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.

 

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

Diet I – Diarrhea

Everybody loves to give diet suggestions to people with autism (or their parents). The range of regimens that has been suggested to me is a veritable rainbow, including:

The GFCF  Diet - gluten-free, casein free

The Elimination Diet – for allergies

The “Forks over Knives” Diet – plant-based

The GAPS (gut and psychology syndrome) Diet – whole foods, no grains, lots of meat

The Paleo Diet – eat like our ancestors…lots of meat

The Anti-Inflammation Diet – no gluten, no nightshades, no sugar

Also, The Body Ecology Diet, The Specific Carbohydrates Diet (SCD), The McDougall Diet…even The Jenny McCarthy Diet…

I appreciate the good intentions behind these suggestions and I am grateful.  It is not the recommendations that bother me; it is, quite simply, not knowing who’s correct! Surfing the internet is no help. Some claims around diet reek of pseudoscience, some are blatantly commercial, most seem genuine and sincere. Each contradictory mandate has scientific backup and heartfelt endorsements.

Barring any clear consensus, we try to live by Michael Pollan’s simple edict:

“Eat Food.

Not too much.

Mostly Plants.”

Rather like…The Mediterranean Diet.

We eat mostly whole foods, follow a vegetarian lifestyle and yet do not eschew the occasional pint of Ben and Jerry’s (in the People’s Republic of Vermont that might well be unpatriotic!). This works for us, for the most part.

Nonetheless, we are gearing up for a full-on trial of a combined GFCF/anti-inflammation diet. I am taking a few months to read about these, and combine them. I want to figure out what, if any, supplementation we will utilize; so far we are looking at probiotics and vegan DHA and Omega 3’s. I also need time to process what the diets will entail and to get ready for what looks like major sacrifices in an already-tweaked diet scenario. Our spectrum comes complete with a variety of neurological and emotional differences and, as vegetarians, we already don’t eat the way most people do. I am reluctant to add yet another layer of difference!

Oh, and I want to make this shift in such a way that the kids don’t notice too much, or feel deprived, and yet know enough to graciously turn down food that’s not included in this “adventure.”* I want to truly make it an “adventure,” tastewise, but a lot of the gluten-free products are ultra-refined and some have a sandy texture, while the vegan products are often made of isolated or hydrolyzed (huh?) soy protein. I think I can do this for the three to four months I hear it takes to see a difference; facing a longer span feels daunting.

As well, I wonder if these dietary changes will “work” – and what that would even mean: I don’t think there is anything about G that needs to be fixed! So why start a “treatment?” Will I become one of “those” people? You know, the ones who drive restaurant workers crazy? For nothing? Is this a super bougie bougie project or profoundly worthwhile?

In addition to the conflicting reports on diets and autism, I am confused by findings that genetics may play a much larger role in autism than previously surmised. The suggestion that diet can “cure” autism was potentially belied by a recent New York Times front-page story about research into genetic links with autism (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/05/health/research/scientists-link-rare-gene-mutations-to-heightened-risk-of-autism.html).  With advances in genetic testing and analysis, the prevalence of genetic links with autism is expected to increase exponentially from this juncture. 

Still, environmental and other factors (such as diet) can strongly influence the real-world expression of our genetic blueprints.  The study of epigenetics may ultimately show that dietary changes correlate strongly with autism – or not.

I applaud all families and individuals who make positive changes in diet that lead to improved health on any level. And I know from personal experience that some of the sensitivities that tend to accompany those on the autism spectrum and those close to it (such as those with sensory processing differences) can be mitigated by changes in internal (eating, drinking, tasting) or external (seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling) exposure.

G and I do have some severe chemical and sensory sensitivities. G gags and gets reflux from many foods. He is highly sensitive to certain sounds, types of touch and tastes. For me, it is more about smells and visuals. I will get an aura then an excruciating vomiting migraine after walking down a cleaning-product aisle or smelling certain scented lotions. There are times when I need to walk with my eyes mostly closed, under certain lighting conditions or when there is too much going on visually. G sometimes makes tubes out of his fingers to look through, so as to limit visual input to a manageable and intriguing subsection.

We both have bumpy skin on our arms and legs, which, I have recently learned from “The Autism Revolution,” may be a sign of Essential Fatty Acid deficiency. On the other hand, some sources claim these bumps are due to food or environmental allergies.

It is, literally, a lot to take in.

If I could wave a magic food item and change something, what would that something be? Would I make us not always tell the truth and be upset when others, by our lights, don’t? NO!  Would I make us suddenly able to cold-bloodedly navigate what we both view as brutal social scenes? NO! Would I make us see the world just like neurotypical people do? NO!  (Everybody sees the world a little differently anyway!)

I would sooner change the rest of the world than some of these qualia. Nevertheless, would it be nice for both G and I to be more flexible, more interpersonally perceptive, less obsessive? Perhaps. But what if we went too far in the other direction and were then overly flexible, social-climbing dilettantes? I’ve always admired Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean, which posits a lack and an excess for every virtue** -- and counsels us to find the middle ground. A whole system approach to balance might enhance weak skills (lacks) while retaining strong ones (those that are “just right”). But just how might diet per se do that, exactly?

Here are some relevant lacks and excesses:

Virtue: focus: Would it be easier if G could get from his bed to his clothes in the morning without being distracted by every interesting item en route (Lego? Floor board? Cat hair? Sure!)? Maybe. But what if one day, during that process, he discovered the secret to nuclear fusion or the alchemy of waste to water?

Virtue: moderation: What if I got “cured” and stopped making my lists? I love my lists! I got my lists from my sensory-challenged Mama! Or what if G stopped loving pokemon and heavy metal and started liking Jack Johnson and weapons and cars?

Virtue: wisdom: As a dear friend said, “You can’t and don’t want to change who you are, you just want to do whatever you can to remove the bullshi+ that keeps your true essences from shining.” In Yoga philosophy, that bullshi+ is the only true ignorance, and is called Avidya (literally, not-knowing). Of course I want G to be comfortable in the world, his best and whole self. When we are overwhelmed by sensory processing differences and their repercussions, we miss a lot. There are things we do not, then, know. But who is to say there are not things we know that others do not?

Virtues: acceptance, empathy: The fundamental question seems to be: should we medicate our differences? Cleaning off the gook that hides our true Selves from ourselves a la Yoga philosophy is one thing (and many sensitivities that cause overload and impede processing may be “gook” in this model), but trying to squeeze everyone into one neuro-psychological paradigm is another. Who defines this difference? Do we each decide for ourselves?

I might be able to get behind improvements in some of our chemical and sensory sensitivities if our emotional and mental sensitivities remained undiminished. In general, though, I fall pretty squarely in the pro-neurodiversity camp. Then again, my son is (and I am) relatively high-functioning.

That being said, what else might diet affect? In other words, why bother?

Well, there is the diarrhea.

We haven’t got the steadiest stomachs in our Full Spectrum household. Let me amend that “we:” Pardner and Z are tanks, able to eat anything with complete physical equanimity; G and I are muy delicato.

In a word, we have diarrhea. You think you have diarrhea? No. We have more diarrhea. Gas, too. We keep a box and toilet paper (“the kit”) in our car. On car trips, we may stop more than once an hour. Before going anywhere by any conveyance we assess the necessity for a preventative poo.

An example from last week: We were one hour into an ostensible six-hour drive to my twentieth Bryn Mawr reunion when G announced that he had pooped his pants. He kept asking, “Are you mad at me?” and I kept telling him that I wasn’t. I felt terrible for him – and unenthusiastic about what we would need to do to deal. As soon as I could, I pulled into a gas station. G ran in, yelling, “Where’s the bathroom?” to no one in particular, with Z and I trailing him. In the bathroom, he discovered with great rejoicing that he had been wrong. An hour later, we weren’t so lucky. Then we hit traffic around New York City and were bumper to bumper for four hours with no way to pull over. Between traffic, bathroom stops and incidents, that drive took almost ten hours. I vowed never to go anywhere again. 

And I wonder: Will G be traumatized? What could I have done differently? How can I avoid these scenarios in future?

One possible explanation for G’s and my stomachs is our swimming in the Rio Tuira in La Palma in the Darien jungle in Panama. This cool and refreshing river is rife with alien (to us) parasites that we have brought home with us upon occasion. Might I suggest that maybe after three days in the heat of the Darien jungle in Panama you too would stop caring that the outhouses all empty into the river and dive in and allow your child to do the same, along with all the other kids?

Another possible explanation is lactose/casein and/or gluten intolerance, which seem anecdotally common in people with autism.  Or perhaps our digestive systems are impacted by some or all of the various lacks (beneficial flora, good gut bugs, DHA, enzymes) or excesses (bad gut bugs, toxic heavy metals) that people on the spectrum tend to present in their guts.  We need to reach that elusive Digestive System Mean – and the path is unclear.

Whatever the case may be, our Full Spectrum household is always just a Yo-kids Squeezer away from the scatological. I am hoping that switching to Soy-gurt will help.

Whole body approaches are designed to improve connections between and within our various systems and that is one reason diet appeals to me. I guess if I could wave a magic food item and change something it might be how completely befuddled I feel about what we should eat!

I may have to take a “my bad” on this one:

1. “I don’t know…”

I don’t know what the right diet is for us. Should we nix dairy? Cut out wheat? All gluten? Gluten and dairy seem to be the biggest offenders, stomach-wise.  Or, as some suggest, should we steer clear of All grains? No soy, too? Then we just eat nuts and dried beans for protein? Well aren’t beans pretty…gassy?

2. “I messed up…”

I pooped my pants…or you did -- because I couldn’t get you to a bathroom fast enough.

I grumped when I got confused and felt bad about feeding you a meal that I worked hard to purchase and prepare. My choices seemed good by one standard but not by another.

3. “I’m sorry.”

A while ago, G and I experienced an extended weak-stomach period. I asked my Laotong (“old same” – a term for lifelong best friend in Mandarin) Lili – a bastion of practicality as well as magic -- “How many times a year is it normal to poo in your pants?”

“None,” she informed me, much to my surprise.

I had thought one or two seemed reasonable, under the best of circumstances. She clearly and unilaterally disagreed.

However, Lili recently returned from a stomach-challenging trip to Ethiopia and I am hopeful that she will change her conservative stance on reasonable-poops-in-pants per year.

But in case she doesn’t, we are still looking into diet.

Gotta go!

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* I casually mentioned our new “diet” to G and he asked me not to use that word “because it makes me feel fat.” I explained the various alternate meanings of the word, but we decided to refer to our dietary changes as an “adventure” instead.

** For example:

            cowardice – courage – foolhardiness

            impatience – patience – inertia

            gluttony -- temperance – insensibility

See also:http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/aristotle-ethics/#DocMea

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

At Home

I got A Dreaded Call the other day. We all know what those are for our particular family spectra, if sometimes only subconsciously. This was not The Dreaded Call but it was one I have been anticipating with trepidation since Z started kindergarten.

“Z has been taking food from the other children,” her teacher told me. “I have spoken with her and it hasn’t done any good. One time she said she was hungry and the other times she wouldn’t even answer me.”

“Taking.” What a nice word choice compared with “stealing.”

Filled with irrational shame, I mentally enumerated her lunchbox for the day (hard boiled egg, yoghurt, cheese stick, whole grain crackers, baby carrots, applesauce, clementine, small treat – all organic!). I then explained that Z (45 lbs.) gets the same lunch as her brother (95 lbs.) -- and that the hunger is emotional, not physical. I assured her teacher that I would look into solutions.

The next afternoon, Mrs. ___ happily told me that Z had a “good day.” I had given Z extra sweets in her lunchbox as a short-term solution to the “taking” of other kids’ food.  Mrs. ___ admitted that Z had tried to eat the sweets first thing in the morning, but had stopped when told to do so; then she “needed extra time at snack time because she wanted to first arrange the treats in an artistic pattern and then show everyone and then enjoy them very slowly…”

No, that was not a good day.

“Z needs to abide by the same rules as the rest of the class,” I explained. “When you give her special privileges she will feel that she is the one in control and will push – further and further.” This pushing promptly ensued.

In fact, Z’s behavior at school subsequently seemed to explode. I received calls or emails from the school nearly every day. Around the same time that a little girl was handcuffed in Florida  (http://www.latimes.com/news/nation/nationnow/la-na-nn-six-year-old-handcuffed-20120417,0,765665.story) I had to pick Z up in the classroom because she was very upset. I counted myself lucky to have been available. At another pick up, I found her hunched over her Hello Kitty backpack shoveling stolen candy into her mouth with one hand, a handful of crumpled wrappers in the other.  She kicked her best friend and when she finally calmed down announced the whole thing was best friend’s fault for “making me upset” and “making me do it.” She pushed other students, continued to take food, ignored her teacher, lied flagrantly, and so on; she continues to do so.

Another teacher, who has fostered children with attachment disorders, suggested that Z’s behaviors are escalating because she has come to feel comfortable in the classroom. This made sense: at home, she feels most attached to me and therefore needs to constantly test me. Her kindergarten teacher, however, had never dealt with a child with an attachment disorder and was – quite understandably -- bewildered and overwhelmed. I tried to explain some of the underlying factors, but we were and are struggling with how to actually reach Z and create positive change.

Grandmother* (a gerontologist) and Grandfather (an educator, currently teaching fourth grade in a public school in CT) recommended that we consider the possibility that she might need a paraprofessional.

“Ma! Two kids in one tiny elementary school with paras???” I sputtered. “That’s like 12% of the school’s budget! No!”

I imagined myself in a meeting at school wherein this two-for-two issue might arise: assuming the voice of a Borscht Belt comedian from the ‘50s, I’d say, “You think this is bad? You should see us at home!” Ba dum bum!

The truth is, though, that our current educational paradigm holds that public education is for all.  Mainstreaming students with most educational and/or emotional and/or physical special needs is our goal. Ergo: IEPs (Individualized Education Programs; which is what G has) and 504 plans (accommodations, not necessarily special education services; which is what Z may need).  Please see also: http://specialchildren.about.com/od/504s/f/504faq2.htm.

Also true: things are not necessarily harder at home. In G’s case, his schools came to me with concerns over his development and social interactions. Had life consisted of just G and me (or G and me and Timson Hill) I never would have noticed a thing (please see aspergers, genetic links with biological parents…or if there are any websites about people who just want to read all the time with cats on their laps and a nice bowl of pudding).  In Z’s case, struggles at home had always far outweighed those at school.

I envisioned a spectrum in which some people were equally comfortable at home and at school, some were more at ease at school, and some at home. I had come to think of Z as more “at home” at school whereas G seemed more “at home” at home.

Z’s first preschool, which she attended just a few mornings a week, was a sweet, in-home joint, run by a mild, affable woman. Z was – gently but firmly -- asked to leave that preschool for monopolizing all of her teacher’s time and energy.

Her second preschool (http://www.timsonhillpreschool.com/ -- may they live long and prosper) was one of the top-rated in the state and a most wonderful and accepting place. G had gone to Timson Hill in his final preschool year, and it was the one place where they never suggested he be evaluated (he had been evaluated by Essential Early Education [“Triple E”] services at his previous preschool, before we moved, and was subsequently evaluated in kindergarten).  G was relatively at ease in that utopian environment – and unconditionally loved. Likewise, the teachers at Timson Hill accepted his sister Z wholeheartedly and – I might add – effectively, as her behaviors improved in that context.

Sure, there were the several times I had to go get Z when she was “possibly catatonic” or “might be having a seizure of some sort” because she wouldn’t respond or speak to her teachers but once we were in the car she’d revive. Using her own words for what she was doing, I would ask, ”Were you just tricking your teachers?”  [Giggles…] “Yes.”

But they never minded! They were just glad to know she was okay! And, day-to-day, they celebrated her for Expressing Herself and Exploring her Power, just as they had celebrated G’s various quirks and peccadilloes as originality, pensiveness, brilliance…

Ah, would that the whole world were made of Timson Hill.

On the first day of kindergarten, Z -- alongside her big brother -- proudly walked into the school she’d been anticipating attending for years. Her pink Hello Kitty backpack was almost bigger than she was.  It was an exciting and happy event.

                                               Figure I – Backpack to Child Ratio: 4:5

 There were other idyllic moments, like when Pardner and I both elected to serve as “Mystery Readers” in the classroom. I bawled uncontrollably (though [I hope] subtly) throughout those simple and unspoiled occasions.  I had so much hope that Z would be able to self-regulate in positive ways at school.

Still, fairly early on, Z’s teacher had to move her cubby to a more visible place because of some sneaking behaviors. And she was having some dominance and conflict-resolution challenges too. Then again, Z could certainly be relied upon to “run circle time” if Mrs. ___ had a small group activity to attend to.  Overall, kindergarten seemed to be going relatively well.

One morning in November, after some small incident, we stopped to greet the principal at the front door. “Z is planning to be very well-behaved today,” I announced. Z’s face got flat and stormy. “Hey,” I told her as we walked into school, noticing her expression, “You need to behave – and we are all here to help you.”

On the way back out, I stopped again and said to the principal, “I hope that was okay…I just want to help Z do her best and her knowing that everybody is in on that seems like a good idea to me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much,” he assured me. “She’s only been down in to see me a couple of times.”

Um. A couple of times? It was November. And she’s in KINDERGARTEN??? G has been to the principal’s office once in five years; I’d been once: in fifth grade, for kicking Jamie Chickaverry in the braces. (I’d been aiming lower.)

After a weekend from h-e-double-toothpicks, and the above-mentioned calls and concerns from Z’s teacher, I scheduled an emergency phone appointment with the attachment disorder therapist. While I was on the phone, Pardner ran into the woman who had referred us to that therapist in the first place in town. She has a son about Z’s age who was also adopted and has similar issues with anger, among other things. “How’s it going?” she asked Pard. He told her a little about recent events.

She got it. Wasn’t any kind of, “Oh that’s ‘normal’’’ – she got the whole threatening-to-kill-Mama (and everyone else), house-destroying aspect of the situation. Apparently, her son calls her a “F-ing B___” On the regular. Sigh. My people.

Pardner said she then uttered the words, “support group.”

“I don’t really think FSM is the type for that…” Pardner ventured.

“Yeah,” she said, “I wasn’t either. It’s just that you get nuggets of information. AND you meet people who get it.”

This is why sometimes I cannot talk to people: I mentioned a bit about some current behaviors to someone. “Mavbe Z was having a rough day at school,” this innocent person suggested.

No, innocent person, Z was not “having a rough day at school.” Z was possessed. By the exorcist? Or – I mean – she was possessed by whatever the girl in that movie is possessed by – that’s my daughter when she’s mad? Which is a lot of the time? The clinical term is “shame rages”?

So…About that support group?

Our therapist differentiated for us between shame and guilt. Guilt is a pro-social emotion, which makes learning and progress possible. When children feel guilt, they naturally want to do better. In time more pro-social behavior becomes ingrained. Shame is a dead end, and children with that feeling see themselves as helpless and hopeless. They have, therefore, nothing to lose. Shame is an anti-social emotion.

When Z clams up and refuses to respond to teachers and family it is with shame. Her “shame rages” are the tantrums of someone who believes all is already lost, which is the main reason they are so extreme.

Our therapist said one of the most important gifts one can give a child with an attachment disorder is to create the chance to “do a repair.” A repair can make a child feel more safe, more at home, wherever he or she is. It is not too much of a stretch to hope that a child who feels at home (whether in a place or a relationship) would lose the need to attempt to destroy their surroundings or companions.

When one has been dealing with relentless testing and pushing and tantrums all day where does that energy – the energy to not only come up with an idea for a repair but to then carry through -- come from?  What if the one who might be able to “do a repair” is a teacher with twenty other students to worry about?

Better go get some chocolate. It’s for the sake of my child.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* I should note this is the same Grandmother who – despite being Liberal and by and large Left-leaning -- is convinced that Z must be descended from royalty due to her great beauty, intelligence and imperiousness.

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