Want to make me cry? Reduce me to a quivering, sobbing, snot-covered mass of mama-jelly?
Ask about Z’s ID card.
The day I met my girl, she was just over nine months old. Dressed in a little light green and white jumper from the orphanage, she was astoundingly beautiful, if looking a little scared. She initially came across as quiet to the point of being possibly drugged, and was clutching her identification in her tiny hand. Why did she have to hold her own ID card? Why did my baby have to bear that responsibility?
When I think of most nine-month old babies, I cannot imagine they could be relied upon to hold on to anything consistently. There was Z, in that moment where she was passed from her Ayi (in this context, caregiver) to me, all alone in the world and bravely responsible for her own miniscule self and her very own identity.
Want me to cry some more? Ask me about “Tommy.”
Tommy lives up the street from us in a quaint, slightly run-down little house with his elderly parents. When Tommy was in school, Pardner’s ex-girlfriend was his teacher. In those days, “special needs’ children were not mainstreamed and he went to a “special” school. Pardner used to come into the classroom and play his guitar and harmonica for the kids and he has fond memories of Tommy and the others in the class dancing with total glee.
Now Tommy is middle-aged, a pudgy man with his pants hiked high and a bald spot. I usually see him walking jauntily up and down the street with his walking stick, always staying in sight of his house and waving at everyone who drives by. He always seems happy. Every time I see him I think of his parents: I wonder if they worry about who will take care of him when they are gone. I know full well there are social services and safety nets but what will happen to him when his parents are no longer able to run that household? What if what Tommy wants is to stay in his own home?
A few weeks ago, we had a big snowstorm. I didn’t see Tommy for a few days and I noticed that there was no smoke coming from the chimney of the house. The small driveway remained without tracks. I haven’t seen any activity at his home since. I am afraid that time has come.
These two tear-inducing items represent the two poles of a Full Spectrum of fears for my children. I have a daughter who was able to -- in a very real way -- take care of herself at nine-months old…because she had no choice. Almost six years later she remains trapped in a massive control scheme, her babiness largely inchoate. I have a son who is very bright and desirous of independence but who may never be able to live on his own without assistance. I worry, I worry.
So many faiths advise us to “be here now.” We are warned that the present is all we have for sure. Our nowadays are sprinkled with lovely small moments, sometimes bumpy but always full of big, deep love. Wisdom traditions notwithstanding, I worry about the days to come. What is the right amount of worry, now and in the future? What is the right amount of care?
To be continued…
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
PS. Dear readers, thank you so much for your support, wisdom and comments! I have tried to change the settings so that anyone – including anonymous followers (as most readers are) and random readers – can comment, so please try again if you have experienced difficulties posting. Also, please feel free to email me for any reason. I haven’t figured out why some people are still having a hard time joining or posting but am happy to post comments for you or let you know when posts come out. Thanks and love, FSM
Monday, March 26, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Helicopters in Our Rainbow
G had a major project due last week. He was to create a poster to illustrate and outline a presentation on his research on Grover Cleveland. His written report had gone well, mostly because he enjoyed it, but I was concerned about this more public aspect of the work. Difficulties in reading social cues and a lack of interest in appearances, both aspects of aspergers syndrome, sometimes conspire in undermining G’s classroom endeavors.
Here’s a Full Spectrum question: how much and in what ways should we help our children with homework? There is a veritable rainbow of answers to this query. It’s an ultra-regular problem, but when a child has learning differences it feels perhaps even more confusing both vis-à-vis home and school. The spectre of becoming a helicopter parent is never far from parents of many “special needs” children. In school, because G has a diagnosis, some teachers may have lower expectations of him. Luckily this year, his teachers – who are wise, experienced and huge of heart – seem to get my boy.
So, home…and G himself. I know he is capable of doing just as well as other students (and even better in certain areas), but does G know that? Encouraging him to accomplish things on his own is one way he may gain this self-knowledge.
Tuesday Evening: The Project
I gave G some guidance, including drawing up a draft outline for him, in standard outline format (roman numerals, capital letters, etc.). Then I let him complete the poster on his own. Some (vast) part of me wanted to hover over him and make sure he made something that would measure up – by mainstream standards -- to the other kids’ work. But more than that I wanted him to express himself, and hoped it would build confidence and satisfaction to feel trusted and do a good job.
He proudly brought me his poster. He had entitled it, “Uncle Jumbo.” “Good start,” I told him. “Catchy.” He’d decided the day before that our pictures of Cleveland from the encyclopedia were adequate for the final presentation. He had affixed copies of these two small black and white pictures on an angle and his handwriting slanted precipitously likewise. The outline read from right to left. But he had lots and lots of information in there and had learned a lot and had a fine time doing so. All in all, it seemed he’d done a darn good job for a fourth grader.
Wednesday Morning: The Turn-In
My heart sank when I saw the other posters. Straight lines, multiple color photos and computer-generated text abounded. I knew no one could’ve worked harder or more earnestly on their posters than G had, but these looked so, so much more…professional.
As I walked back to my car after drop-off I suddenly realized that other parents must have been giving a lot more input to these projects than I had deemed appropriate. Basically, I had over-underestimated the “normal” level of parental involvement in schoolwork. Between parental non-involvement and helicopter parenting (and beyond) there must be a continuum of genuinely helpful help. I decided I’d missed the mark this time, and that I should’ve at the very least recommended straight lines.
Postlude: Tuesday Afternoon: Pickup
The kindergarteners all walk down the hallway carrying shapes made by linking toothpicks together with mini-marshmallows. Each child proudly bears his or her little diamond or square with the greatest of care.
G and his one friend (who is coming home with us) approach, having noted the marshmallows. I have a cache of vegetarian marshmallows at home and I promise to serve them as snack. I often agree to things I would not otherwise do in order to encourage this rare and precious friendship. Then I further agree -- again, against my best instinct -- that we can go straight home instead of going to the library to download extra pictures of Grover Cleveland for G’s poster (which is due the next day), the faster to eat marshmallows and play.
Next comes Z, sashaying down the hall with the most spectacular assemblage in her arms. Her marshmallow project is in a different universe, nay, a whole different Reality than the others. One of the great aspects of having a child who was adopted is one can really go to town with bragging: “Hey, I can’t take any credit but…this kid is spectacular, eh?”
Figure 1: Z, Marshmallow Mastermind
Hers was by far the most technically adept and visionary marshmallow project in the whole bunch. Z, while extremely clever and quick, is not generally the most assiduous student, so I reckoned the candy element was a key factor in the magnitude and fabulousness of her creation.
Later that evening, as G worked on his poster, I would read his report card to find he has been “off his game” this winter. He has been focusing more energy than usual on social issues – somewhat to the detriment of his academics -- because his one friend is so important to him. Learning to share this friend or to be apart from him sometimes has been a challenge – and a strain on both boys. I would realize that by caving in to not going to the library I had reinforced this trend.
Later that week his teachers would assure me that social tension is, for fourth graders, essentially “normal.” Social learning is something most upper elementary students are struggling to balance with academic learning as increased intellectual demands jockey with more complex social dynamics.
In the end, even after getting a look at the other students’ posters, G felt really great about his project. In the interest of more conventional success, I could have done the bulk of the work myself. Otherwise, even in the quiet, socially unchallenging environs of our home, no amount of friendly cajoling, firm guidance or menacing threats could have gotten G to produce a precision-masterpiece equivalent to Z’s for his presentation on Uncle Jumbo.
But…marshmallows might’ve worked.
Had I only known!
Extremely occasionally, Full Spectrum Mama discovers A Secret to the Universe. This is one of those rare moments. The secret is…Marshmallows. If all schoolwork -- all activities and interactions -- could just involve marshmallows, everything would be perfect. Sweet, soft marshmallows (vegetarian for us, please) could sweeten the toughest endeavor of any child (any person!) – and cushion the frequent falls of every imperfect parent (and other human people).
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Here’s a Full Spectrum question: how much and in what ways should we help our children with homework? There is a veritable rainbow of answers to this query. It’s an ultra-regular problem, but when a child has learning differences it feels perhaps even more confusing both vis-à-vis home and school. The spectre of becoming a helicopter parent is never far from parents of many “special needs” children. In school, because G has a diagnosis, some teachers may have lower expectations of him. Luckily this year, his teachers – who are wise, experienced and huge of heart – seem to get my boy.
So, home…and G himself. I know he is capable of doing just as well as other students (and even better in certain areas), but does G know that? Encouraging him to accomplish things on his own is one way he may gain this self-knowledge.
Tuesday Evening: The Project
I gave G some guidance, including drawing up a draft outline for him, in standard outline format (roman numerals, capital letters, etc.). Then I let him complete the poster on his own. Some (vast) part of me wanted to hover over him and make sure he made something that would measure up – by mainstream standards -- to the other kids’ work. But more than that I wanted him to express himself, and hoped it would build confidence and satisfaction to feel trusted and do a good job.
He proudly brought me his poster. He had entitled it, “Uncle Jumbo.” “Good start,” I told him. “Catchy.” He’d decided the day before that our pictures of Cleveland from the encyclopedia were adequate for the final presentation. He had affixed copies of these two small black and white pictures on an angle and his handwriting slanted precipitously likewise. The outline read from right to left. But he had lots and lots of information in there and had learned a lot and had a fine time doing so. All in all, it seemed he’d done a darn good job for a fourth grader.
Wednesday Morning: The Turn-In
My heart sank when I saw the other posters. Straight lines, multiple color photos and computer-generated text abounded. I knew no one could’ve worked harder or more earnestly on their posters than G had, but these looked so, so much more…professional.
As I walked back to my car after drop-off I suddenly realized that other parents must have been giving a lot more input to these projects than I had deemed appropriate. Basically, I had over-underestimated the “normal” level of parental involvement in schoolwork. Between parental non-involvement and helicopter parenting (and beyond) there must be a continuum of genuinely helpful help. I decided I’d missed the mark this time, and that I should’ve at the very least recommended straight lines.
Postlude: Tuesday Afternoon: Pickup
The kindergarteners all walk down the hallway carrying shapes made by linking toothpicks together with mini-marshmallows. Each child proudly bears his or her little diamond or square with the greatest of care.
G and his one friend (who is coming home with us) approach, having noted the marshmallows. I have a cache of vegetarian marshmallows at home and I promise to serve them as snack. I often agree to things I would not otherwise do in order to encourage this rare and precious friendship. Then I further agree -- again, against my best instinct -- that we can go straight home instead of going to the library to download extra pictures of Grover Cleveland for G’s poster (which is due the next day), the faster to eat marshmallows and play.
Next comes Z, sashaying down the hall with the most spectacular assemblage in her arms. Her marshmallow project is in a different universe, nay, a whole different Reality than the others. One of the great aspects of having a child who was adopted is one can really go to town with bragging: “Hey, I can’t take any credit but…this kid is spectacular, eh?”
Figure 1: Z, Marshmallow Mastermind
Hers was by far the most technically adept and visionary marshmallow project in the whole bunch. Z, while extremely clever and quick, is not generally the most assiduous student, so I reckoned the candy element was a key factor in the magnitude and fabulousness of her creation.
Later that evening, as G worked on his poster, I would read his report card to find he has been “off his game” this winter. He has been focusing more energy than usual on social issues – somewhat to the detriment of his academics -- because his one friend is so important to him. Learning to share this friend or to be apart from him sometimes has been a challenge – and a strain on both boys. I would realize that by caving in to not going to the library I had reinforced this trend.
Later that week his teachers would assure me that social tension is, for fourth graders, essentially “normal.” Social learning is something most upper elementary students are struggling to balance with academic learning as increased intellectual demands jockey with more complex social dynamics.
In the end, even after getting a look at the other students’ posters, G felt really great about his project. In the interest of more conventional success, I could have done the bulk of the work myself. Otherwise, even in the quiet, socially unchallenging environs of our home, no amount of friendly cajoling, firm guidance or menacing threats could have gotten G to produce a precision-masterpiece equivalent to Z’s for his presentation on Uncle Jumbo.
But…marshmallows might’ve worked.
Had I only known!
Extremely occasionally, Full Spectrum Mama discovers A Secret to the Universe. This is one of those rare moments. The secret is…Marshmallows. If all schoolwork -- all activities and interactions -- could just involve marshmallows, everything would be perfect. Sweet, soft marshmallows (vegetarian for us, please) could sweeten the toughest endeavor of any child (any person!) – and cushion the frequent falls of every imperfect parent (and other human people).
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Monday, March 12, 2012
Vocal Fry vs. Gortles
Z was waiting for me at pickup the other day with a big, saucy grin on her face. She held up the latest Scholastic book order and announced: “Justin Beaver is in here?…He’s HOT!”
In a sudden transformation as surprising to myself as to Z, Full Spectrum Mama turned into a fascist, super-conservative, sexist anachronism. I heard the following phrase burst from my formerly liberal lips: “You are! Five! Years! Old! Okay, Six! You will NEVER say that word again!”
My rule of fear and oppression complete, Z felt able to respond: “Um, okay Mom.” Eye roll.
Then, resisting the urge to prove that ***I*** am the one who knows not only how to Read but to correctly pronounce Justin Bieber’s name as well, I took a step back to dispassionately analyze my reaction.
The first language Z heard was the local dialect in Fuzhou (a.k.a. Linchuan), in Jiangxi province in China. I am sure she also heard some Mandarin (which I have continued to integrate into her life, though not as much as I’d like). Until she was almost ten months old, she’d never heard a word of English. Nonetheless, Z has been speaking it in complete sentences with perfect diction since she was 18-months old.
What is truly remarkable about her speech to me, though, is the apparent savviness of her tone. She comes across as authoritative yet casually chatty -- much like a clever, popular, connected teen. Perhaps the most obvious element of this mature tone is how she uses the ultimate tool of with it girls everywhere: vocal fry (http://gawker.com/5867222/vocal-fry-is-the-hot-new-linguistic-fad-among-women), see also (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/28/science/young-women-often-trendsetters-in-vocal-patterns.html). Vocal fry sounds rather like a crumpling up of the inquisitive at the ends of her sentences. It’s a mini-hipster-rumble that signifies at once being totally in-the-know and a lack of caring too much.
G rumbles when he talks, too. Because he has some low muscle tone, phlegm often catches in his throat when he speaks and he makes a slight gurgling sound behind his words. I call this “gortles,” as in, “Honey, clear your throat – ya got gortles.”
Low muscle tone also results in lax enunciation of many sounds. This, coupled with his unique cadence -- Pardner often notes how G “sounds like John Wayne” – makes G sometimes hard to understand, particularly for other children.
G has been receiving speech therapy through his school since he his IEP (Individualized Education Program) was initiated years ago. His speech therapist initially maintained that G would “never” make much progress in his speech. I have been able, however, using a rewards system that actually matters to him (pokemon cards), to ease him into the habit of pronouncing many sounds correctly and he has become much easier to understand.
Recently, our dear friends Shu Shu Chuck and Fern Ayi (Auntie [in Mandarin] Fern) came to visit us. They brought lovely educational gifts for the kids and spent lots of doting time with them. Fern Ayi, was even kind enough to get up before dawn with them (“Would it be okay with your mom if you got up?” “Yes!!!” [“No.”]) and feed them bottomless bowls of cereal.
At brunch on Sunday, Chuck noted that same John Wayne cadence to G’s speech. I immediately began to explain that we are working on his speech, that he has help at school and so on.
Chuck looked a little sad. “Why?” he asked. “Why try to change what is unique about him?” He said he thinks G is a “wonderful” kid just as he is and decried our culture’s tendency to try to make everyone the same, and to treat difference as if it is a sickness.
I agreed with him wholeheartedly. Without really considering my audience, I had been making my standard excuses, not really lies per se, but statements intended to placate others who may be critical -- when in fact I think G is PERFECT EXACTLY AS HE IS.
Now to give some legitimacy to Chuck’s words: he is none other than Chuck Hoberman (http://www.hoberman.com/home.html), an amazing inventor and brilliant thinker. Among other things, Chuck designs marvelous toys for curious people of all ages. I think his life and oeuvre give great weight to his contention that we should NOT necessarily try to “normalize” our children’s every atypical quality.
Speaking of normalization, if truth be told, I’d like to ease Z’s speech away from the conformi-cool area of the speech spectrum:
The other night, we went to the local café for pizza night with another family. The sweet, smart mother of Z’s good friend brought her two girls - Z’s good friend and friend’s little sister. I brought along G’s best friend too, to be fair. (The injustice of unequal playdates is one felt and expressed powerfully across the FSM household spectrum.) The boys had their own table and the five of us girls sat at another.
I am always a tiny bit wary of consorting with intact (i.e. not gobsmacked by divorce) families who seem like “normal” people with seemingly neurotypical, psychotypical kids. I am well aware that “seem” may well be the operative word in most cases; also, the above describes most of my friends…I am just setting this story up here. Our family is blended in several more ways than average and I hope I may be forgiven a smidge of healthy, wholesome paranoia.
At the boys’ table, G was talking about one of his favorite subjects, marine biology. He kept referring to “aminals” and his friend would get frustrated and correct him. After resisting the urge for some time I finally butted in, letting G’s friend know that I thought saying “aminal” was “pretty darn cute.” He remained unconvinced. “I think it’s annoying,” he informed us. G’s face fell.
Over at the girls’ table, Z was holding up her knife and fork and looking through them to frame my face. Then, still looking at me, she began to move them around in a kind of criss-cross pattern. In her perfect, angelic, singsong voice, she began to sing a perfectly enunciated little tune: “Cut, cut, cut…Cut my mommy’s face.”
The mother, who was seated next to me, leaned in and asked, very quietly, “Does she have violent tendencies?”
At that moment, I wished for Z to be much, much less comprehensible.
Not for the first time, I found myself simultaneously
1. wishing two opposite things for my two dissimilar children: that G’s speech would be more clear and compelling, and that Z’s speech would be less clear and less compelling; and
2. wishing that in each case I wasn’t wishing what I was wishing.
Despite knowing it was a kind of funny situation, and even with all those nice people around me I felt very lonely just then.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
In a sudden transformation as surprising to myself as to Z, Full Spectrum Mama turned into a fascist, super-conservative, sexist anachronism. I heard the following phrase burst from my formerly liberal lips: “You are! Five! Years! Old! Okay, Six! You will NEVER say that word again!”
My rule of fear and oppression complete, Z felt able to respond: “Um, okay Mom.” Eye roll.
Then, resisting the urge to prove that ***I*** am the one who knows not only how to Read but to correctly pronounce Justin Bieber’s name as well, I took a step back to dispassionately analyze my reaction.
The first language Z heard was the local dialect in Fuzhou (a.k.a. Linchuan), in Jiangxi province in China. I am sure she also heard some Mandarin (which I have continued to integrate into her life, though not as much as I’d like). Until she was almost ten months old, she’d never heard a word of English. Nonetheless, Z has been speaking it in complete sentences with perfect diction since she was 18-months old.
What is truly remarkable about her speech to me, though, is the apparent savviness of her tone. She comes across as authoritative yet casually chatty -- much like a clever, popular, connected teen. Perhaps the most obvious element of this mature tone is how she uses the ultimate tool of with it girls everywhere: vocal fry (http://gawker.com/5867222/vocal-fry-is-the-hot-new-linguistic-fad-among-women), see also (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/28/science/young-women-often-trendsetters-in-vocal-patterns.html). Vocal fry sounds rather like a crumpling up of the inquisitive at the ends of her sentences. It’s a mini-hipster-rumble that signifies at once being totally in-the-know and a lack of caring too much.
G rumbles when he talks, too. Because he has some low muscle tone, phlegm often catches in his throat when he speaks and he makes a slight gurgling sound behind his words. I call this “gortles,” as in, “Honey, clear your throat – ya got gortles.”
Low muscle tone also results in lax enunciation of many sounds. This, coupled with his unique cadence -- Pardner often notes how G “sounds like John Wayne” – makes G sometimes hard to understand, particularly for other children.
G has been receiving speech therapy through his school since he his IEP (Individualized Education Program) was initiated years ago. His speech therapist initially maintained that G would “never” make much progress in his speech. I have been able, however, using a rewards system that actually matters to him (pokemon cards), to ease him into the habit of pronouncing many sounds correctly and he has become much easier to understand.
Recently, our dear friends Shu Shu Chuck and Fern Ayi (Auntie [in Mandarin] Fern) came to visit us. They brought lovely educational gifts for the kids and spent lots of doting time with them. Fern Ayi, was even kind enough to get up before dawn with them (“Would it be okay with your mom if you got up?” “Yes!!!” [“No.”]) and feed them bottomless bowls of cereal.
At brunch on Sunday, Chuck noted that same John Wayne cadence to G’s speech. I immediately began to explain that we are working on his speech, that he has help at school and so on.
Chuck looked a little sad. “Why?” he asked. “Why try to change what is unique about him?” He said he thinks G is a “wonderful” kid just as he is and decried our culture’s tendency to try to make everyone the same, and to treat difference as if it is a sickness.
I agreed with him wholeheartedly. Without really considering my audience, I had been making my standard excuses, not really lies per se, but statements intended to placate others who may be critical -- when in fact I think G is PERFECT EXACTLY AS HE IS.
Now to give some legitimacy to Chuck’s words: he is none other than Chuck Hoberman (http://www.hoberman.com/home.html), an amazing inventor and brilliant thinker. Among other things, Chuck designs marvelous toys for curious people of all ages. I think his life and oeuvre give great weight to his contention that we should NOT necessarily try to “normalize” our children’s every atypical quality.
Speaking of normalization, if truth be told, I’d like to ease Z’s speech away from the conformi-cool area of the speech spectrum:
The other night, we went to the local café for pizza night with another family. The sweet, smart mother of Z’s good friend brought her two girls - Z’s good friend and friend’s little sister. I brought along G’s best friend too, to be fair. (The injustice of unequal playdates is one felt and expressed powerfully across the FSM household spectrum.) The boys had their own table and the five of us girls sat at another.
I am always a tiny bit wary of consorting with intact (i.e. not gobsmacked by divorce) families who seem like “normal” people with seemingly neurotypical, psychotypical kids. I am well aware that “seem” may well be the operative word in most cases; also, the above describes most of my friends…I am just setting this story up here. Our family is blended in several more ways than average and I hope I may be forgiven a smidge of healthy, wholesome paranoia.
At the boys’ table, G was talking about one of his favorite subjects, marine biology. He kept referring to “aminals” and his friend would get frustrated and correct him. After resisting the urge for some time I finally butted in, letting G’s friend know that I thought saying “aminal” was “pretty darn cute.” He remained unconvinced. “I think it’s annoying,” he informed us. G’s face fell.
Over at the girls’ table, Z was holding up her knife and fork and looking through them to frame my face. Then, still looking at me, she began to move them around in a kind of criss-cross pattern. In her perfect, angelic, singsong voice, she began to sing a perfectly enunciated little tune: “Cut, cut, cut…Cut my mommy’s face.”
The mother, who was seated next to me, leaned in and asked, very quietly, “Does she have violent tendencies?”
At that moment, I wished for Z to be much, much less comprehensible.
Not for the first time, I found myself simultaneously
1. wishing two opposite things for my two dissimilar children: that G’s speech would be more clear and compelling, and that Z’s speech would be less clear and less compelling; and
2. wishing that in each case I wasn’t wishing what I was wishing.
Despite knowing it was a kind of funny situation, and even with all those nice people around me I felt very lonely just then.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Pay Attention! To the World!
What are the odds that someone would put on two shirts, one over the other, both inside out and both backwards? Sounds unlikely, no?
Actually, Full Spectrum Mama…what ARE the odds? Harkening back to graduate school statistics, I have in fact calculated the random chances that one would simultaneously wear two shirts inside out and backward (*see below): just over six percent. Yet G seems to wear his shirts this way roughly 60% of the time.
Three seasons of the year here in New England, we layer two shirts for warmth -- but we only wear them once. It occurs to me that the odds might be slightly higher in the case of pajamas: you take ‘em off, they are inside out…You put ‘em back on: inside out. Thus, one ought reasonably to conclude that there might be a higher than six percent chance in the matter of the double-backward-inside-out (DBIO) pajama tops. We wear pajamas for a week, barring mishaps, with double layers on top during the aforementioned three chilly seasons. I have in fact calculated that for each of the week’s seven wearings the daily DBIO odds are as high as 14% (*see below). But I would wager that in the pajama realm we are looking at more like a 90% DBIO scenario.
Figure 1: DBIO Pajama Tops, with faint smile
There might be an element of intentionality to this sartorial situation. G invariably smiles slightly when I bring up how remarkable his shirt-luck is…is it pride that tickles him? Or is he sheepish? Is he a rebel with a cause, albeit an obscure one?
You’ll notice I haven’t even mentioned underwear- or pajama bottom-orientation.
If G cares about something, he WILL change it however he sees fit. However he simply does not agree that shirt-orientation is important. He has a point, I know; even so, I would like to see him express his iconoclasm in a way that won’t make the fourth grade girls tease him.
One of G’s earlier, tentative diagnoses was Attention Deficit Disorder. I knew this was completely wrong: he could focus on something he was fascinated by for hours at a time. His internal capacity to concentrate – often on internal topics – sometimes seemed much higher than average. In fact, he’d be near-unresponsive if absorbed in certain toys or a book. That label was discarded for others, deciding not to label, and so on…Some of you will recognize this cycle…In any case, ADD was not a label that stuck.
Caring about something, paying attention, merits awareness about that thing. Here are some other things G doesn’t care to be all that aware of: prestige, the despotism of custom (http://www.victorianweb.org/philosophy/mill/block.html), the coolness-level or age of playmates, sleeping past 5am, order and cleaning of most sorts, safety. Some of these are great (I am never pressured by him to buy the latest trendy clothes, for instance), and some can be challenging. It’s the latter that presents some tough choices for this Full Spectrum Mama. I just wish I could convey – in a way that really made sense to him – those things that would keep him safe and out of harm’s way. Of course emotional harm is a piece of this, but I would start with fundamental survival tips. I have to find ways to make these external things matter to him somehow.
Lately, sometimes several times a day, I find myself holding G’s precious face tightly in my hands and looking right into his eyes. “Pay attention! To the World!” I say. “Please! Look into my eyes and really hear me: You have to be aware of the world around you.”
I’m one to talk. According to an informal survey of “people who walk with me,” I frequently almost walk out into the street at bad times. I (by choice) didn’t get my drivers’ license until my late thirties (there was a two-week driving salvo in my early twenties that ended with my vowing never to drive again). Granted I am a native New Yorker but it was more about self-limiting: it struck me as neurologically overwhelming, what with all those Factors (Directions! Other drivers! Turning!)! Driving was neither something I thought I would do well or enjoy, and I didn’t start to try until it became an incontrovertible necessity.
Obviously, I am not the world’s finest safety representative. As well, I never thought I would be a bastion of conformity-recommendation but here I am informing my son, “This is the way people do things” (i.e. wear shirts). On the other hand, daughter Z is all-too-aware of her surroundings and of “normal” ways of doing things. It probably goes without saying that she dons all clothing 100% correctly, 100% of the time.
One notion I had when starting this blog was that a useful parenting idea that holds true for Both of my two disparate children might be a useful parenting idea (not suggestion or rule, just idea!) for ALL parents. The topic of paying attention does not seem to generate any such overarching ideas. Here, I parent a very Full Spectrum-Of-Two. For just one example, take driving: I actually believe Z could be a safe and reliable, if, one might say, potentially “strong on the offense,” driver at age six, while G (and, perhaps, I) would best be served by using public transportation in perpetuity.
Balanced attentiveness to what’s inside and what’s outside is not a given around these parts. Manifestations of focus -- chosen and not-chosen, obsessive or “normal,” healthy and less-so – vary widely in our family.
The ways we (all of us) apportion attention are strikingly different. Children with different attention styles need at times to be parented in different ways. How? Hmm. I do at least maintain that the practice of paying attention to what our children and we ourselves are Paying Attention To is important, especially so when we are not dealing with “neurotypical” or “psychotypical” individuals.
When I am giving some version of a Pay Attention Lecture to G, I become -- on my better days -- aware that Z is listening. She is an excellent listener, regardless of whether she chooses to agree with what she is told. I want to say to her, “NO! Not You! You need to pay LESS attention to the world and more attention to your heart and to let go a bit!”
Luckily, I am able to follow up my Pay Attention lectures to G with Anti-Pay-Attention lectures to Z because G is not listening 93.75% of the time.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
* I believe one calculates this as follows: there are four options for each shirt if the dresser is paying ZERO attention:
1. backward, right side out
2. backward, inside out
3. forward, right side out
4. forward, inside out.
Therefore, there is a one-in-four chance of randomly donning a shirt backward and inside out (BIO). So for two shirts, since options are not mutually exclusive (vs flipping a penny, for example), we multiply. The chance, then, of wearing two shirts in this way on a given day (DBIO, again, assuming one pays NO attention to proper shirt wearing) is .25 x .25 or .0625. Just over six percent.
As for the pajama-calculation, I estimated with a higher, set rate of inside-out chancedness. In seven possible dressings, I generously eliminated the right side out option for Four, but retained the backwards/forwards measure for those days, resulting in the following calculation: (.0625 x 3) + (.25 x 3) or .1875 + .75 or .9375 for overall chance of the DBIO Pajama Top. I divided this by 7 to get your average chance on a given day: .13392857 or about a 14% chance. From this we may conclude that for a week, random incidence of DBIO-shirt-wearing would be almost assured (93.75%), and not out of the question on any particular day.
Hi! If you are still reading this you might want to ask yourself some questions. Hey, I’m the one who *wrote* it…Just saying.
Actually, Full Spectrum Mama…what ARE the odds? Harkening back to graduate school statistics, I have in fact calculated the random chances that one would simultaneously wear two shirts inside out and backward (*see below): just over six percent. Yet G seems to wear his shirts this way roughly 60% of the time.
Three seasons of the year here in New England, we layer two shirts for warmth -- but we only wear them once. It occurs to me that the odds might be slightly higher in the case of pajamas: you take ‘em off, they are inside out…You put ‘em back on: inside out. Thus, one ought reasonably to conclude that there might be a higher than six percent chance in the matter of the double-backward-inside-out (DBIO) pajama tops. We wear pajamas for a week, barring mishaps, with double layers on top during the aforementioned three chilly seasons. I have in fact calculated that for each of the week’s seven wearings the daily DBIO odds are as high as 14% (*see below). But I would wager that in the pajama realm we are looking at more like a 90% DBIO scenario.
Figure 1: DBIO Pajama Tops, with faint smile
There might be an element of intentionality to this sartorial situation. G invariably smiles slightly when I bring up how remarkable his shirt-luck is…is it pride that tickles him? Or is he sheepish? Is he a rebel with a cause, albeit an obscure one?
You’ll notice I haven’t even mentioned underwear- or pajama bottom-orientation.
If G cares about something, he WILL change it however he sees fit. However he simply does not agree that shirt-orientation is important. He has a point, I know; even so, I would like to see him express his iconoclasm in a way that won’t make the fourth grade girls tease him.
One of G’s earlier, tentative diagnoses was Attention Deficit Disorder. I knew this was completely wrong: he could focus on something he was fascinated by for hours at a time. His internal capacity to concentrate – often on internal topics – sometimes seemed much higher than average. In fact, he’d be near-unresponsive if absorbed in certain toys or a book. That label was discarded for others, deciding not to label, and so on…Some of you will recognize this cycle…In any case, ADD was not a label that stuck.
Caring about something, paying attention, merits awareness about that thing. Here are some other things G doesn’t care to be all that aware of: prestige, the despotism of custom (http://www.victorianweb.org/philosophy/mill/block.html), the coolness-level or age of playmates, sleeping past 5am, order and cleaning of most sorts, safety. Some of these are great (I am never pressured by him to buy the latest trendy clothes, for instance), and some can be challenging. It’s the latter that presents some tough choices for this Full Spectrum Mama. I just wish I could convey – in a way that really made sense to him – those things that would keep him safe and out of harm’s way. Of course emotional harm is a piece of this, but I would start with fundamental survival tips. I have to find ways to make these external things matter to him somehow.
Lately, sometimes several times a day, I find myself holding G’s precious face tightly in my hands and looking right into his eyes. “Pay attention! To the World!” I say. “Please! Look into my eyes and really hear me: You have to be aware of the world around you.”
I’m one to talk. According to an informal survey of “people who walk with me,” I frequently almost walk out into the street at bad times. I (by choice) didn’t get my drivers’ license until my late thirties (there was a two-week driving salvo in my early twenties that ended with my vowing never to drive again). Granted I am a native New Yorker but it was more about self-limiting: it struck me as neurologically overwhelming, what with all those Factors (Directions! Other drivers! Turning!)! Driving was neither something I thought I would do well or enjoy, and I didn’t start to try until it became an incontrovertible necessity.
Obviously, I am not the world’s finest safety representative. As well, I never thought I would be a bastion of conformity-recommendation but here I am informing my son, “This is the way people do things” (i.e. wear shirts). On the other hand, daughter Z is all-too-aware of her surroundings and of “normal” ways of doing things. It probably goes without saying that she dons all clothing 100% correctly, 100% of the time.
One notion I had when starting this blog was that a useful parenting idea that holds true for Both of my two disparate children might be a useful parenting idea (not suggestion or rule, just idea!) for ALL parents. The topic of paying attention does not seem to generate any such overarching ideas. Here, I parent a very Full Spectrum-Of-Two. For just one example, take driving: I actually believe Z could be a safe and reliable, if, one might say, potentially “strong on the offense,” driver at age six, while G (and, perhaps, I) would best be served by using public transportation in perpetuity.
Balanced attentiveness to what’s inside and what’s outside is not a given around these parts. Manifestations of focus -- chosen and not-chosen, obsessive or “normal,” healthy and less-so – vary widely in our family.
The ways we (all of us) apportion attention are strikingly different. Children with different attention styles need at times to be parented in different ways. How? Hmm. I do at least maintain that the practice of paying attention to what our children and we ourselves are Paying Attention To is important, especially so when we are not dealing with “neurotypical” or “psychotypical” individuals.
When I am giving some version of a Pay Attention Lecture to G, I become -- on my better days -- aware that Z is listening. She is an excellent listener, regardless of whether she chooses to agree with what she is told. I want to say to her, “NO! Not You! You need to pay LESS attention to the world and more attention to your heart and to let go a bit!”
Luckily, I am able to follow up my Pay Attention lectures to G with Anti-Pay-Attention lectures to Z because G is not listening 93.75% of the time.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
* I believe one calculates this as follows: there are four options for each shirt if the dresser is paying ZERO attention:
1. backward, right side out
2. backward, inside out
3. forward, right side out
4. forward, inside out.
Therefore, there is a one-in-four chance of randomly donning a shirt backward and inside out (BIO). So for two shirts, since options are not mutually exclusive (vs flipping a penny, for example), we multiply. The chance, then, of wearing two shirts in this way on a given day (DBIO, again, assuming one pays NO attention to proper shirt wearing) is .25 x .25 or .0625. Just over six percent.
As for the pajama-calculation, I estimated with a higher, set rate of inside-out chancedness. In seven possible dressings, I generously eliminated the right side out option for Four, but retained the backwards/forwards measure for those days, resulting in the following calculation: (.0625 x 3) + (.25 x 3) or .1875 + .75 or .9375 for overall chance of the DBIO Pajama Top. I divided this by 7 to get your average chance on a given day: .13392857 or about a 14% chance. From this we may conclude that for a week, random incidence of DBIO-shirt-wearing would be almost assured (93.75%), and not out of the question on any particular day.
Hi! If you are still reading this you might want to ask yourself some questions. Hey, I’m the one who *wrote* it…Just saying.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
"Laugh Like a..."
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting Cow.”
“Interrupting Cow—“
“--Moo!”
If you don’t think this joke is funny, or if you think it should be told Only Once, you are probably on a different part of the humor spectrum than we are. Lucky you. We are a very corny, silly family with penchants for repetition and nonsense. Z’s sense of humor tends toward the witty, G’s toward the baffling and awkward; both love a good potty joke. As for me, sometimes I feel as a Full Spectrum Mama that if I am not laughing I might well be crying…So when my head is clear enough to make that choice (which is not a given), I choose the giggle. That shared sense of humor may well be our saving grace.
This happened when Z was four years old. In order for the story to make sense, a few preliminary details are necessary. First, we do not have any broadcast television and live in a pretty idyllic and sheltered rural area. Second, we do not cuss in our home. I believe I may have said the “S” word once or twice, but that’s it. I manage to eff up on a daily basis in plenty of other ways, but non-cussin’ is one area of success. It is possible that Z and G have heard profanities at their father’s house, but always as exclamations, never as vernacular. Finally, at the time this incident occurred, my now-husband (henceforth referred to as “Pardner”) and I were dating, and the kids called him “Shushu” (uncle in Mandarin).
We are at a cute little restaurant in trendy, charming New Hope, PA enjoying some adequate Mexican food on our way home from visiting with family. Again, Z is four, a sassy, going-on-25-going-on-75-four, but nonetheless she is barely as tall as the table at which we are sitting. Our little family – Pardner, G, Z and me – is enjoying some jovial repartee and eating tacos and sides. Z likes her food spicy and G likes his bland, so I have apportioned the food accordingly.
In my memory, I am looking at my yellow rice and lumpy brown pile of beans when Z turns to me and says, “Mama, Susu Pardner makes you laugh like a bitc#!”
I turn to Pardner, sotto voce, “Did she just say laughlikeabitc#?” I feel, simultaneously, a very wide range of emotions. The dominant feeling is: I am about to crack up laughing worse than ever before in my life in a way that will be highly inappropriate on many levels. Also, I will not be able to stop laughing, either, should I start.
I lurch into autopilot-damage-control: “Snitch,” I say, “Where did you learn that funny, funny word?”
“I said Bitc#.”
“Oh, hahahahaha, ditch, yes, that IS funny. Hahaha.”
“Bitc#.”
Has it ever hit you full on that your child, your tiny little child, is already much cooler than you ever have been or could hope to be? The best part was how she said it, all feisty and ghetto, and like she knew what she meant. Head bobbing a little from side to side and the pointed finger going. For real.
Let’s face it, hearing babies and little kids swear is funny. It just is. Cute, too. Yet of course Full Spectrum Mama has to protect her daughter from her own precociousness and from apparent insidious influences. As much as Z has seemed all her life to need nobody, nohow, she’s still a child and she needs guidance.
Somehow I kept a straight face. I used the famous parental move “ignore and move on,” (a.k.a. “Cuban Missile Crisis”). Afterward, I did do my best to figure out where she got the idea to say “laugh like a bitc#,” although I never did find out. I believe she has forgotten this particular phrase, though she still can be plenty fresh. I remind myself on the daily that Z may seem like a cooler, more socially-adept peer, even, ahem, someone who might’ve been mean to me in high school but – she isn’t. She is my little girl. So I need to be the grown-up.
I thought about “laugh like a bitc#” the other day when we were walking home from school. There is a beautiful forested area right next door to our house and I sometimes allow G to walk through it en route. That day he asked, “Mama, may I venture into the woods?” “Why, yes, my son, go in peace,” I replied.
Wonder where he gets his quirky turn of phrase?
G, a major bookworm from birth, has always talked as if he lives in medieval times, or is in a Poke´mon program (he sees them chez the ex). Back in preschool, he would literally ask the other kids questions like, “Would you care to engage in a playful interaction with me?” (Sample, highly effective Z preschool utterance: “Gimme that if you wanna play with me…whatever.”)
How did it evolve that my two children – who have the same parents* -- express such a Full Spectrum of speech patterns? Ways of speaking -- how we tap into the vernacular (or not), how we draw from our reading and other parts of the world around us…how we hit the coolness nail on the head or NOT -- can be seen as more Full and rich Spectrums.
(*Oops, I totally forgot that Z was adopted for a moment there – but let’s agree that certainly she has had the same parental environment as G since she was 9 months old…)
Z remains the sharp-witted queen of kindergarten, whilst G’s courtly language flies about as well in fourth grade as it did back then. Oh, someday he will find his tribe. But…Goddess? PLEASE get him through middle school with his sweet soul intact. And please, please -- I know it is not my girlbaby’s job, but she can handle it -- make Z protect him once they are in high school together.
I will do anything!!!
Laughing like a bitc#,
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting Cow.”
“Interrupting Cow—“
“--Moo!”
If you don’t think this joke is funny, or if you think it should be told Only Once, you are probably on a different part of the humor spectrum than we are. Lucky you. We are a very corny, silly family with penchants for repetition and nonsense. Z’s sense of humor tends toward the witty, G’s toward the baffling and awkward; both love a good potty joke. As for me, sometimes I feel as a Full Spectrum Mama that if I am not laughing I might well be crying…So when my head is clear enough to make that choice (which is not a given), I choose the giggle. That shared sense of humor may well be our saving grace.
This happened when Z was four years old. In order for the story to make sense, a few preliminary details are necessary. First, we do not have any broadcast television and live in a pretty idyllic and sheltered rural area. Second, we do not cuss in our home. I believe I may have said the “S” word once or twice, but that’s it. I manage to eff up on a daily basis in plenty of other ways, but non-cussin’ is one area of success. It is possible that Z and G have heard profanities at their father’s house, but always as exclamations, never as vernacular. Finally, at the time this incident occurred, my now-husband (henceforth referred to as “Pardner”) and I were dating, and the kids called him “Shushu” (uncle in Mandarin).
We are at a cute little restaurant in trendy, charming New Hope, PA enjoying some adequate Mexican food on our way home from visiting with family. Again, Z is four, a sassy, going-on-25-going-on-75-four, but nonetheless she is barely as tall as the table at which we are sitting. Our little family – Pardner, G, Z and me – is enjoying some jovial repartee and eating tacos and sides. Z likes her food spicy and G likes his bland, so I have apportioned the food accordingly.
In my memory, I am looking at my yellow rice and lumpy brown pile of beans when Z turns to me and says, “Mama, Susu Pardner makes you laugh like a bitc#!”
I turn to Pardner, sotto voce, “Did she just say laughlikeabitc#?” I feel, simultaneously, a very wide range of emotions. The dominant feeling is: I am about to crack up laughing worse than ever before in my life in a way that will be highly inappropriate on many levels. Also, I will not be able to stop laughing, either, should I start.
I lurch into autopilot-damage-control: “Snitch,” I say, “Where did you learn that funny, funny word?”
“I said Bitc#.”
“Oh, hahahahaha, ditch, yes, that IS funny. Hahaha.”
“Bitc#.”
Has it ever hit you full on that your child, your tiny little child, is already much cooler than you ever have been or could hope to be? The best part was how she said it, all feisty and ghetto, and like she knew what she meant. Head bobbing a little from side to side and the pointed finger going. For real.
Let’s face it, hearing babies and little kids swear is funny. It just is. Cute, too. Yet of course Full Spectrum Mama has to protect her daughter from her own precociousness and from apparent insidious influences. As much as Z has seemed all her life to need nobody, nohow, she’s still a child and she needs guidance.
Somehow I kept a straight face. I used the famous parental move “ignore and move on,” (a.k.a. “Cuban Missile Crisis”). Afterward, I did do my best to figure out where she got the idea to say “laugh like a bitc#,” although I never did find out. I believe she has forgotten this particular phrase, though she still can be plenty fresh. I remind myself on the daily that Z may seem like a cooler, more socially-adept peer, even, ahem, someone who might’ve been mean to me in high school but – she isn’t. She is my little girl. So I need to be the grown-up.
I thought about “laugh like a bitc#” the other day when we were walking home from school. There is a beautiful forested area right next door to our house and I sometimes allow G to walk through it en route. That day he asked, “Mama, may I venture into the woods?” “Why, yes, my son, go in peace,” I replied.
Wonder where he gets his quirky turn of phrase?
G, a major bookworm from birth, has always talked as if he lives in medieval times, or is in a Poke´mon program (he sees them chez the ex). Back in preschool, he would literally ask the other kids questions like, “Would you care to engage in a playful interaction with me?” (Sample, highly effective Z preschool utterance: “Gimme that if you wanna play with me…whatever.”)
How did it evolve that my two children – who have the same parents* -- express such a Full Spectrum of speech patterns? Ways of speaking -- how we tap into the vernacular (or not), how we draw from our reading and other parts of the world around us…how we hit the coolness nail on the head or NOT -- can be seen as more Full and rich Spectrums.
(*Oops, I totally forgot that Z was adopted for a moment there – but let’s agree that certainly she has had the same parental environment as G since she was 9 months old…)
Z remains the sharp-witted queen of kindergarten, whilst G’s courtly language flies about as well in fourth grade as it did back then. Oh, someday he will find his tribe. But…Goddess? PLEASE get him through middle school with his sweet soul intact. And please, please -- I know it is not my girlbaby’s job, but she can handle it -- make Z protect him once they are in high school together.
I will do anything!!!
Laughing like a bitc#,
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A Spectrum Rainbow
Let’s scratch that linear spectrum from my first entry. I’m feeling now that a better visual model would be a circular rainbow pie chart deal, with everything connecting in the center and closely related qualities connecting along the perimeter.
Figure 1: An Amended Spectrum
One nice thing about this new and improved circular spectrum is that proximity can be quite telling. I pointed out that the difficulties in connection on the far end of the autism side of that original spectrum reminded me in some ways of the inability to connect on the far end of the attachment disorder side of the spectrum. Within a circle, these two pie slices – far as they might be from “normal” on the perimeter -- might themselves be quite close, with some “unknown” slices in-between. The “normal” slice might be on the opposite side of this thus-far-undefined area.
Here are some ideas for some other Full Spectrums, a veritable Spectrum Rainbow, with illustrations from my own family:
A Dance Spectrum
We do a lot of dancing in our house. All sorts of music. Sometimes we’ll even have a dance-off! I could expound at length on kinds of movement, hip-shakers and non-hip-shakers, rhythm, etc. but it basically comes down to this: If Z is Beyonce, G is Steve Martin in “The Jerk.” ‘Nuff said.
On second thought, it occurs to me that although I personally think I would fall closer to Beyonce than the Jerk on this spectrum, G definitely fancies himself quite the dancer too. Hmm.
A Spatial Self-Awareness Spectrum
Part of my project here is to distinguish and clarify, but I do so more in the ultimate aim of connection than separation. For example, most everybody has some sort of self-awareness in space, so that is a connection. Yet, for a child with Asperger syndrome, self-awareness in terms of place in the physical space one inhabits is fundamentally very different from that self-awareness for a child with an attachment disorder.
I would place Z in a position of extraordinarily high, vigilante-esque self-awareness that is connected integrally with an extraordinarily high level of awareness of others. G would seem to land close to the opposite side of this pie, with little consciousness of his weight and size and position, or of his spatial relations to others.
I am not a neurologist or psychiatrist, just a Mama wondering at and about her children (and children [and people] in general). I do wonder if this self-awareness thread relates in some way to the ways severely autistic children and children with severe attachment disorders may seem similar in their apparent disengagement with the outside world? How might their awareness of self-in-space and self vis-à-vis other people differ? How might it be useful to think of self-awareness in space and in relationships as a way IN to children’s minds and hearts? To healing, where needed?
This spectrum emerges as useful in helping me see that I, as a Full Spectrum Mama, need to help each child move closer to a healthy level of self-awareness in this regard. That’s not always true: sometimes I want to nurture that distance from the “normal” slice of the spectrum. Here, however, I would like to help Z relax her vigilance -- and G to become more attentive.
A Scotch Tape Spectrum
Some people feel perfectly comfortable using reams of scotch tape. Who are these people? Oh, pardon. I meant to write that there are different ways of approaching scotch tape use. Some of us view scotch tape as a precious, non-renewable and expensive resource that must be monitored and used in minimal, just-barely-adequate increments. Others have a “normal” take on tape. They use it when they need it, a reasonable amount…and buy more with little or no angst! And, much as it pains me to admit this, there are those who are quite “free” with their usage. [No need to let me know if you fit in this slice. I accept you. I just do not want to know.]
Z, as you might imagine, is highly responsible and abstemious in her tape-related-habits, even unto the point of Putting the Tape Back; G is a tape-waster par excellence. Left to his own devices, he would use tape for many, many non-approved purposes – and I would never be able to find the roll in any “emergency.” From time to time I have generously bought him his own roll, said roll never to be seen again.
Matters of scotch tape and self-awareness are related, yes they are: ideally I’d like to assist Z in relinquishing her control-freak position on this spectrum, while gently nurturing G in his scotch-tape consciousness.
A Style Spectrum
Here we have Z, dressed always with a flair and pizzazz and ultra-originality that nonetheless manages to scream, “I have fantastic taste!” She may be wearing seven necklaces, but they perfectly complement her nine bracelets. A cape? But of course. And matching veil. Anything she puts on, Z instantly elevates and imbues with sheer gorgeousness and chic.
Next to Z, we have people with some style and then we have a series of “neutral” or “regular” style slices eventually veering toward a lack of style…and then we have G.
My son, despite being conceived, gestated and living the first few years of his life in the East Village, has never looked right in anything fey or trendy. Something about him calls for classic, regular, GUY garb. When G was a baby, we came to call this genre “football-teddy bear clothes.” I have recently managed to sneak him into a skinny cord without too much protest although he has a really, really hard time getting in and out of this particular pant. In fact, G’s pants are usually pulled up to just under his nipples, His shoes are probably on the wrong feet. Anything he puts on looks like it was put on by mistake. Obviously, we are moving away from “normal” here…but where are we going, exactly?
I contend that we are actually edging back closer to the high style slice! I further contend that G may well be edging into what we, in our house, call “meta-cool.” He is so on his own fashion planet that he may well have crossed the pie-border into the slice just adjacent to Z’s super-flair section!
Figure 2: Flair de La Z (with brother)
A Sexuality Spectrum
The increasing acceptance of a rich, full spectrum of sexuality, gender identification and sexual orientation seems to me to be one of the great leaps forward of this new millennium. Nevertheless, so far, my kids have not been taking advantage of the wide range of available options.
We live in a super-liberal area where I would wager the vast majority of parents would answer the questions “Can girls marry girls?” and “Can boys wear dresses?” in the enthusiastic affirmative, Still, Z lives in a pink world of princesses and fairy costumes and Prince Charmings. NB: her favorite doll is named “Donna Poodle Itchy,” which does give me hope for her independent future.
When G was under one year old, he leaned over from his clip-on high chair and kissed a female model on the back of a magazine that was lying on the counter. Although he does sometimes hug his (male) best friend a leetle too long, he seems to be firmly on the hetero slice of the pie and has "always" wanted to “marry” a gal he met in kindergarten.
Wherever they ultimately end up on this spectrum is just fine with Full Spectrum Mama; the only remarkable thing here is that this is one area where Z and G reside in the most average part of the spectrum.
A Sassy Spectrum
Z is monumentally sassy. G is not, in any way, sassy. When I imagine a full sassiness spectrum with these two opposite slices, one intervening side might be varying degrees of silly sass, and the other side might be mean sass. Having abandoned all hope of reducing Z’s sassiness quotient, I now try to steer her more toward the silly side and away from the mean. And I know it wouldn’t hurt for G to develop a sassy quip or two. We’re workin’ on it!
We all fit in somewhere -- and we are all connected.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Figure 1: An Amended Spectrum
One nice thing about this new and improved circular spectrum is that proximity can be quite telling. I pointed out that the difficulties in connection on the far end of the autism side of that original spectrum reminded me in some ways of the inability to connect on the far end of the attachment disorder side of the spectrum. Within a circle, these two pie slices – far as they might be from “normal” on the perimeter -- might themselves be quite close, with some “unknown” slices in-between. The “normal” slice might be on the opposite side of this thus-far-undefined area.
Here are some ideas for some other Full Spectrums, a veritable Spectrum Rainbow, with illustrations from my own family:
A Dance Spectrum
We do a lot of dancing in our house. All sorts of music. Sometimes we’ll even have a dance-off! I could expound at length on kinds of movement, hip-shakers and non-hip-shakers, rhythm, etc. but it basically comes down to this: If Z is Beyonce, G is Steve Martin in “The Jerk.” ‘Nuff said.
On second thought, it occurs to me that although I personally think I would fall closer to Beyonce than the Jerk on this spectrum, G definitely fancies himself quite the dancer too. Hmm.
A Spatial Self-Awareness Spectrum
Part of my project here is to distinguish and clarify, but I do so more in the ultimate aim of connection than separation. For example, most everybody has some sort of self-awareness in space, so that is a connection. Yet, for a child with Asperger syndrome, self-awareness in terms of place in the physical space one inhabits is fundamentally very different from that self-awareness for a child with an attachment disorder.
I would place Z in a position of extraordinarily high, vigilante-esque self-awareness that is connected integrally with an extraordinarily high level of awareness of others. G would seem to land close to the opposite side of this pie, with little consciousness of his weight and size and position, or of his spatial relations to others.
I am not a neurologist or psychiatrist, just a Mama wondering at and about her children (and children [and people] in general). I do wonder if this self-awareness thread relates in some way to the ways severely autistic children and children with severe attachment disorders may seem similar in their apparent disengagement with the outside world? How might their awareness of self-in-space and self vis-à-vis other people differ? How might it be useful to think of self-awareness in space and in relationships as a way IN to children’s minds and hearts? To healing, where needed?
This spectrum emerges as useful in helping me see that I, as a Full Spectrum Mama, need to help each child move closer to a healthy level of self-awareness in this regard. That’s not always true: sometimes I want to nurture that distance from the “normal” slice of the spectrum. Here, however, I would like to help Z relax her vigilance -- and G to become more attentive.
A Scotch Tape Spectrum
Some people feel perfectly comfortable using reams of scotch tape. Who are these people? Oh, pardon. I meant to write that there are different ways of approaching scotch tape use. Some of us view scotch tape as a precious, non-renewable and expensive resource that must be monitored and used in minimal, just-barely-adequate increments. Others have a “normal” take on tape. They use it when they need it, a reasonable amount…and buy more with little or no angst! And, much as it pains me to admit this, there are those who are quite “free” with their usage. [No need to let me know if you fit in this slice. I accept you. I just do not want to know.]
Z, as you might imagine, is highly responsible and abstemious in her tape-related-habits, even unto the point of Putting the Tape Back; G is a tape-waster par excellence. Left to his own devices, he would use tape for many, many non-approved purposes – and I would never be able to find the roll in any “emergency.” From time to time I have generously bought him his own roll, said roll never to be seen again.
Matters of scotch tape and self-awareness are related, yes they are: ideally I’d like to assist Z in relinquishing her control-freak position on this spectrum, while gently nurturing G in his scotch-tape consciousness.
A Style Spectrum
Here we have Z, dressed always with a flair and pizzazz and ultra-originality that nonetheless manages to scream, “I have fantastic taste!” She may be wearing seven necklaces, but they perfectly complement her nine bracelets. A cape? But of course. And matching veil. Anything she puts on, Z instantly elevates and imbues with sheer gorgeousness and chic.
Next to Z, we have people with some style and then we have a series of “neutral” or “regular” style slices eventually veering toward a lack of style…and then we have G.
My son, despite being conceived, gestated and living the first few years of his life in the East Village, has never looked right in anything fey or trendy. Something about him calls for classic, regular, GUY garb. When G was a baby, we came to call this genre “football-teddy bear clothes.” I have recently managed to sneak him into a skinny cord without too much protest although he has a really, really hard time getting in and out of this particular pant. In fact, G’s pants are usually pulled up to just under his nipples, His shoes are probably on the wrong feet. Anything he puts on looks like it was put on by mistake. Obviously, we are moving away from “normal” here…but where are we going, exactly?
I contend that we are actually edging back closer to the high style slice! I further contend that G may well be edging into what we, in our house, call “meta-cool.” He is so on his own fashion planet that he may well have crossed the pie-border into the slice just adjacent to Z’s super-flair section!
Figure 2: Flair de La Z (with brother)
A Sexuality Spectrum
The increasing acceptance of a rich, full spectrum of sexuality, gender identification and sexual orientation seems to me to be one of the great leaps forward of this new millennium. Nevertheless, so far, my kids have not been taking advantage of the wide range of available options.
We live in a super-liberal area where I would wager the vast majority of parents would answer the questions “Can girls marry girls?” and “Can boys wear dresses?” in the enthusiastic affirmative, Still, Z lives in a pink world of princesses and fairy costumes and Prince Charmings. NB: her favorite doll is named “Donna Poodle Itchy,” which does give me hope for her independent future.
When G was under one year old, he leaned over from his clip-on high chair and kissed a female model on the back of a magazine that was lying on the counter. Although he does sometimes hug his (male) best friend a leetle too long, he seems to be firmly on the hetero slice of the pie and has "always" wanted to “marry” a gal he met in kindergarten.
Wherever they ultimately end up on this spectrum is just fine with Full Spectrum Mama; the only remarkable thing here is that this is one area where Z and G reside in the most average part of the spectrum.
A Sassy Spectrum
Z is monumentally sassy. G is not, in any way, sassy. When I imagine a full sassiness spectrum with these two opposite slices, one intervening side might be varying degrees of silly sass, and the other side might be mean sass. Having abandoned all hope of reducing Z’s sassiness quotient, I now try to steer her more toward the silly side and away from the mean. And I know it wouldn’t hurt for G to develop a sassy quip or two. We’re workin’ on it!
We all fit in somewhere -- and we are all connected.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Friday, February 3, 2012
Control and Therapeutic Parenting
Maybe it was the “vacation” weekend on the Cape when I spent two out of three nights in the car with Z because she refused to stop screaming and was keeping other motel guests awake. And didn’t care. At all. Didn’t care about her crying, sleep-deprived big brother, or even the entreaties of her beloved “Papa” (I believe her exact words were, “Shut up, Papa!” {NOT standard words in our family}).
Or maybe it was when we were in the car and I had a migraine and Z was having a tantrum and I got her attention by explaining very, very quietly, that Mama had a migraine and that “every sound out of her mouth felt like a knife in my brain”…and then she got very, very quiet, took a deep breath, leaned forward and yelled as loud as she could into my ear.
In any case, at a certain point, my partner – who grew up oldest of eight and is, I assure you, unflappable – got the name of a therapist who specializes in children who were adopted and have associated concerns.
In Vermont, heck, in standard liberal parentland everywhere, we like to Respect our children, right? We talk to them about things, reason with them, offer them Choices. In previous generations, this might have been viewed as permissive or, um, irrational, but we are Modern Parents, Enlightened Parents and we know that our children are Human Beings.
I had noticed pretty early on that Z seemed to really like choices. She would think about them and weigh them and often contribute her own additional option. In fact, she liked choices so much that her choosing had become an exhausting element of my life.
For example, if I suggested that Z go upstairs and get ready for bed (pajamas, brush teeth, toilet), she would typically ask, “Can I pee downstairs?” Well, sure…why not? "Can I choose a goodnight book first?" "...OK"
Or if I let her choose toys for the bath, she would choose an entire bathtub full (many of which I had previously told her couldn’t get wet), so we’d have to go through a long negotiation process.
Or –- and this was my stock story whilst commiserating with other mothers of daughters – if I would ask her to put her dishes in the sink, inevitably she would respond, “Can I put them Next To the sink?”
Everything was open to negotiation. Still, this felt progressive to me, especially as compared with other elements of our life together (many of which felt challenging and disconnective). So even though I sometimes wanted to say, “Just do it! Because I said so!” I didn’t.
Meanwhile, Z’s tantrums and certain other habits – hoarding food, stealing, sneaking, lying, general mayhem and human enslavement – continued to escalate. Z seemed profoundly angry and, quite frankly, did not seem to be developing a conscience. I knew that while she might pretend to toe the line when I was in the room, she would do whatever she wanted the instant she was unwatched. I didn’t care so much about most of the basic practical aspects of this, such as spoiled food or ripped clothing (well, the theft and destruction of jewelry was problematic), but I worried about the implications for her later life - and I did worry about safety.
The bottom line was I had NO idea what to do. I had tried all the suggestions of friends and family and none of it had worked. Some of the things she did were developmentally appropriate but many were not. Even the developmentally appropriate things were, when done by Z, on a larger, more Machiavellian scale. The whole Z package was just so over the top: brilliant, adorable, charming…and so, sooo incredibly poorly behaved.
Full Spectrum Mama was accustomed to G, the first child, who lived to do the right thing. G’s very loving, stable start in life, coupled with his innate literalness and natural sweetness, had produced a child who was liable to happily do what was asked of him, so long as he didn’t get distracted en route. Lest you think G is Mr. Perfect Child, I should add that he does indeed get distracted, oh, say half the time – and let’s not get into multi-step instructions.
It seems to me that toward the middle of a Full Spectrum of Doing the Right Thing (according to parents, anyway), children sometimes do what is right and sometimes do not, in either case sometimes because they want to and sometimes because they feel forced. I had one child who was glad to do what FSM asked, basically at all times, because he genuinely believed Mama had her finger on the pulse of cosmic rightness; and one child who didn’t give a rip about right and wrong and only ever did what she was told when directly observed. And often not even then. Her urge to do or get what she wanted felt to her, I suspected, like a matter of survival.
Consequences – another tenet of Modern Parenting – meant NOTHING to her. I would start with the threat of reasonable consequences and sometimes, in the avalanche toward the ridiculous, end up going to extremes. A dispute over whether Z had done something with 2/3 of my $54 jar of Clinique Redness Solution – a huge, wedding-based splurge – resulted in absolutely no admission of guilt from her and my having to enforce no dessert for a month. Because, as you know, Consistency and Follow Through are further tenets of Modern Parenting.
I cajoled. I punished. I warned her. I gave her her own creams. She was invariably back in the medicine cabinet within hours.
Extrapolate from the medicine cabinet to almost every other area of our lives -- I was lost.
During our very first therapy session, the therapist taught me the single most important thing I ever learned as the parent of an attachment-disordered child: [in this context] “therapeutic parenting is control freak parenting.” It turns out that the main thing my daughter needed from me was to help her feel safe. And by what felt to me like honoring her as an individual – giving her choices - I was actually showing her that I didn’t have the answer! Z needed me to tell her what to do. What a revelation!
Have I mentioned I am an extremely controlling person by nature? Knowing this, I have always gone out of my way to Not be a controlling person. It’s not about power for me (as it somewhat is for Z) it’s about my part of the spectrum, self-diagnosed long ago (pre-G!) at being juuust at the tip of the autism range. I am very literal, and there are right and wrong ways to do things. In the abstract, I do know that other people have their own ideas about right and wrong and, in principle, I honor that. But, given half a chance, I could definitely be a total control freak. Drop the constant negotiation and lengthy discussions about every move? “I can do that,” I assured myself.
How could I have known that by allowing my child to make her own choices I was sending her into a tailspin of uncertainty in which she would constantly and anxiously feel the need to exert the control that I was apparently incapable of managing? I began to give her clear direction – and she began to heal.
I explained to G that different children need different rules sometimes, and I think he understands. His particular spot on the spectrum sometimes calls for extraordinary monitoring as well. Figuring out just how to balance control and respect in these relationships is an ongoing project.
In the meantime, as for everybody else, you, too, may put the dish IN the sink, goldang it! Except glasses. Glasses and other breakables Next To the sink, please. And silverware in that cup with the soapy water? Thanks.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
Or maybe it was when we were in the car and I had a migraine and Z was having a tantrum and I got her attention by explaining very, very quietly, that Mama had a migraine and that “every sound out of her mouth felt like a knife in my brain”…and then she got very, very quiet, took a deep breath, leaned forward and yelled as loud as she could into my ear.
In any case, at a certain point, my partner – who grew up oldest of eight and is, I assure you, unflappable – got the name of a therapist who specializes in children who were adopted and have associated concerns.
In Vermont, heck, in standard liberal parentland everywhere, we like to Respect our children, right? We talk to them about things, reason with them, offer them Choices. In previous generations, this might have been viewed as permissive or, um, irrational, but we are Modern Parents, Enlightened Parents and we know that our children are Human Beings.
I had noticed pretty early on that Z seemed to really like choices. She would think about them and weigh them and often contribute her own additional option. In fact, she liked choices so much that her choosing had become an exhausting element of my life.
For example, if I suggested that Z go upstairs and get ready for bed (pajamas, brush teeth, toilet), she would typically ask, “Can I pee downstairs?” Well, sure…why not? "Can I choose a goodnight book first?" "...OK"
Or if I let her choose toys for the bath, she would choose an entire bathtub full (many of which I had previously told her couldn’t get wet), so we’d have to go through a long negotiation process.
Or –- and this was my stock story whilst commiserating with other mothers of daughters – if I would ask her to put her dishes in the sink, inevitably she would respond, “Can I put them Next To the sink?”
Everything was open to negotiation. Still, this felt progressive to me, especially as compared with other elements of our life together (many of which felt challenging and disconnective). So even though I sometimes wanted to say, “Just do it! Because I said so!” I didn’t.
Meanwhile, Z’s tantrums and certain other habits – hoarding food, stealing, sneaking, lying, general mayhem and human enslavement – continued to escalate. Z seemed profoundly angry and, quite frankly, did not seem to be developing a conscience. I knew that while she might pretend to toe the line when I was in the room, she would do whatever she wanted the instant she was unwatched. I didn’t care so much about most of the basic practical aspects of this, such as spoiled food or ripped clothing (well, the theft and destruction of jewelry was problematic), but I worried about the implications for her later life - and I did worry about safety.
The bottom line was I had NO idea what to do. I had tried all the suggestions of friends and family and none of it had worked. Some of the things she did were developmentally appropriate but many were not. Even the developmentally appropriate things were, when done by Z, on a larger, more Machiavellian scale. The whole Z package was just so over the top: brilliant, adorable, charming…and so, sooo incredibly poorly behaved.
Full Spectrum Mama was accustomed to G, the first child, who lived to do the right thing. G’s very loving, stable start in life, coupled with his innate literalness and natural sweetness, had produced a child who was liable to happily do what was asked of him, so long as he didn’t get distracted en route. Lest you think G is Mr. Perfect Child, I should add that he does indeed get distracted, oh, say half the time – and let’s not get into multi-step instructions.
It seems to me that toward the middle of a Full Spectrum of Doing the Right Thing (according to parents, anyway), children sometimes do what is right and sometimes do not, in either case sometimes because they want to and sometimes because they feel forced. I had one child who was glad to do what FSM asked, basically at all times, because he genuinely believed Mama had her finger on the pulse of cosmic rightness; and one child who didn’t give a rip about right and wrong and only ever did what she was told when directly observed. And often not even then. Her urge to do or get what she wanted felt to her, I suspected, like a matter of survival.
Consequences – another tenet of Modern Parenting – meant NOTHING to her. I would start with the threat of reasonable consequences and sometimes, in the avalanche toward the ridiculous, end up going to extremes. A dispute over whether Z had done something with 2/3 of my $54 jar of Clinique Redness Solution – a huge, wedding-based splurge – resulted in absolutely no admission of guilt from her and my having to enforce no dessert for a month. Because, as you know, Consistency and Follow Through are further tenets of Modern Parenting.
I cajoled. I punished. I warned her. I gave her her own creams. She was invariably back in the medicine cabinet within hours.
Extrapolate from the medicine cabinet to almost every other area of our lives -- I was lost.
During our very first therapy session, the therapist taught me the single most important thing I ever learned as the parent of an attachment-disordered child: [in this context] “therapeutic parenting is control freak parenting.” It turns out that the main thing my daughter needed from me was to help her feel safe. And by what felt to me like honoring her as an individual – giving her choices - I was actually showing her that I didn’t have the answer! Z needed me to tell her what to do. What a revelation!
Have I mentioned I am an extremely controlling person by nature? Knowing this, I have always gone out of my way to Not be a controlling person. It’s not about power for me (as it somewhat is for Z) it’s about my part of the spectrum, self-diagnosed long ago (pre-G!) at being juuust at the tip of the autism range. I am very literal, and there are right and wrong ways to do things. In the abstract, I do know that other people have their own ideas about right and wrong and, in principle, I honor that. But, given half a chance, I could definitely be a total control freak. Drop the constant negotiation and lengthy discussions about every move? “I can do that,” I assured myself.
How could I have known that by allowing my child to make her own choices I was sending her into a tailspin of uncertainty in which she would constantly and anxiously feel the need to exert the control that I was apparently incapable of managing? I began to give her clear direction – and she began to heal.
I explained to G that different children need different rules sometimes, and I think he understands. His particular spot on the spectrum sometimes calls for extraordinary monitoring as well. Figuring out just how to balance control and respect in these relationships is an ongoing project.
In the meantime, as for everybody else, you, too, may put the dish IN the sink, goldang it! Except glasses. Glasses and other breakables Next To the sink, please. And silverware in that cup with the soapy water? Thanks.
Love,
Full Spectrum Mama
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