Boy Out of Context

The new occupant

Every day The Teacher remarks about all the hugs she gets from Max lately and how sweet it is and how glad she is that we all met and had those talks.  I'm a cynic, so of course, I'm mentally thinking...Syndrome, Stockholm...but we're on the tail end of this semester so I figure we'll just cruise along the next few weeks.  Max picked out what he'd like to get for The Teacher for a holiday gift.  Gift cards, since I told him that the only acceptable gifts are gift cards or alcohol and we don't know her well enough to buy her alcohol.  I left out the part about how I felt like she should be buying me a case of wine. 

About a week back I found myself at my own doctor's office for my annual appointment.  THAT doctor, not the general.  I like my OB quite a bit although I know a lot of people don't care for her rather straightforward manner.  She's not one to mince words. 

I discovered that last year when she finished up, sat me up, and told me she felt a mass and it was probably in my uterus but it might be on my ovary and I needed to schedule an ultrasound to see where and I should just go ahead and do that on the way out.

I was relatively calm to my doctor.  It was the scheduler I threatened. 

Five days later, we found the fibroid, neatly tucked into my uterus, with my ovaries innocently behaving themselves (knowing I got a little gaspy at the mention of "ovary" and "mass" in the same sentence she made a point of finding them both for me...I had forgotten how much that hurts). 

Fast forward a year, and riddle me this: last year I had to wait five days for the ultrasound; this year they just popped me over to the special room. 

I had been warned to expect the thing to grow.  It amused me really, because it was like a race.  The fibroid would grow a little until I hit menopause and then it will shrink.  How big will it get until then? 

The goddamn thing doubled in a year.  Doubled! 

It's not causing me any problems at the moment except that now I look suspiciously at my abdomen a lot because...doubled!  And it wasn't that small last year!  It's sort of softball-ish now and I'm afraid of what will happen by next year.  And I blanched when she told me I probably have a good eleven years until menopause. 

She can take it out, but she'll do a hysterectomy, and suddenly I'm feeling very protective of the parts.  I had such a love/hate relationship with everything during the infertility years.  I mean, everything always seemed to be in working order, both a blessing (hurrah, it works!) and a curse (why the hell am I not getting pregnant????), but when called to action, the uterus performed valiantly.  I feel like it has earned its anatomical  place. 

Still, doubled. 

Side note of interest: she told me about this new technique for the hysterectomy that will have me up and about in one to three weeks.  Have you ever tried to keep a dog quiet twelve hours after a spay?  Seriously.  Dogs are the superior species. 

The rest of the story

I loved Peter, Paul and Mary as a child.  I was especially fascinated with Puff the Magic Dragon.  Over and over I listened to that song and anytime we were at some sing along type occasion where someone had a guitar (this happened frequently; daughter of a friend), I always made her sing it.  

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Many, many years later, I was watching the documentary Refrigerator Mothers and one of the men in it, a severely affected autistic adult was shown watching that technicolor Puff the Magic Dragon movie while his mother was being interviewed. 

Jackie Draper, locked in his wordless body.  Jesus, how did I miss that? 

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I saw the movie at a film festival with my older sister, who was friends with the woman who had made it.  This was a long time ago.  Long before Max.  Autism was just a word, a concept back then.  

I asked the filmmaker if she knew early on with her son.  Was everything fine at first and then her son regressed, like some of the mothers in the film?  Or did she know from the beginning?

She knew from the beginning, she said.  Her son would tense up and then he would scream. 

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"He screams."

Those were the words I first used out loud, in fact, thinking back to that conversation.  It was Max's four month appointment and I was already worried about something being just not right, so I said it to the pediatrician who was filling in while our regular doctor was on vacation.  The doctor paused briefly, repeated it back to me, and then moved on.  Despite the fact the behavior continued for almost two years, I never discussed that, specifically, again.  It was more than two years before I got angry enough to insist on a complete evaluation. 

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A couple of weeks ago, Max came home in a foul mood.  After stomping around and screaming at his sister and I, I sent him to his room to quiet his brain and told him he could rejoin us when he could speak calmly again.  A few minutes later I was putting some clothes away in Julia's room when I heard Max in his room, sobbing like I have seldom heard him sob before. 

No punishment has ever gotten that reaction out of him, and I wasn't even punishing him, just trying to get him to settle.  He's never even cried like that over the deaths of one of the animals.  I went to him. 

He was teased at school. 

It was minor, really.  These are six year olds and it was something dumb, but the kid hurt his feelings and he did it on purpose.  Max didn't need more than a hug, a reassurance from me and it was all better. 

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At the last meeting I related this story to the rest of the group.  The Teacher sort of threw up her hands and clucked and shook her head at the thought of Max's feelings getting hurt.  Everyone else waited for my response. 

I don't like my kid getting hurt in any way, physically or emotionally.  But...

...isn't this kind of the goal?

It's not the first time another kid has said something unkind to Max.  It was the first time he responded appropriately to it.  And maybe it's totally conjecture on my part, but it seems to me that if he understands that his feelings are hurt when others are unkind to him, then he can understand that he is capable of hurting others.  It's a step towards the elusive emotional connections I have been so worried about.  More Jackie Paper, less Jackie Draper. 

If I thought growing up was hard the first time around, I was wrong.  It's so much more painful to guide your kids through it. 

On both fronts

Here's how I gauge Max's day: by how chewed his shirt is at pick up.  I could use my statistical knowledge to chart this into a nice correlation.  More chewed = more stressed = more tantrums.  It's kind of fascinating, really.  Also, I should probably buy him some new shirts. 

This is where we are, after the most recent meeting.

Max has a fidget item that he keeps on The Teacher's desk.  He can use it when he needs it and she prompts him when she sees him going goat.  Sometimes he will take the item and sometimes just the prompting with extinguish the behavior.  Recently a boy in the class questioned Max about his shirt-chewing habits.  I was nearby and since the questions were friendly and curious, not mean, I stayed out of the conversation and let Max handle it.  But it seems the combination of having the item when needed plus the knowledge that we are all aware of his behavior has been enough to deal with the majority of the shirt chewing. 

Of course, that has done little for the tantrums.  I'm noticing less stimming.  Sometimes Max will stim on the walk home, but it's usually gone by the time we're home and I'm assuming that's related to the transition from school to home.  For the tantrums I've made Max a thermometer with colors, faces, and words to indicate his mood.  He can point to whatever he wants to indicate how he's feeling and then he chose three relaxation techniques.  We made a list of those nearby as a reminder so that when he's upset he can chose one of those he thinks would help and he can go to his room to calm down. 

He hit his sister today.  It's a work in progress. 

Drop off time is going significantly better.  I'm making an effort to get him there early enough to play for a bit before the bell rings and as long as that happens he's going into the classroom without a problem.  I'm making an effort?  I have no trouble getting out of the house on time.  I do not comprehend small creatures that hold up socks like they've never seen them before and stare at them for ten minutes.  And then bitch at me because we're not at the playground early enough. 

I've moved up my warning times for getting dressed, etc.  Let's say that.  We're mostly successful. 

....sock?....

Max is unoffically in a social skills group one morning a week and he has been enjoying it.  He's on task with all of the games they're playing, reaffirming that we were probably not wrong to drop the IEP, but he's enjoying the time with the smaller group of kids. 

Writing continues to be a major problem.  We came up with a few ideas and The Teacher has backed  way off a lot of her expectations (Max's spelling, though, is fantastic, which makes me very proud).  In the meantime, we're starting to work on touch typing with him with the expectation that we'll get him on a modified plan in a year or two so that he can predominently keyboard rather than write in the classroom. 

It was a mostly positive meeting.  I decided not to ask for another scheduled meeting, since I obviously will sound the alarm if I'm worried.  I'm looking forward to the end of the semester, though.  This has been a stressful one. 

As for the Goblin, I finally screwed up my courage and got on the phone with the school district about evaluating her for kindergarten.  To my tremendous delight I learned that the evaluation will take place next summer.  I was worried that it would be soon and she would bomb but then make all this progress, but apparently they have thought this all through.  We're on the list and will be contacted in May about setting up the evaluation.  The more time passes the more sure I am that kindergarten is going to be the right choice for her.  I'd forgotten until today that about a year ago, before the accident, Julia was evaluated for a longitudinal study and found at that time to be about a year ahead on all accounts.  She'll get there again. 

I'm feeling generally settled with everything.  We had a good Halloween.  Paul held us back to only three nights of trick-or-treating (my enthusiasm for this holiday knows no bounds; Paul is more measured).  Max was a diamondback rattlesnake.  Julia was a cat.  A particular cat from our clinic in fact, although I wasn't quite true to life (I wouldn't let her be a pregnant cat).  Paul's students dressed up as...Paul. 

It's been a pretty good couple of weeks.