriented parts of brain, the latter of which are in fullest-ever force during these years. Usually, in full-brainers such as ourselves, the frontal and prefrontal lobes will “check on impulses originating in other parts of the brain.” For teens, who are still developing those links, checks and balances are rare to nonexistent. Since these front bits of the brain are also the seat of executive function – “responsible for planning, for self-awareness, and for judgment”—organization and follow-through are also at a low point.

Now imagine all of this plus atypical neurological development. In certain ways, aspects of autism and other neurodiverse ways of being such as ADHD, may resemble - or partially overlap with - or exacerbate! - the typical teenage brain.

What I really, really want to know is: Does this mean my son may actually someday develop some sense? I do and will celebrate all of his other quirkinesses and differences, but the sheer dangerousness of his unique developmental status in this area, combined with the natural teen/20s[/30s] propensity toward rash, foolish, irresponsible behavior, is alarming. At some point, he needs - for his own safety and independence - to somehow make, integrate, and strengthen those neural connections.

In any case, allistic or neurodiverse, teens also quite blatantly lack some of the central capacities we regard as integral to prudent, productive, safe human existence.

As solutions, Jensen and Kolbert recommend the following hi-tech tools:

            * “near constant hectoring,”

            * “scare tactics:” telling terrible cautionary tales at every opportunity, and

* calling other parents to make sure your teens are never alone at their houses, either (representative teen quote following this strategy: “Why even have kids if you are going to do that?”),

...in order to:

* force our kids into faking or parroting some modicum of executive function, responsibility, and do-right,

* supervise teens’ every move, since they are personally incapable of judgment, and, most importantly, to,

* frighten our kids into not doing all the stupid things they are naturally prone to doing.

Count me in: I never thought I would be this kind of parent but, given what I’ve learned and experienced so far, I agree with them on every level. They admit, however – and I agree with this, too - that not only were/are their teens’ immediate responses “not always encouraging,” but that there is “no empirical evidence” that any of this works.

Nonetheless, it’s all we’ve got. So, for the next 8-20 years, you may call me “Full Frontal Mama.”

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

CAN I SLIDE DOWN THIS?

I’ve often said I’ve never in G’s entire life wanted to hit him. Until yesterday.

Leaving Pardner’s basketball game at the rec center, G – who has the balance of, um, a person without balance - casually threw a leg over a slippery metal pole and was about to slide down the skinny handrail that hung over a three story stairwell.

I was about ten feet away, attending to his little sister, when I heard him ask, “Can I slide down this?” Quicker than one would think possible, I was at his side and pulling him off the railing. I pushed him against the wall where he would be safe. I felt a surge of adrenaline such as I’ve rarely if ever felt before and only at great effort prevented myself from punching him.

My voice, when it came out, didn’t even sound like me. It sounded like a very hoarse man: “DID YOU LOOK??? DID YOU? DID YOU SEE THAT YOU WOULD ALMOST DEFINITELY HAVE SLIPPED OFF THAT RAILING AND DIED???”

Here is a picture of the stairwell I took when we returned to discuss this again: you can see the kids’ heads and shoulders waaaay down there. G asked, from below, “Do you want me to pretend I am dead?” 

NO. NOT. FUNNY.

I've written before about trying to get G to Pay Attention to the World. I can’t say my lectures around his almost sliding into oblivion (or, at least, severe injury) felt groundbreaking. But, since it is clearly so incredibly, desperately beyond important, I tried: “You need to think before you act, [G]. Remember how I have been asking you to pause when you leave school and close your eyes and think if you’ve forgotten anything? Well you need to do that much, much more. Like, whenever you are about to do…anything.

“It’s not that something’s wrong with you that makes it necessary to think before you act.

“Everybody has to think before they act.

“Your sister. in particular, has to think before she speaks. Because she talks a lot and sometimes says sassy stuff. But you need even more to think before you do something, like cross the street. Most people already DO THAT. But you don’t.

“You could have been dead yesterday. Look at my face. Can you imagine how we would all be feeling today if that had happened?”

Unfortunately, I don’t feel like he’s really listening or grasping the impact of my words -- or the possible repercussions of his actions. He’s one of the smartest people I know, yet I still honestly have no idea how to teach him common sense in a way that sticks.

Later in the evening Z was doing her usual acrobatics on the living room rug and G said, “[Z], you’re a calamity waiting to happen,” and I laughed – laughed! – “Look who’s talking!”

“Well, mom, a calamity is also a great disturbance in the atmosphere…”

I think I am still calamitized. To see your child almost off himself in the silliest, most-preventable of ways is pretty devastating. Even more devastating: not knowing how to ensure it doesn’t happen again in a slightly different, potentially highly-avoidable way.

But we will keep trying.

I am so grateful this Thanksgiving that G is still alive, in all his huggable glory.

I am grateful for another chance to try to help him to gain some goldang sense.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

P.S. I am having weird formatting issues. My apologies to those who don't enjoy reading in this format...As you may have noticed there is one portion of this post that is in my old school format. I do not know why...and can't change the rest without making blocks that cover all the words...Le sigh.

ON BULLYING

The other night, Pardner and I watched Bully. I almost wish I could unwatch it. I sobbed through the whole movie.  I am NOT the one who needs to watch these movies that show how awful bullying can be and make points about why we should not bully. I’ve always been in the get-bullied category, along with G. (Also, it was like me watching Forks Over Knives  or Glass Walls. That is, I am already vegetarian, and it HURTS to watch this stuff!)  

Bully should be required watching, though, for all students and all parents just in case. And all schools. All people, okay? If you are around children and/or teens in any capacity, and have the possible capacity to influence them in such a way as to potentially prevent bullying or protect someone from bullying…PLEASE DO. You could be saving a psyche or a soul…or a LIFE.

In honor of this sentiment, I have decided to publish a post I wrote long ago but never published. This situation – which occurred four years ago - was so tender to me that I long worried that I might have risked writing with bias, or out of anger. Enough distance and space have passed to feel comfortable in what I say, and to know that the post is as objective as it ever will be (bearing in mind that I believe strongly in truth and integrity, but also know that there are always a range of perspectives!).

Thank you for reading.

ON BULLYING, or, YAY, PARENT A!

This is the story of one of the worst things that ever happened in our household.

One time, when I went to pick G up after school, two older girls were teasing him. I saw them from afar, heard singsong voices. G ran to me crying and said they were “bullying” him.

I approached Parent A. She had a talk with her daughter and her daughter apologized and in fact became a friend to G.

Parent A knew that

1.      kids sometimes act thoughtlessly cruel and that

2.      they should be called out on it, sensitively of course, but firmly, and that

3.      most kids will grow and do better, if given the opportunity to do so.

I approached Parent B, the father of the other child. He agreed to speak with his daughter.

However, when he did so, his daughter completely denied any teasing or bullying. Parent B then called me, and insisted that his daughter had not teased my son, despite my having witnessed it, despite the other girl admitting to it, despite my son’s words and tears…

I knew Parent B’s daughter sometimes had problems with lying, and my son had told me she was teasing him on several previous occasions (just not through tears – he had been able to “handle it” the other times). I knew that accepting our children’s lies and not giving them consequences for misbehavior cannot be a good thing. But what was I going to say to someone so determined to believe their child that they would ignore the observations of three other people?

So I let it go.

Really, what is there to say in such a situation?

A few days later, Parent B approached me in the parking lot of our children’s school. I had both kids with me. G ran into the car as, to my surprise, this man began to yell at me and get in my face. Gutsy, tiny Z stood her ground, holding my hand in her little one.

He began by berating me for what I was wearing: “Look at you!” he sneered. I looked at myself. Yes, I was wearing a sundress. I am sometimes “guilty” of an Aspergian disregard for propriety and convention in attire and other areas but: sundress. He proceeded to yell at me for what felt like a million years, with choice bits such as, “"You have a problem and I am going to make sure you know it and pay for it" and “You’re gonna get what you deserve!” and “You know why this is all your fault! You know why you feel guilty! You know you have a guilty conscience!" and so on…

Have I mentioned I was completely blindsided?

I am not at all good at responding to aggression for many, many reasons, some neurological, some psychological…When overwhelmed by emotions and/or sensory input, my processing speed drops to ZERO. I am -- quite literally -- unable to feel and think at the same time, never mind talk. The only coherent things I was able to utter, each more than once, were: “Please stop yelling at me in front of my children,” “What are you talking about?” “Please step back!” [he was all up in my grill, sort of under my grill, actually, as he was shorter than me], and – the only even slightly offensive thing, but in itself kind of a 1950s B-movie sort of utterance -- “You have a lot of nerve!”

Plus, I wasn’t able to defend myself because I wasn’t even sure what he was talking about: What did I deserve – and why? Why on earth was I “guilty” – and how did this rather random fellow know all about it when I did not?

Also: why the rage???? Clearly, he was trying to “defend his child” – but from what, exactly? From the consequences of her actions? And what about her actions? Considering that he never once mentioned his daughter during the entire tirade, something else was going on there!

I was so confused.

Then he went on to my parenting: “Everybody knows there’s something wrong with [G] and you’ve done NOTHING about it!”

After some more choice invective, he concluded with, “You obviously don’t care about your kids at all!”

At that moment, I was able to say my first logical sentence of that awful “conversation” (As if somehow I had to justify myself to this lunatic!):  “What are you talking about? [Okay, that was not the good part.] My life revolves around my kids!”

“Your life,” he sneered triumphantly, “revolves around finding more boyfriends!”

I walked away, dazed and silent, hand in hand with my baby girl.

Lovely, lovely eidetic memory: every foul sentence Parent B had spewed was seared in my mind for all eternity.

My baby girl hugged me, hard, when we got in the car and said, “I am sorry that bad man was yelling at you, Mama,” and I – usually totally against making our children take care of us – drank in that hug and those words like the nectar and comfort they were. I had just been literally attacked in the parking lot of my son’s darling, cozy elementary school, a place that had felt as safe and sacred to me as a place could feel.

Later, I took further comfort in knowing that I have spent every possible bit of energy since G’s birth trying to do right by my children. I took comfort in knowing that autism is a neurological situation, not a psychological one “caused” by “refrigerator mothers” or some other nonsense.

I took comfort in my KNOWLEDGE that there is NOTHING “WRONG” with my son! I can’t say it didn’t hurt – hugely – to know that “everyone” “knew” there was “something wrong with” him. I didn’t give a rip whether people thought I’d neglected to do something about “it,” but such gross misperceptions of a wonderful, kind, loving boy broke my heart. And as much as I knew Parent B was exaggerating, I, sadly, never felt at ease in that town again.

I took comfort in my peaceful and (mostly) happy and healthy family (remember: peaceful, healthy and [mostly] happy, not perfect!)

Both fathers in the children’s lives -- my ex-husband and my now-husband, the gentle and even-tempered Pardner -- wanted me to press charges. (And you know when my ex is mad at someone on my behalf it musta been bad.)

But I didn’t want to “cause” more problems…

After a few days of processing, after I finally stopped shaking, I was able to have some thoughts: OH! So that’s what this is about? Let me get this straight: the reason G has autism is I am someone who, after I got divorced, dated someone and, upon occasion, wore a sundress?

Or: if only I had “done something” about G, Parent B’s daughter would not have found it necessary to bully him?

Or: is it that the reason she bullied my son was because *I* deserved it? And I know why, right?

Also: I guess G was not “credible” because there was “something wrong with” him???

By the same token, I suppose my word, too was worthless! Everybody knows lying goes hand in hand with being a liberated female, not to mention a gay divorcée. You see, there’d apparently been some conjecture around town – spurred by a neighbor/”friend” -- that different cars had been seen at my house on different nights…Guess what, gossips, my future husband had several old cars when we were first dating. Oh, and I have friends.

***NB! I reserve the right to date whomever I please! As many at a time as I so choose! Additionally, unlike the aforementioned gossips and believers thereof, I reserve the right to reserve judgment about people to what I’ve directly experienced and know to be true.***

Call me literal.

Oh yes, I was shaken. It was a wretched experience. Even now, I find myself shaking FOUR YEARS LATER as I think about these events.

In time, I came to realize that Parent B had an extra-large helping of what some of my friends and I refer to as “iss-yews.” He’d essentially been taking out his own insecurities and anger (said “iss-yews”) on an easy and vulnerable target: a single woman with a non-typical child.

Nice going, Sport.

The take-away: I now bear in mind lessons learned around:

Bullies:                               
      >> They exist. Be careful. Handle with administrative support where possible.

Discrimination:                   
      >> Exists, persists. Ditto.

Hidden, but entrenched – and strong! And ugly -- blech! – misogynyy:
      >> Ditto.

Gossip:                                
      >> Inevitable. Live your life as fabulously and honorably as you can!!!!

Ways to approach adult bullies (or NOT):     

      >> Don’t. See above.

Teaching children boundaries and values (and what not to teach them!!!) -- and

Teachable moments in general:
      >> Can be hard, but are sometimes necessary -- or unavoidable.

The sometimes misguided ferocity people feel around “protecting” their children (yoohoo, catering to lies does not serve/protect our children!):

      >> Can result in the perpetuation of a vicious cycle of emotional or even physical violence.

How people can conflate their own iss-yews with their kids’ iss-yews, in molto toxic ways:
      >> Strange but true. (This relates to the synergy I experience first hand from learning about the spectrum vis-à-vis my son and then myself, in what is a substantially more healthy dynamic!)

How some people will dismiss and/or attack you for being “different” (autistic, single, whatever…it’s all about context and narrow-mindedness!)…

      >> …And how some people will NOT!

…and so on.

It seems like – I think? Probably? - for neurotypical people, the majority of these things can be obvious: people gossip, people act like jerks. G and I do plenty of things that tick people off, but they are 99.9% unintentional. We have to remind ourselves of the possibility of these unfamiliar and intentionally hurtful possibilities in order to be able to handle them atall. For what it’s worth, both G and I have been bullied less as we have integrated the above and gained some social skills over the years.

He heads to Middle School next year so I won’t get too cocky or prescient here.

As for Parent B, I know we are supposed to forgive people. Maybe I will get there one day. For now, though, I still want to kick his as$. And, seriously? With a little advance notice/processing time I could.

Anyhoo, if at all possible, if you ever find yourself in a situation where your child is teasing or bullying another child, be more like Parent A…PLEASE?

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

First Anniversary Lists III: Choosing your Battles

One initially formative idea for Full Spectrum Mama was that if something worked in our household it might be useful across a wide range of circumstances (consistent boundaries come to mind). Or, at least, our mistakes might prove instructive (diarrhea [still working on that one]).

But surety in these complicated times has never been a strong suit of our household. Readers have been more likely to laugh or cry with us than to follow my commands.

The first thing that comes to mind when I think “parenting solutions” is, um, drinking…For those who are not struggling with substance abuse issues, may I suggest a moderate portion of your preferred mood altering substance? FSM never cottoned overmuch to vino until single motherhood hit. Now, if she can remember, a glass of wine or beer definitely eases dinner and bedtime transitions [note to self: make note to remind self to drink wine].

And then there is the “solution” – much needed in a Full household - of picking which issues and behaviors to address and which to drop. In the matter of choosing battles, the grandmama of all battle-choosing advice comes to mind. Sure, it’s a cliché. On account of because it’s super wise:

The Serenity Prayer 

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Or, for those who are not religious or do not feel that serenity comes from “God,” here is a version from The Serene Atheist (http://sereneatheist.blogspot.com/2009/10/secular-serenity-prayer.html):

Through my efforts, I gain the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; 

courage to change the things I can; 

and the wisdom to know the difference.

 

Years ago, during an unrelated family mental health scenario, I learned that some traits are known as ‘characterological.” This term refers to aspects of personality and behavior that are neither strictly psychological nor neurological; instead, they are character traits – good and bad – that can be remarkably hard to change. Such traits are not reflections of mental illness or neurodiversity per se but have to do with the will and desires and tendencies of any individual. Thus, one might be characterologically prone to greed or generosity, kindness or cruelty; one might be shy or bursting with flair, honest, sneaky, sunny- or surly-natured…

Character can be worked with, its better aspects supported and its lesser elements healed and diminished; but it cannot really be eradicated.

It’s useful to try to get a handle on what’s what in this area, and to know which behaviors are

unhealthy, pathological or reflections of disorder

or

functions of disability or developmentally appropriate

and which are

basic, natural self-expression.

This can bring some insight as to whether or not – and possibly how – behaviors can be ameliorated.

It’s also imperative to know as much as possible about your unique circumstances so that you don’t lament OR excuse inappropriate things, or confuse character with a difference, disorder or disability.

For example, it’s hard to say how much of G’s generosity comes from his character and how much from his Aspergian non-attachment to most material goods. Part of my job is to help him develop enough common sense to distinguish between generous and reckless giving. Z’s giant hambone consists of one part attachment disorder and one part inborn characterological star quality. She needs to learn how to balance and channel that energy, but she will always be a VIP.

Figure I – A FULL Spectrum: from (foreground) Z’s jumping into front of the camera-field “Hi, Look at ME: I am fabulous! All The Time!!! Hey! Did you look away? Hi!” to (background) G’s looking-away expression of “Stripes. Stripes. Striiiiiiipes.” Not to stereotype, but this is…typical. (At the Sol Lewitt exhibit at Mass MOCA.)

The camera lens has captured Z in full form, oozing pizzazz. I cannot imagine telling her to back off or tone it down.

G’s absorption in art here seems part poetic, part flakey, part characterological, part Aspie. What should I do to get him to look at the camera for once, shout at him? I could say, “Pay attention!”

Nah.

Everybody’s got their stuff, right? Whether you (or your child or someone else) are attachment disordered, on the autism spectrum, wonderful in 99 out of 100 categories, mentally ill, spoiled, temporarily or permanently sweet or grumpy or cranky…having a solid perspective on what can (can’t) be changed and what should (shouldn’t) be addressed and healed can be immeasurably valuable in the day-to-day. Knowing what’s what – insofar as that is possible - can help you choose your battles!

Choosing Your Battles List

1.     Safety issues are non-negotiable.

2.     Public humiliation issues are at the discretion of the individuals involved. Only YOU can gauge the unbearable, loathsome edge of your acceptable-humiliation zone.

3.     Is X expressing his/her character or his/her pain/disability/disorder?

4.     Is Y able to change his behavior him or herself or does s/he need help from you?

5.     Are you able at this time to offer that help???

And…

6.     The Ultimate Battle Choosing Question: Can my child (or I, or those involved) learn, benefit, grow or heal from this situation, or should I just let go/accept it?

I have turned this information into a Flow Chart:

                                            Figure I – Choosing Your Battles Flow Chart

This handy, dandy flow chart may help channel typical concerns into decision-making success. As a bonus, options for simple suggestion as well as actual intervention are included in each branch. Whenever I am mired in a real-life situation I always make time to refer to a list or flow-chart, which I naturally have at the ready.*

Next Week: my final anniversary list: "The Complaint Department."

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

*…in my dreams.

A Summer Idyll, Full Spectrum Style

This little vignette shows how Full Spectrum parenting is full of teachable moments...for Mama!

We have a decent swimming hole about five minutes’ walk from our house. We went there the other day when Z was just in a mood. Mama was not in the mood for this mood. 

So it wasn’t a great combination.

As G swam happily, Z threw sticks into the muck of a small rock pool and shot copious gratuitous dirty looks my way. I jumped in and joined G for a while, trying to enjoy myself despite one-third of our party being in a snit, and then slid out and approached Z.

“If you want to go swimming, now is the time,” I remarked.

From the water, G made encouraging river otter sounds and tried to make Z laugh.

She ignored him.

I am always hoping these two Spectrum opposites can be “therapeutically” complementary to one another. Z might help teach G how to relate to someone who is socially savvy (for instance, getting him accustomed to mild, good-intentioned ribbing); or G could show Z that being generous (i.e. taking the smaller piece of pie) isn’t a sign of weakness. Sometimes it feels like quite the opposite is occurring. At the river, G was being sweet and blatantly making himself vulnerable to rejection and it wasn’t swaying Z’s tough stance one iota.

My Great Grandmother Noni, a widowed mother of a huge family and a fantastic and irreverent and loving woman, gave her children the following sage parenting advice: “Don’t see everything.”

I had seen Z’s sourpuss and her unwillingness (inability?) to respond to G’s overtures and I just couldn’t take the rudeness.

“In this family we treat each other with kindness,” I snapped. “Period!”

As Black and White and Spectrum-y as I can be, I have to wonder whether some of the moral boundaries I set for my family fit the individuals concerned.* I am always telling G, “Use your most powerful [pokemon-style] move: Ignore!” when he feels that Z is tormenting him, yet here I was denying her the right to this mighty move – and big-time incapable of it myself! Maybe the kids were learning from each other in ways that weren’t so obvious to me; maybe I should have simply accepted – “not seen” -- the interaction and, as Noni’s son-in-law (my Grampy) used to say, “Leave it lay where Jesus flang it.”

Is it true, as a dear friend recently told me, that for parents the acts of holding a moral center and loving unconditionally are irreconcilable? If so, which do I value more?  As with many in my raised-by-busy-boomers generation, I felt at times a dearth of both in my upbringing.  Am I now, in attempting through the ways I treat my children to right certain wrongs done to me in those realms, thereby inadvertently creating other wrongs?

In a word? Yes. (At least becoming a parent sometimes helps us to better understand and empathize with our own parents!)

Home we walked, Z stomping and screaming the entire way. I could not carry her, because I was walking her bike. G, though, was on his bike, and I very reluctantly let him ride away from the ruckus. Since Z’s walk-yelling slowed us down, G got home maybe four minutes before we did.

He awaited us at the very edge of the driveway. Hesitantly, looking slightly uncomfortable, G asked, “Did that woman give you my message?”

“What do you mean?”

I looked over at my filthy car: “Help, my Mama is gone” was written in the dust on the back hatch.

But Z was radioactive and I needed to get her inside. A public tantrum can be remarkably depleting for all concerned. Safely in the house, she proceeded to glower her way through dinner. She lost the privilege of dessert after refusing to respond to basic queries and jovial repartee. After several further chances she also lost the popcorn, DVD, and nightly reading of Harry Potter privileges and was banished to the bathroom to prepare for bed. Which she also refused to do. As I was lifting her onto the toilet in the hope that she would deign to use it (channeling Xiao Chuan Ayi all along: “You know what? Now I am going to have to lift your body onto the toilet,” stated very, very dispassionately), she pulled hard at my thumb and I heard, through the din, a ripping sound.

Z had torn a ligament in my thumb.

Funny how one can painstakingly remove oneself from all sorts of negative situations and then find oneself feeling violated by a small child in the home that houses you both. As Z gets older, the violence of her tantrums is increasing, along with her capacity for destruction. Still, there is hope here: she seems to be gaining more security and so is tantruming somewhat less frequently while enjoying more healthy reactions overall.

I can imagine a time when Z will have learned to calibrate and refine her social persona to the point where her behavior – at least in public -- is entirely ordinary.

As for G, I am not so sure. It turns out that while he had been waiting in the driveway for us to return from the swimming hole, he had run out into the road and flagged down a car to tell the (female) driver that his “Mama had disappeared,” and asked her to “please, try to find her, and tell her that I am looking for her.”

In subsequent conversations G admitted that his actions had not made a lots of sense, considering that he had seen me mere minutes before at the swimming hole and had known Z was having a colossal tantrum. He just could not put all the relevant information together through his anxiety. Perhaps this was a Theory of Mind** Moment.

Come to think of it, a woman had slowed way down and peered at me in a strange way as we were walking home.

And here I’d thought she had given me the look because of my beet-red, wild-haired, screamin’-like-a-banshee daughter!

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

*  I love this quote from The Autism Revolution, by Martha Herbert, MD, PhD with Karen Weintraub: “I’d rather spend time with someone who is interested in me than someone who is trying to fix me or always telling me to do stuff that doesn’t make sense” (p. 162).

** Theory of Mind is a philosophical/psychological concept that is sometimes used by neurotypical theorists to describe some expressions of autism wherein an individual may be – or seem to be -- unable to project or attribute mental states beyond his or her own to others.  Here, one might say that G was unable to conceptualize where we were if we were not at home with him  (as we should logically and historically have been). This theory, though, can be turned around to accuse neurotypical people of not having a Theory of Mind that would fit in a more autistic-centric world…

If you do go to this link, please read to the bottom of the autism part, where you will find a more nuanced view:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theory_of_mind

Our Spectrum Through a Lens of Rules

Do you obey rules?

Why or why not?

What about the children you know – yours or others’?

Continuing on the trajectory that began in my next-to-last post about boundaries, we now turn to those more concrete, explicit boundaries known as “rules.”

Figure I: Chart of Obedience

This chart describes some of the main ways individuals react to rules.

People may obey rules out of a sense of justice or fear or respect. They may do so for the sake of appearances -- or because it has not occurred to them to do otherwise. People may disobey rules because they are not aware of them – or are aware and simply do not care. Or they may do so because they are rebellious and see rules as made to be broken. They may enjoy being sneaky, or feel that they need to be sneaky in order to do what they want to do.  In this chart, the motives of justice and injustice meet on the spectrum, as do two expressions of apathy.

Finding ways to help my Full Spectrum household follow those rules I deem important has been an ongoing challenge. In fact, when I consider getting my children to obey rules, the classic notion of “herding cats” comes to mind. G cares deeply about justice and will sometimes follow rules for this reason, but he tends toward the “Lack of Awareness/Who Cares?” quadrant of my chart.  Z typically obeys rules for the sake of appearances or out of fear or respect, while having a very strong propensity toward sneakiness and rebellion. I’ve yet to determine if, for Z, defiance is based on a feeling of injustice. 

In basic societal terms, it seems that G wants to be “good,” and is sometimes unable to figure out how, while Z seems to want to be “bad,” and is only sometimes successful due to constrictions which force her to act “good.” Obviously this is an oversimplification, and not language I would ever actively use in parenting, but it does reflect how I often feel as we try to navigate the world of rules as a family.

I was fortunate to encounter my parenting idol, Xiao Chuan Ayi (Auntie [given Chinese name]), when G was but a lad of two.  Xiao Chuan Ayi is unflappable, serene, as stable as I have always been high strung.  And she has two brilliant, active sons.

Her standard admonition is very simple: “You know what? That is not safe [or kind or polite or…],” said with great poise and tranquility and authority. Her boys could be breaking all sorts of rules -- swinging from a chandelier with machetes, making war cries and sprinkling those below with water balloons -- and, with a word and a Special Look from their mother, they are standing at attention. On the ground! She would surely argue that they don’t get off the chandelier immediately 100% of the time but, trust me, they listen more than most.

 Following the admirable Xiao Chuan Ayi, “You know what? “ became my earliest go-to phrase. “You know what? That is not safe/kind/polite/[fill-in-the-blank]…” was a relatively effective way to at least communicate rules and boundaries. if not to actually enact them in each instance.

The problem was and remains that I have neither what Xiao Chuan Ayi terms, “The Chinese Look of Death,” nor its Whitey McWhiterson equivalent.

“What if I got angry?” my demeanor and past conduct seem to say to my kids, “Oh yeah? Well…What if I-I-I…raised my voice to a fairly loud volume and then told you, um, you couldn’t have any dessert but, uh, you could certainly have some blueberries with a teensy bit of Hershey’s syrup on them? Huh? Huh??? What then!”

Very threatening.

“You know what?” Infractions in areas I really care about – kindness, respect, safety – may call my Full Spectrum of Doom down upon my chilluns. In those instances I am able to invoke a fearsome aspect of myself without, indeed, really even trying. I just – some stuff I just don’t care about, even though I am supposed to.  Sure, I would like my children to know how to properly set a table.  I have a hard time, however, mustering obedience-ensuring wrath over a fork in the wrong place.

But I should not imply that my friend rules through fear. To be clear, Xiao Chuan Ayi’s Chinese Look of Death may be most remarkable in how unnecessary it is -- because the woman just exudes calm. To wit, G, Z and I were recently at her house on a lovely summer morning and, through a series of stomach-related mishaps, managed to cover her entire bathroom floor (heck, her entire bathroom) in diarrhea. After cracking up big time (now that’s a good friend), she whisked G and Z away so I could deal with the disastrophe at hand.

While I scrubbed away upstairs, the children – those same children who had not stopped flapping their jibs for the first three weeks of July -- stayed downstairs with their Ayi, quietly entertaining themselves.  As I attempted at length to restore my dear friend’s bathroom to some semblance of cleanliness, not a peep was to be heard. Meanwhile, Xiao Chuan Ayi was…accomplishing things!

Or consider G’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs S.* Mrs. S is of small stature and looks like a stereotypical blonde angel. She is gentle, kind and quiet. Yet she was in complete control of a classroom that consisted of eleven rambunctious boys and two girls. Imagine the boy-filled, first-time-in-school chaos, and the tiny teacher in its midst. Yet: “Now girls and boys,” she would say softly, and the Entire Room would Instantly hush!

News flash: that type of gentle admonition leading to thrall does not often happen in our household, despite a much more favorable child-to-adult ratio.

Sometimes kids don’t listen. As parents, we must choose our battles. One task, then, is deciding which rules matter to us. The second is figuring out how to convey their importance in a way that makes sense, so that our rules are clear, just, fair and compelling.  Then we try to follow through with consistency and regularity.  If we can begin to do so with the inner authority and peaceful mien of a Xiao Chuan Ayi or a Mrs. S, so much the better.

I’ve heard tell my paternal grandmother (who taught first grade) had this gift, but such subtleties do not come naturally to me. From where I stand on the spectrum, rules that are just and good are meant to be followed and those that are not just and good are to be disregarded. Simple. Explaining why this is so feels alien.

Modes of enforcing rules seem either mysteriously subtle or ham-handed or violent.  Also, ineffective: yelling, exhortation, protracted explanations and dire consequences all have little impact given Z and G’s Spectrum locales. The way they handle rules could ultimately affect their overall well-being and chances of success in life, ergo, the need to cultivate new approaches.

The gentle authority of teachers like Xiao Chuan Ayi, Mrs. S, and my Grammy seems a tricky, elusive, extremely worthwhile art, and certainly one to which I aspire. 

Subtly!!!

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* Mrs. S will be Z’s first grade teacher in the fall, and her placid, earthy solidity promises to be a great match for X’s mountain-moving attempts.

Safe Boundaries, or, More Toilet Stories

Another way to approach my Full Spectrum household is through a lens of boundaries: Z habitually smashes them, while G is often unaware of them. Until recently, when he told me it hurts his feelings and embarrasses him, I would publicly joke (say, when he hugged someone he’d never met) that G’s superhero name was “No Boundaries Man.”

The issue of bathrooms is just one example of this phenomenon. Now that G is older (and he’s very tall, so he seems even older than he is) I can’t take him into the Women’s Room any more. This is anxiety-provoking. I offer the following four justifications for why this is so:

1. Because G is so friendly, he will strike up a conversation with just about anyone. Anywhere.  After a few too many overheard bathroom conversations, and several attempts to gently explain how inappropriate that was, and dangerous, I told him explicitly and in strong terms not to talk to anyone in the bathroom.  Period.

After taking Z to the bathroom the other day, we were waiting for G outside the Men’s Room for a few minutes.

“G?” I called. No answer.

Increasingly frantic, I called him several more times.

Just as I was about to barge into the Men’s Room, G emerged.

“What’s the matter, Mama?” he asked. “You told me not to talk to anyone in the bathroom.”

2. Same scenario, but this time G gets out of the bathroom first.  From inside the Women’s Room I hear him striking up conversations with, basically, any man who is coming out of the Men’s Room.

“Hello, my name is [full name]” he chirps, over and over.

“Please don’t talk to people outside of the bathroom either,” I say, having rushed Z’s hand-washing to forestall the next greeting.

“But I made a friend,” he protests. “He seems like he might have been a little weird when she was a kid. Maybe she was made fun of too. In the past.”*

Score: one for making difference seem like a prestigious club; zero for safety.

3. En route to Grandmother’s G announces that we need to make an emergency stop. I manage to exit and pull into a gas station in record time. Z is asleep. Since I have parked right in front of the entrance, I allow him to run in by himself. Relieved over having made it to a bathroom in time, it takes me a few minutes to notice that we are in a really sketchy area. I watch a spectrum of shady characters entering and exiting the building with mounting dread. I decide to wake up Z, but she is in a deep sleep so I grab her and carry her inside. We make our way to the hallway and to the bathroom door…which is wide open.

There sits G on the toilet, pants around his ankles, jacket on the filthy floor, chin resting in his hand like a small, live, No Boundaries Man “thinker.”

4. A few days before school ended, the hallway bathroom lights, which are on an automatic timer, went off while G was sitting on the toilet. He began screaming in terror and by the time someone heard him and turned on the light he was in a full-on panic attack. He was still red and on the constant verge of tears when I came to pick him up.

The two problems I was later able to glean from him were as follows: First, he knew he was in a stall, but didn’t have a mental picture of the space he was in or how to get out “in the pitch dark;” second, perhaps more importantly, he “was not done wiping [his] butt.”

This, in fact, was a sign of progress: the wipe/flush/wash hands trifecta has been a challenging one for G, with at least two out of three typically forgotten.

And then we have Z. Unlike G, Z is exceedingly aware of boundaries. She tends to see boundaries, however, as mere niceties that do not apply to her. This, too, raises safety issues. And bathroom issues. For example, we have to monitor Z’s bathroom visits at home after her consumption of a few too many bottles of skin and hair products.

Outside of the bathroom, Z’s iconoclastic confidence is an invaluable tool in achieving sovereignty. Once, she told her teacher she had to go use the microwave, marched into the fourth grade classroom, placed her food in the microwave and turned it on to fry her Tupperware and food to a melty, smoking crisp.  Curiously, no one thought to question her actions once she’d assured them she “knew what she was doing.”

She pushes boundaries with words as well. We were at a plant show in a greenhouse with my extended family when I heard her tell her 4-year old cousin, “It’s so f___kin’ hot!”

“What did you just say?” I gasped.

Z looked me right in the eyes, and said, “I said it’s so freakin’ hot, Mama.”

And Z looooves her Papa (my Pardner)…Maybe a bit too much.

"I’m gonna marry Papa," she once informed me.

"No, honey, I am married to Papa," I said. "You're his stepdaughter and that’s a different relationship that is just as wonderful. You'll always be together like that."

She stared at me like I was a fool. "When you're dead," was her nonchalant response.

Another time, Pardner was in the bathroom when Z began a world-class tantrum in line at the basement food court in Grand Central Station. Upon his return, Pardner thought Z had been injured and swept her up into his arms and away from the others in line, asking with sincere concern, “What happened, sugar dumplin’?” As he walked away, she paused in her screams long enough to request -- from this apparent new ally -- “Could you poop on Mama’s head?”

Z has such a deep, scurvy, belly-chuckle of a laugh that it sometimes seems she understands just how funny her transgressions can be.

In short, both children represent a Full Spectrum of relentlessness when it comes to boundaries. Whether because of willfulness or cluelessness, in both of their lives so far boundaries are neither perceived nor approached/avoided as society expects.

By the way, speaking of toilets, and boundaries, when I myself am on the toilet BOTH children often deem it a great time to talk to me.  I’m not talking about after I’ve been lounging for ten minutes – I mean right away. They enjoy “keeping me company” and sharing important information, such as keeping me abreast of all current cat locations. Recent urgent, through-the-door inquiries – from both children at once -- include, “How do you spell my name backwards?” “How do you say my name backwards?” “How do you say your name backwards?” and “How do you spell your name backwards?”

Love,

Lluf Murtceps Amam

* Re: s/he: Yes, G does sometimes struggle with pronouns, but in this case the individual in question was transgendered and the fact that G was so casual about this gave me hope for the world!

   Re: “In the past:” I also am so glad that G believes me when I tell him that grownups are less cruel than children and that many people who struggle with being accepted in childhood and adolescence fit in fine as adults because stuff like being cool no longer matters. Is this true? I hope so.

 

Teaching My Son to Ride a Bike

We recently had pizza night with Noodle, her partner and her partner’s children.  The four children are a rare good match: two powerful gals who are willing to share their power for the sake of fun and two gawky boys with no (G) or low (friend) eye-rolling urges. (G’s friend is a lot younger, but G doesn’t give a hoot about age.)

After a brief – but non-cruel – period of incredulity over G’s inability ride a bike, G’s friend – wisely, I thought -- offered him his scooter. Friend rode his bike up and down the street while G attempted to scoot alongside. After trying the bike, very briefly (and, one might say, fruitlessly), G wondered if we might get a “bike like this one” instead of the larger one we have been using to try to teach him how to ride for the last several years. I had that quick sinking feeling of worrying about the cost of a new bike, but answered immediately that we would do so.

The very next day, we were driving along a country road and saw the perfect bike with a “free” sign propped up against it.  We popped that bike in the car faster than you can say “Our motor-challenged boy with aspergers is willing to try to learn to ride a bike and, goldang it, we are going to Do This!”

Pardner pumped up the tires and we were ready to start.

I have been trying to teach G to ride a bike since he was really little for so many social and physiological reasons. Bilateral movement, increased proprioception (a fancy word for self-awareness in space), basic balance-improvement, focus, self-esteem, not getting crap from other kids, and general fitness are just some of the likely benefits. I have been dismally unsuccessful.

When G gets on a bike, he gets distracted. He looks down, losing himself in the turning gears, or the patterns on the road. He leans all his weight on me, making no apparent effort to balance. He is incapable of steering and pedaling at the same time. He forgets to leave his feet on the pedals if I tell him to try his brake. In fact, there are way too many factors to take in when on a bike and – At The Same Time! -- on a street. For many years it seemed like he would never be able to ride a bike. I understand: in an earlier post, I mentioned that I didn’t really learn to drive until my late thirties, largely for similar reasons. Sensory overload and safe, direction-oriented navigation don’t necessarily go together.

Our first try on the new bike: G displayed all of the above while Mama tried to instruct. Not long after starting the lesson, Mama began to lose it. “Keep your eyes on the road. Please keep your eyes on the road. KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD!” Also, “Feet on the pedals. Please keep your feet on the pedals. FEET ON THE PEDALS!” You get the drift.

“I think this is a good time to stop,” G kept suggesting; but noooooo: Mama pushed on until it became obvious that we were getting nowhere fast.

We veered gracelessly into the driveway. G’s little face was all crumpled up. I asked him why he looked so upset. “You were yelling at me every time I made a mistake!” he wailed, and then began to sob.

My stomach clenched. I tried to explain that I was raising my voice because he wasn’t listening and that I was sorry he felt hurt. And -  “Yes,” I had to finally admit,  “I was frustrated.” It’s just a bike. And yet it isn’t.

All the things that will be harder for him than they are for other people, all the extraordinary safety concerns one has for someone with zero common sense and oft-scattered attention, common and less-common fears...all are triggered in this bicycle-riding cycle.  Plus, there was me sticking my feet under his tires periodically, which was kind of annoying to both of us.

There we stood, both holding on to the offending object, a rusty, dirty, old black bike that still smelled for some reason like manure despite a good rinse. Both shaken.

Z, nimble and chock full of sense, watched us warily. She had been riding behind us on her bike, balancing alternately on each side of her broken training wheels just for the heck of it.  If there is a bike riding spectrum, once again we see a Wide Range in this family. She seemed confused by these clumsy, sappy people.

The good thing was, though, that after a recovery period he got back on that bike. And we are still trying.  It doesn’t seem like a “never” now, it seems like a “someday,” even if that someday is far away. Not only that, I dare say we have begun to have fun in the process!

Plenty of people don’t ride bikes. No biggie. But I very simply and not-so-simply want G to be able to ride a bike if he so chooses.

I would, quite frankly, prefer that he not ride a bike unless absolutely necessary (and only with me around) – much as Pardner feels about me and driving – but I want him to have the option.

Figure I – Rocket Boy

The text on this painting reads, “There was a person who could not walk to school so he invented a rocket and flyed to school.”

G knows that he is different – neurologically, physically – from the kids in his class and beyond. This painting gives me hope that he knows that for all the things he does differently or cannot do, there are things that he can do that are more magical and more wonderful than the ordinary. Even if G never does learn to ride, I know he will find ways to make his journey.

Righteous Love,

Full Spectrum Mama