This was Q's term for what I described to him earlier in the week. Taking S out in the stroller, he started to talk -- and talk -- and talk. It was not a conversation; it was a monologue. It was filled with details of toys, TV shows, names of friends of P. It was garbled, incomprehensible. It seemed designed to make sure that he was holding my attention. It was crafted in such a way that he was completely in charge of the subject matter and the delivery; there was no way to interject or redirect. At one point, I stopped pushing and refused to go on if he brought up certain topics. I am becoming increasingly negative and shrill in my attempts to have a satisfying interaction with him. I suggested talking about things we could see; flowers was the first subject. We had a few reversions where I had to remind him about the limits I'd set. But the "conversation" did not go particularly well.
We finished at school, arriving a little early to pick up P. Another mother sat with us to talk, commented that I looked tired, & I told her a bit about what had been going on. S talked louder and louder and eventually grabbed my face and held his about 2 inches from mine; the face-grab, not an unusual tactic from him. But as Q remarked when I repeated all this to him that night, the previous monologue had much of the same quality about it. We aren't just "together"; he must ensure that I attend to him incessantly, or so it feels.
I must sound so petty and demanding. I feel like I am. We had a bad time at art class today too, where he refused to let the teacher's most gentle suggestions through. At one point she suggested he draw a particular shape on his project; when he did, we both went to praise him, of course, only to have him insist that it was actually something else. That's not the first time this week that we've arrived at something like what I would describe as a reciprocal moment, only to have him back immediately and defiantly away from it.
We definitely have turned the corner I mentioned recently, when it comes to emotional regulation; but this need to be in control, it's bad for him and it's bad for me. While I try to find some assistance for him, I do need to have a hard look at myself. My temper is so short and frayed. These episodes get under my skin so much. In the bigger picture, I feel, as I think I have indicated in different ways in different posts, starved of reciprocity. This hurts. It was a feature I think of my own childhood; perhaps I'd be doomed to yearn for it even if I had the most effusive, empathetic child. Nevertheless, I do believe that both boys are particularly effective at pressing that button.
But how did the button get there? My own father was a pretty cold, unaffectionate figure. My parents separated when I was 12 and I was relieved. He showed no capacity for empathy at all, and had some pretty nasty personality traits. Since P's diagnosis, I have naturally gone over much of this and wondered if he is on the spectrum too. There are many, many characteristics that suggest that he would be. But since there is even clearer evidence on Q's side of the family, I wonder if I am getting carried away with playing amateur psychologist, especially since this year, I have started to wonder about my mother too. I immediately discounted her as a possibility for ASD because she has always been very emotional, and in her own way, very caring. But it has taken me till this year to realise that all that emotion is usually a reaction to other people, and an unhappy one at that. If you tell her that something is not quite right (say one of the boys has gastro or a nasty cold), she will fret; she's just bothered by knowing about it, it sort of panics her when something is amiss, or irritates her that the knowledge is in her head. Her "caring" tends to consist of endless worrying, and all she wants to hear is that this or that problem is over, not how it is resolved or how it affects anyone else. But she absolutely lacks insight into the people about whom she "cares"; never asks what anyone is doing, how anyone is feeling, and cuts all attempts to converse short. To this day, I know that I rush when trying to tell people things, I am so used to feeling as though I will not make it to the end. Probably why I like writing so much; the ability to follow a thought process wherever it may take me ... These are but my most recent ponderings after years of frustration and confusion. I think that most people would acknowledge that there is something no "quite right" about my mother (certainly my father is acknowledged to be eccentric, as it is euphemistically thought of), but perhaps many assumed, as I did for a long time, that my mother's behaviour is not surprising after marrying very young to an abusive husband. And yet, Tony Attwood writes that it is not unusual for AS women to find themselves in such situations.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
"Stupid Pooheads!"
Why should this insult hurled at yours truly delight me so? P has been trying ever so hard for a few months now to get angry, as opposed to losing control. When things are really not going his way, he puts on quite a pantomime of pouting lips, crossed arms, hitting or even throwing things. Trouble is, he looks incredibly cute because he's really not very good at it; all the more reason to play my part, put on a stern, disapproving look, and let him go for it. And after my hand-wringing about the lack of connection I sometimes feel, these outbursts are characterised by his worried little eyes frequently meeting mine to see whether he's gone too far! I gave him a great deal of rope indeed; my instinct is that he needs to be able to do this if he is to have control of his emotional life.
Having brought to an end his pre-bed play session with S, his response was one of these performances. That in itself represented progress; generally, a play session cut short (as he felt this one to be) results in a melt-down; he is usually crushed by not having done everything he intended to do, no so much because of running out of time, but because of being distracted, and I think that that sense of disorganisation really upsets him. So yes, this was actually a good step forward for him. His brother's resistance was, unusually, weaker (just too tired I think), and so I focused on getting him to bed and warned the shouting gesticulating P to get into his or leave the room. He disappeared for a while, then stood in the doorway trying, I think, to look defiant with those searching, uncertain eyes. I told him to go where I couldn't see him (S and I were having a lovely cuddle), but instead he came in, uttered the aforementioned insult in an uncertain voice, and climbed into his bed. When S dropped off, I gave him a kiss and told him I loved him.
I had watched him "play" after school earlier with a boy he speaks about a lot, from a different class. I thought he'd made a mistake, that this kid did not in fact like him, as P trailed around behind the boy, who ran around making gun noises and looking at no-one in particular. To my amazement, on the way out, this boy asked his mother if P could come over for a play, and repeated the request to me. I don't know this child, but based on what I saw, as well as from what I've seen of P's other playmates, there seems to be a group a young boys with rudimentary social and play skills who are reinforcing each other's weaknesses rather than gaining skills from their more able peers. I don't mean to be completely negative about their play, but it does seem that the kids who are less able to connect spend time with other kids also lacking the ability; that might suit some, but others might flourish, I suspect, with some guidance. It may seem a long bow to draw, but showing me that he knows how to be angry, well, it is part of skilling up, of becoming more discerning about his lot, of being able to act on his emotions rather than being swamped by them -- isn't it?
Having brought to an end his pre-bed play session with S, his response was one of these performances. That in itself represented progress; generally, a play session cut short (as he felt this one to be) results in a melt-down; he is usually crushed by not having done everything he intended to do, no so much because of running out of time, but because of being distracted, and I think that that sense of disorganisation really upsets him. So yes, this was actually a good step forward for him. His brother's resistance was, unusually, weaker (just too tired I think), and so I focused on getting him to bed and warned the shouting gesticulating P to get into his or leave the room. He disappeared for a while, then stood in the doorway trying, I think, to look defiant with those searching, uncertain eyes. I told him to go where I couldn't see him (S and I were having a lovely cuddle), but instead he came in, uttered the aforementioned insult in an uncertain voice, and climbed into his bed. When S dropped off, I gave him a kiss and told him I loved him.
I had watched him "play" after school earlier with a boy he speaks about a lot, from a different class. I thought he'd made a mistake, that this kid did not in fact like him, as P trailed around behind the boy, who ran around making gun noises and looking at no-one in particular. To my amazement, on the way out, this boy asked his mother if P could come over for a play, and repeated the request to me. I don't know this child, but based on what I saw, as well as from what I've seen of P's other playmates, there seems to be a group a young boys with rudimentary social and play skills who are reinforcing each other's weaknesses rather than gaining skills from their more able peers. I don't mean to be completely negative about their play, but it does seem that the kids who are less able to connect spend time with other kids also lacking the ability; that might suit some, but others might flourish, I suspect, with some guidance. It may seem a long bow to draw, but showing me that he knows how to be angry, well, it is part of skilling up, of becoming more discerning about his lot, of being able to act on his emotions rather than being swamped by them -- isn't it?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Reciprocity
It's key, isn't it, to happy human relations? Unless you are on the autism spectrum? What if you are neurotypical, but some of your loved ones are not?
This situation is becoming more recognised amongst adults in relationships, but I don't hear much about the frustration of being the mother of someone who makes me work very, very hard in so many ways. I could burst with excitement for all the things I would like to ask P when I pick him up from school, or at any other time really. Because S has added such a layer of disruption to communications, I almost forget sometimes that things can actually get worse, not better, when I do have the opportunity to try to converse with P. I am met with a lot of silence. Sometimes I assume he doesn't understand my question; sometimes perhaps he just doesn't see the point of giving me an answer. Sometimes I struggle so hard to interpret what he does say that I am quickly worn out, and of course the longer I spend trying to untangle an interaction, the more likely he is to disengage ...
Since I am confessing to no-one in particular here, let me be honest; sometimes I get resentful. I just want a crumb of reciprocity, no not one crumb, I want much, much more than that. Yesterday I was very brusque with him. I was weary of the vagaries of our interactions, the need to repeat myself, to ask him to repeat himself, the wandering off before a conversation or a task is finished, the lapsing into silliness, all without the restorative little moments of sharing that I imagine other mothers have with their children, which in fact I sometimes have with other people's children, when I am left stunned at how straightforward and satisfying it has been to ask something, be looked in the eye, and receive a direct, relevant response.
Sometimes when I listen to the children's readers in P's class, a child will look at my face to see if they have got a word right. It is a startling experience. It fills me with sadness. I know my children love, want and need me, but I yearn for that simple expression of our connection. Having said that, I am reminded of a case where P does exactly that; a few times this year, someone has done something designed to amuse him. He has not quite known what to make of these occasions, and has sought out my face repeatedly. Sometimes I have kicked myself for not being quite ready for it, as it generally takes me by surprise; if I don't give him what he's looking for, he might stop trying to find it ... Having got some of my dissatisfaction out of the way in this post, it must be said that I am optimistic that we can build on such flickers of reciprocity. The work can, however, sometimes feel unrewarding.
This situation is becoming more recognised amongst adults in relationships, but I don't hear much about the frustration of being the mother of someone who makes me work very, very hard in so many ways. I could burst with excitement for all the things I would like to ask P when I pick him up from school, or at any other time really. Because S has added such a layer of disruption to communications, I almost forget sometimes that things can actually get worse, not better, when I do have the opportunity to try to converse with P. I am met with a lot of silence. Sometimes I assume he doesn't understand my question; sometimes perhaps he just doesn't see the point of giving me an answer. Sometimes I struggle so hard to interpret what he does say that I am quickly worn out, and of course the longer I spend trying to untangle an interaction, the more likely he is to disengage ...
Since I am confessing to no-one in particular here, let me be honest; sometimes I get resentful. I just want a crumb of reciprocity, no not one crumb, I want much, much more than that. Yesterday I was very brusque with him. I was weary of the vagaries of our interactions, the need to repeat myself, to ask him to repeat himself, the wandering off before a conversation or a task is finished, the lapsing into silliness, all without the restorative little moments of sharing that I imagine other mothers have with their children, which in fact I sometimes have with other people's children, when I am left stunned at how straightforward and satisfying it has been to ask something, be looked in the eye, and receive a direct, relevant response.
Sometimes when I listen to the children's readers in P's class, a child will look at my face to see if they have got a word right. It is a startling experience. It fills me with sadness. I know my children love, want and need me, but I yearn for that simple expression of our connection. Having said that, I am reminded of a case where P does exactly that; a few times this year, someone has done something designed to amuse him. He has not quite known what to make of these occasions, and has sought out my face repeatedly. Sometimes I have kicked myself for not being quite ready for it, as it generally takes me by surprise; if I don't give him what he's looking for, he might stop trying to find it ... Having got some of my dissatisfaction out of the way in this post, it must be said that I am optimistic that we can build on such flickers of reciprocity. The work can, however, sometimes feel unrewarding.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Turning a corner?
I remember this feeling from when P was around 4 and a half. A few small mercies began to creep into the daily regime: a trigger for a meltdown did not in fact trigger the meltdown; a common source of friction failed to produce the friction. Amid this suppression of hostilities, I found myself slightly less besieged and a little more able to pause, calmly, and survey the landscape. But I most certainly remained on alert, for months, unable to discern whether this was an aberration or the shape of things to come. Eventually, I was able to relax into the latter; my fragile little wailer became a placid, comparatively well-regulated boy.
And so it has happened again. For a month or 2, situations which would not long ago have triggered huge tantrums have not only taken a different turn; they have often resulted in apologies and concern from S. No longer does he seem so distracted by doing the contrary of what he is asked; he is much, much more of a partner in our days. And so I find myself, with joy and relief, doing little things with him! Like just now, having a tub of fruit yoghurt in the fridge, I invited him to help me puree it, pour it into moulds, and freeze it for a treat later today. Only one refusal to cooperate in the whole exercise, and it was over when it was over, no subsequent screams, hits, nothing.
I have also noticed that S's counting abilities have just taken a big leap. We always used to watch the developmental leaps with P, encouraged to think along these lines by The Wonder Weeks. Even with ASD, he seemed to follow the timetable laid out in that book, but his development has continued to lurch quite dramatically, long after the first year covered by that book. At any rate, I think perhaps that our little guy, having pushed us through much frustration not so long ago, might have come out of the other side of one of these surges.
It is so exciting to have a companion! I can't quite banish the sadness at thinking of how much of the early years have been taken up with just putting out fires, just keeping both boys from falling off some kind of developmental ledge, instead of doing fun stuff with them! Another familiar feeling is that of letting myself of the hook a little; every time life improves like this, I see with a new kind of clarity what I have been up against. Whatever the lacks and blind spots in my parenting abilities, I really haven't brought all of the struggles on myself! In a better universe, perhaps a calm, rested parent might have dealt more effectively with S's raging temper and his fraught need to control his environment! But now, having lumbered through that period with the rough tools at my disposal, it might, dare I hope, be behind us!
And so it has happened again. For a month or 2, situations which would not long ago have triggered huge tantrums have not only taken a different turn; they have often resulted in apologies and concern from S. No longer does he seem so distracted by doing the contrary of what he is asked; he is much, much more of a partner in our days. And so I find myself, with joy and relief, doing little things with him! Like just now, having a tub of fruit yoghurt in the fridge, I invited him to help me puree it, pour it into moulds, and freeze it for a treat later today. Only one refusal to cooperate in the whole exercise, and it was over when it was over, no subsequent screams, hits, nothing.
I have also noticed that S's counting abilities have just taken a big leap. We always used to watch the developmental leaps with P, encouraged to think along these lines by The Wonder Weeks. Even with ASD, he seemed to follow the timetable laid out in that book, but his development has continued to lurch quite dramatically, long after the first year covered by that book. At any rate, I think perhaps that our little guy, having pushed us through much frustration not so long ago, might have come out of the other side of one of these surges.
It is so exciting to have a companion! I can't quite banish the sadness at thinking of how much of the early years have been taken up with just putting out fires, just keeping both boys from falling off some kind of developmental ledge, instead of doing fun stuff with them! Another familiar feeling is that of letting myself of the hook a little; every time life improves like this, I see with a new kind of clarity what I have been up against. Whatever the lacks and blind spots in my parenting abilities, I really haven't brought all of the struggles on myself! In a better universe, perhaps a calm, rested parent might have dealt more effectively with S's raging temper and his fraught need to control his environment! But now, having lumbered through that period with the rough tools at my disposal, it might, dare I hope, be behind us!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Bodily betrayals
I have mentioned my chronic pain problems, due to numerous mishaps in my teens; they are debilitating not only physically, but are also crushing to one's self-esteem. Because I had headaches more days than not from when I was 16 into my early 20s, and because although those headaches abated somewhat with physiotherapy from that time on, BUT also because some of those headaches came with ear pain, which is a classic symptom of a TMJ injury (which I had), I attributed all headaches to the same cause. So I felt very slow off the mark indeed when, at around 31 years of age, it dawned on me that some of these headaches came at the same time every month. From that realisation, I was also able to identify the differences between the headaches I got from my injuries, and those from my hormones.
Which multiplied my sources of inadequacy; if I wasn't failing to manage a normal day's activities because of muscle spasms, then I was failing to manage a normal day's activities due to my body's own natural rhythms. Which is how I am today, having rung Q in a panic yesterday lunchtime as I felt like I'd just been hit across the head with a block of wood, having been taken by surprise by a very short cycle (the next joy on the horizon -- menopausal, perhaps? With such young kids? What a poster girl I am, in my bleaker moments, for all that is wrong with the older mother). Luckily he was able to come home fairly quickly and take S out while I slept for 2 hours. Despite the sleep, I went to bed at 8 that night, but my night was interrupted repeatedly by the throbbing pain in my head; I'd felt too nauseous to take painkillers before bed. I took some this morning and managed a couple of hours reasonably well, but late morning, I found myself looking in panic around the chaos of my house and my youngest son having a snack in front of the TV, wondering how I am going to manage to do the most basic of tasks, things which everyone around me seems to be on top of ...?
And yet, here I am able to put my thoughts into words & broadcast them willy nilly. Actually, this is a therapeutic experiment. I wondered if I could at least release the emotions, maybe I would regain some functionality. And it's a bit like the servant who whispered to the stream that the king had donkey's ears -- what was that story? -- this, I suppose, is my stream, ironically safer than hers, because I forget who overheard her whisper, but for better or worse, I'm pretty sure that my messages remain uncommunicated!
Phew! Now I'd better try to find something for me & the little guy to do together.
Which multiplied my sources of inadequacy; if I wasn't failing to manage a normal day's activities because of muscle spasms, then I was failing to manage a normal day's activities due to my body's own natural rhythms. Which is how I am today, having rung Q in a panic yesterday lunchtime as I felt like I'd just been hit across the head with a block of wood, having been taken by surprise by a very short cycle (the next joy on the horizon -- menopausal, perhaps? With such young kids? What a poster girl I am, in my bleaker moments, for all that is wrong with the older mother). Luckily he was able to come home fairly quickly and take S out while I slept for 2 hours. Despite the sleep, I went to bed at 8 that night, but my night was interrupted repeatedly by the throbbing pain in my head; I'd felt too nauseous to take painkillers before bed. I took some this morning and managed a couple of hours reasonably well, but late morning, I found myself looking in panic around the chaos of my house and my youngest son having a snack in front of the TV, wondering how I am going to manage to do the most basic of tasks, things which everyone around me seems to be on top of ...?
And yet, here I am able to put my thoughts into words & broadcast them willy nilly. Actually, this is a therapeutic experiment. I wondered if I could at least release the emotions, maybe I would regain some functionality. And it's a bit like the servant who whispered to the stream that the king had donkey's ears -- what was that story? -- this, I suppose, is my stream, ironically safer than hers, because I forget who overheard her whisper, but for better or worse, I'm pretty sure that my messages remain uncommunicated!
Phew! Now I'd better try to find something for me & the little guy to do together.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A little turning point
Both boys had a day off on Monday, a completely unstructured day where the three of us went with the flow. They played quite a bit with each other, and sometimes with me; we read together, watched some TV, and wrestled! Poor Mummy was comprehensively vanquished many times over. But right in the middle of the day, we decided to venture outside with a ball. At least, it began with one ball, but inevitably, S insisted on his own. P tried to get him to just kick it back & forth with no luck, so I kicked with him instead. But that didn't last long before he started to vary the activity in odd ways, and I started to feel as though we were heading down our usual path, where we were all just did our own thing. At that moment, P proposed a game of poison ball. Nice idea, I thought, but couldn't see how we could pull it off with just 2 of us playing, and S no doubt ready to disrupt whatever we managed to play. S, however, claimed that he would play. P set about regaling us with barely comprehensible instructions, which I cut short, but which were replaced by interminable rituals to choose who would be it. S had started buzzing around in overdrive again, and I could see it all failing before we even started. I declared that I would be "it", briefly delineated some boundaries, and told them I would close my eyes & count to 3 so they could move away from me a bit; I just wanted to get things moving! While my eyes were closed, they headed into the house and hid under the desk in a fit of giggles.
Well, it was all good natured, so why should I be upset? I was though; shouldn't we, by now, be able to play a simple ball game? I should interject here that both boys have had some play sessions with friends in the last week where I was struck afresh by how straightforward other kids are; P was chastised by one playmate for talking too much and not just getting on with the game, and another looked repeatedly at S with confusion as he failed to respond to simple requests to do things together; eventually he snapped out of it, but seeing another child perplexed drove home just how much ponderousness I live with in this house. And so, I thought, P had proposed a game of his choice, S said he wanted to be a part of it, and I, the adult, had tried to facilitate, and failed. Yes indeed, we are a ponderous, lumbering bunch, my worst fears confirmed.
So what did I do? Nothing sensible; I had a sulk. I brought the ball in, threw it in the ball basket, told them they were bad sports, and that I didn't want to play with them any more. The effect was instant. P ran outside in tears; S ran to me and all but begged forgiveness. Who would have thought?
So out we went again and, for the first time ever, WE PLAYED A BALL GAME TOGETHER! And it was long, at least 10 minute, till P was losing co-ordination from the effort, and S was starting to ignore the rules and lapse into his old habits. But until then, it felt amazingly good! Should I worry that I brought it all together by throwing a little tanty?
Well, it was all good natured, so why should I be upset? I was though; shouldn't we, by now, be able to play a simple ball game? I should interject here that both boys have had some play sessions with friends in the last week where I was struck afresh by how straightforward other kids are; P was chastised by one playmate for talking too much and not just getting on with the game, and another looked repeatedly at S with confusion as he failed to respond to simple requests to do things together; eventually he snapped out of it, but seeing another child perplexed drove home just how much ponderousness I live with in this house. And so, I thought, P had proposed a game of his choice, S said he wanted to be a part of it, and I, the adult, had tried to facilitate, and failed. Yes indeed, we are a ponderous, lumbering bunch, my worst fears confirmed.
So what did I do? Nothing sensible; I had a sulk. I brought the ball in, threw it in the ball basket, told them they were bad sports, and that I didn't want to play with them any more. The effect was instant. P ran outside in tears; S ran to me and all but begged forgiveness. Who would have thought?
So out we went again and, for the first time ever, WE PLAYED A BALL GAME TOGETHER! And it was long, at least 10 minute, till P was losing co-ordination from the effort, and S was starting to ignore the rules and lapse into his old habits. But until then, it felt amazingly good! Should I worry that I brought it all together by throwing a little tanty?
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