As a follow-up to yesterday’s post, I first wanted to express gratitude for the encouragement and warmth that I have received from my friends and family. Sometimes when I blast something unhappy all over the internet, I have a moment of regret, because that is personal, but the fact is, I’m a heart-on-her-sleeve kinda gal who walked around all day on the verge of tears so at least people who read about it knew why. Not than anyone down here reads my blog, which is actually okay. I don’t know if I’m ready for the full extent of my personality to be unleashed on the people I work with.
But also, I do feel better today. I’m able to see the good news in all of this. First of all, Owen is still really really really ridiculously good-looking. That doesn’t change, and it might even hang in there until the excruciating awkwardness of early puberty. After that, who knows. Secondly, we’re already a year into making a difference, which is a huge head start. For any Autism Spectrum Disorder, it seems that early intervention is the single most important thing in terms of treatment, and we are on that like white on rice. Thirdly, he has a great day care center and a speech therapist who is committed to his success and has worked really hard with me and made this experience a lot less overwhelming. Fourthly, (Quarterly?) we’ve dodged many of the more difficult symptoms that can be a part of an ASD, like sleep issues, digestive issues, and struggling with the feel of clothing or touch. So in other words, I am quite blessed.
Last night, when I was researching ASD, it was truly amazing how specifically Owen’s behaviors in the last year fit many of the descriptions. He was a very normal baby who smiled and cooed and interacted with me. Sometime around 15 months I noticed the change: not so many smiles, zero eye contact, zero response to the sound of my name. He would focus intently on certain objects, most notably the wheel of his stroller, which was folded up stashed in the corner of our dining room. He would sit or kneel in front of the wheel and spin it for long periods of time. Usually one thinks of a baby as having a short attention span, but he could sit there for 20 or 30 minutes, take a break, and go back to it. Toy cars were never rolled across the floor, they were flipped on their side and their wheels spun repeatedly. At that time, Owen was also watching a lot of television. I was working 3-11, so I was home with him during the day and then I would bring him with me to work. As any girl who lived on my hall could attest, Baby Einstein was on a continuous loop. It distracted him enough that I could check emails, talk with my residents or coworkers, and work- I could inspect rooms, monitor study hall, and help the girls sort out their interpersonal relationships as best I could. At home, an episode of one of his favorite Pingu cartoons on Netflix might allow me the opportunity to shower, check Facebook, cook, or just stare into space. When he went to the sitter 3 times per week, the TV was on constantly. Barney, Baby Einstein, Elmo, even Teletubbies. I didn’t worry much. At least there were only 4 or 5 kids there, so he still received lots of attention and she taught him the meaning of No and how to say “Please” in sign language. She also helped us break his pacifier habit neatly and quickly at about 12 months. She also noticed the change in him, and I’m grateful for her candor that afternoon when she told me that his development was not normal for a child his age. Hard to hear, but I’m glad to she told me.
During the assessment period in Virginia, I was left feeling very inadequate. I felt like I hadn’t been doing enough for my then 17-month-old, who had the expressive language of a child half his age. Between passing him off to Shawn and working opposite schedules, the first year and a half of Owen’s life is kind of blurry anyway. My last year in Virginia was actually kind of hard, especially in comparison to how things are now.
We did get off to a wobbly start in Georgia. The first day care center that we enrolled Owen in was close to work and I was initially quite enthusiastic about it. He seemed happy, the other kids were cute, and his teachers, a pair of young, thrilled-to-work-with-toddlers women were lovely. Unfortunately, those young women also enthusiastically embraced other opportunities that were presented to them: one left for an extended missions trip in Southeast Asia, the other, a few months later, took an internship. Owen’s third teacher really loved him. I can understand. And then suddenly, she left too. Her adult children were moving back in the area and she was going to stay home with her grandchildren. In each case, his teacher would tell me with less than a week’s notice that her final day was coming. The staff in the afternoon was a different girl almost every day. Honestly, it was confusing and kind of made me want to cry. How does this make a child feel, I wonder? Winter was a long series of illnesses and runny noses, and the final straw was when the other kids in Owen’s class were moved up to the two-year-olds room and he wasn’t. First the director told me it was an issue of capacity, but then added that maybe waiting would allow Owen a chance to “catch up” with his language. I resisted the urge to tell her to f**k off and cried in my car instead.
My wonderful speech therapist suggested 3 other centers to try where she had been able to successfully work with children. During our midwinter break, Shawn and I toured one, dropping in unannounced. We came during nap time and the director wasn’t there, but the afternoon manager happily brought us down to meet Jackie and Edna, the teachers in one of their 2 classrooms for 2-year-olds. I think I loved them all immediately. They have been working as a team for SIX years, and both have children of their own and lengthy careers in childcare. As we talked, we were surrounded by 20 sweetly napping children. I was completely honest about Owen’s lack of language, but they didn’t bat an eye. They told me about another boy who had been nonverbal when he joined the class, but who was now catching up quickly. Unfortunately, they were at capacity, but could wait-list us.
3 days later a spot opened up. We started at the beginning of March and never looked back.
It amazes me what little people say. About a month ago, when I came to pick Owen up for speech he was on the playground with his classmates. The moment I stepped outside, several children started declaring, “Orange! Orange! Your mommy is here!” “Orange’s mommy! Hi! Hi Oranges’s mommy!” and Jackie corrected them, but explained that Owen has been hard for them to pronounce. (I think that is because of the southern accent. In Georgia, I’ve noticed that many people pronounce “on” as “own” and so Owen sounds kind of like Owwwn. Throw in the normal pronunciation struggles of a 2 year-old on top of that sweet little accent and a nickname is born.
Assimilation to the daily routine has been going well. Owen’s therapist has had about 3, maybe 4 sessions with him there and has encouraged lots of communication between me and the teachers. I told Edna that if there are ever issues, to please tell me, I won’t get huffy about it because I know my kid is a challenge. But, he’s learned to sit in his assigned seat and never throws food on the floor and walks in the line. He has even started moving his mouth when the other children sing or identify objects on flashcards. He looks at his teachers when they say his name and obeys them. It’s not like he’s the only one working, either! For him, they have created a picture schedule, hung on a cabinet at his eye level. As tasks are completed, they are removed and placed in a basket. They have learned sign language and posted diagrams for all the other teachers that interact with him at school. They have learned how to take a moment to gently squeeze his shoulders, arms, and legs when he gets overwhelmed, which calms him down and helps him focus. And they treat him like everyone else. He does what the other kids do. I’ve witnessed their hard work, but until today, it hadn’t dawned on me the role that Owen’s classmates have played in this.
This afternoon Edna was there when I came to collect Owen and his blankets. The kids were sitting down under their cubbies, waiting to go to the room across the hall (they combine the 2 classes after the 3:30pm mass exodus). Whenever I walk in, I am treated like a celebrity. The little boy who was the last to talk always grins and says, “Hey!” and the more verbal ones with tell me a tidbit from their day or get Owen’s attention to announce my arrival. “Orange, mommy’s here.” As I was getting my clingy-hug-hello from Owen, another boy, let’s call him Andrew, was also being picked up by his father and school-aged sister. Andrew was making his rounds, hugging his friends goodbye. “Hug?” “Hug?” The children were sweetly embracing with this sort of beyond-their-years look in their eyes, like college buddies who haven’t seen each other in a summer might do. It was at that point that Andrew pointed Orange out to his dad. “Ah, you must be Orange’s mom. We’ve heard a lot about him at home” and he introduced himself. I immediately forgot his name because Edna then described what Andrew does for Owen each day. “When he wanders off or strays from the group, Andrew walks over and takes him by the hand and Owen laughs and comes back with him. If Owen is last in line, he goes and walks with him. He walks him back from diaper changes and makes sure he never gets left behind. He’s like his helper. The kids all look out for him, they say, “Come on, Owwwwn!” and they treat him normally.”
Andrew hugged Orange. Orange semi-participated. I managed to not cry, but I did thank Edna for everything they’ve done for us. I am truly amazed at how far he has come in a year, especially in the last 6 weeks.
I know there is a lot of work to do. I know that when my kid gets labeled and gets an IEP and I have to attend meetings with learning specialists and developmental psychologists that I’m going to have days where it is not fun. But for now, I know that I have a magnificent team standing with me (and occasionally in front of me, because I don’t quite know what I’m doing) to help my really really ridiculously good-looking child learn how to communicate.
