Stop.  It’s a simple word with a simple meaning.  Most four year-old children can identify a stop sign.  Most can spell stop. (Or at least all of my kids could by the middle of their fourth year. This may be advanced or delayed, but it is my experience.)  I don’t know of many who find pleasure in writing the word.

Lil’ B, who we were told might never speak or learn to use a fork or spoon properly. (He can, and he does.)  Has discovered writing.

The thing is, nobody has ever taught him how to write.

I haven’t.  I’m sure his preschool hasn’t.  Mom is in Turkey finishing out the last of a 15 turned 16 month tour of duty in the Air Force.  He is usually not allowed pens, markers, pencils or crayons because I can’t afford to paint that often. But he’s learned to write the word stop.

(I just found out that my sister has worked with him on a few letters, but that’s as far as his learning goes.)

Imagine if you will, my surprise when my son stopped riding his bike on the patio yesterday and exclaimed “Oh no!  Where’s stop?”  Then proceeded to make his own stop sign, so he would know where to stop and turn.

Actually, you don’t have to imagine, I got it on video:

Good job little guy.  We’re proud of you.

Peace.  I’m out

These words were spoken in class last week by my oldest son when asked to write a report on a disease such as cancer, Parkinson’s, or autism.  He stood and firmly informed his teacher that autism is a disorder not a disease, and that his little brother is not diseased, he’s just different.

Insert proud parent moment here.

As a result, his teacher told him that autism is, in fact a disease.  My son continued to argue the point and is now writing a paper, not on a disease, but a disorder.

Works for me.

Unfortunately I see a lot of people who refer to autism as a disease.  It is not. Autism can’t be transmitted.  It cannot be “caught”.  Autism is not contracted due to any known environmental or biological agent.  It is not a disease, it’s a disorder.

Autism is classified by the national Institute of Mental health as:

Autism Spectrum Disorders (ASD), also known as Pervasive Developmental Disorders (PDDs), cause severe and pervasive impairment in thinking, feeling, language, and the ability to relate to others. These disorders are usually first diagnosed in early childhood and range from a severe form, called autistic disorder, through pervasive development disorder not otherwise specified (PDD-NOS), to a much milder form, Asperger syndrome. They also include two rare disorders, Rett syndrome and childhood disintegrative disorder.

Notice that the word disease is not used. Problem solved, yes?

Unfortunately, no.  A lot of otherwise educated people want autism to be a disease.  a disease can be fought and cured.  A disorder has a much slower path, requiring therapies, sessions, and time.  Lots and lots of time.

But if you ask me, the kid below is worth all of that time.

His brother thinks so, too.  And that makes his Stepmother and I incredibly proud of him.  now if I can just get him to study harder…

Ah, well.  One battle at a time.

Peace, I’m out

In my mind all my kids are created equally.  They are given the same amount of love, devotion and caring.  I spend time with them as often as possible, have sat countless hours dealing with nightmares, scrapes, broken bones, bruises and emotional pain.  None is above any other in the eyes of our family. Unfortunately in a house with three kids someone has to be the middle child and the kid in the middle doesn’t usually see things that way.

Meet Lil’ D.  He is the middle child in a home with a pre-teen and an autistic little brother.  I’s hard enough to be the middle child in any family, but add a small child with special needs to the mix and he issues become a little more pronounced.

Middle Child Syndrome

Middle child syndrome can be subtle or pronounced.  In lil’ D’s case, it’s something in between extremes.  The definition of middle child syndrome is as follows:

The effects of middle child syndrome are numerous. The child may feel as if he or she does not belong, given all the attention given to the oldest and youngest. The middle child may also feel as if he or she is loved less, have low self esteem and suffer from a lack of a sense of direction. However, these symptoms are not limited only to childhood. They can linger in a person throughout their entire adult lives as well, making middle child syndromesymptoms serious, lifelong conditions.

The good news is that middle child syndrome can be easily identified and is not physical in nature and very treatable, especially if noted early. Therefore, just a change in the parents’ attitudes often will go a long way toward alleviating the situation. Parents should always be mindful that the middle born child often receives the least amount of attention. This is not to say the parents are bad. This is simply a natural reaction and often done subconsciously.

It is always up to the parents to make sure every child feels loved and appreciated. This is especially true when trying to avoid the effects of the middle child syndrome. Each child is unique and special. While it may be very possible to overlook some children, a concerted effort should be made to include all children in activities, as well as give each their own amount of individual attention.

From WiseGeek.com

The definition above fits my son very well.  It’s an unfortunate situation, especially since he came into being a big brother three years after the fact.  It’s something we’re working on from our end.

Lil’ D. does not make friends easily.  This issue is compounded by the fact that most of the kids on our block are either considerably older or considerably younger than he is.  This leads to a great deal of hard feelings on his part.  This makes the issue even worse at school, where he has come to expect that his friends will abandon him.

His older brother doesn’t help the issue.  he has an absolutely normal 11 to 9 year old relationship with Lil’ D.  That is to say, he really doesn’t want him around unless there’s no one else to be around.

The unfortunate reality

The unfortunate reality of Lil’ D’s relationship with his little brother is that because he’s autistic he does get special treatment.  This isn’t because we care for him more, it’s because his needs are different, but when you’re 9 years old and used to being the baby of the family, this can be difficult to accept.

I have been doing my best to make sure he understands that life at most times is not fair.  That others will sometimes have what you don’t.  That big brothers are usually not nice. (Though Lil’ E tends to take the not nice part to extremes in the case of his middle brother, just as he does with his little brother.)

Both my wife and I work very hard to assure him that he is just as important as his other brothers and that they both have things that they very much want (text phone, “M” rated video games, ice cream, cookies!) that they don’t have.

We try to teach him that the perks that his big brother gets will come in time for him as well, and that Lil’ B will have to wait even longer, if he is ever capable of doing those things at all.  The 9 year old in him still has a hard time grasping this.

Perseverance is key

Finding my middle child a place in which he is comfortable with himself is not a battle I can win today.  It may not be a battle that I win this year.  It is a battle that I will not stop fighting, win or lose.  There is no giving up.

As parents there can be no ignoring the issue or writing the problem off as “something he’ll grow out of.”  We have to help him find comfort in himself and with himself.  These things make a strong person later in life and they need to be learned early.

Do you know of anyone that has these issues?  Were you the middle child?  Any experiences that you can share would help us transition this great little kid into a happier and more well-adjusted person.

Peace.  I’m out

When most people find out that our son is Autistic they respond in a fairly positive manner. At times this is a difficult thing to do, since it doesn’t usually become apparent that he is autistic unless he’s having a particularly bad moment, but people manage to be kind.  Most tell me that he’s lucky for having such a supportive family or that we’re lucky to have caught it so early.

For the most part I’m told how brilliant he probably is (true), or that he’s well adjusted (mostly true). They accept that this moment of behavior is not the norm and that he’s just overstimulated.  Most people are great.

Then there are the others. The people who challenge my ability to be kind myself.  Those annoying self-righteous and inane people who get a look of shocked awe and say point blank:

“Oh, that must be so hard for you!”

I know that they probably don’t mean to be demeaning or to make me angry.  I’m sure that they didn’t mean to turn my son into an object, an anchor, a ball and chain that I am forced to carry with me through the world. I’m fairly sure that in their minds none of these thoughts even occur. But that’s what they’ve just done and nothing you can say or do can take back the pain it causes me or the rage it instills in me.

I get angry mostly for myself at the moment.  lil’ B. doesn’t understand that he’s been insulted or slighted.  Someday he will and I worry that I’ll be able to hold on to my carefully polished Ken-doll plastic smile at that point. It’s pretty hard to do now.

My son is not a burden that I bear in life.  He is an intelligent, sweet, loving, caring and spirited three year old who also just happens to be on the Autistic spectrum. He loves dogs, is not fond of cats, has a love affair with chicken nuggets and oranges and happily sings children’s songs until far too late in the evening.

He is a joy to have around for most of the time.  When he smiles the world smiles with him.  his laugh is magical and makes even the grumpiest people I’ve met chuckle.  He is as innocent as any three year old can be and more intelligent that many 10 year olds.  He just can’t talk very well.

My son is not an anchor.  He does not hold me down or hold me back.  He loves to travel and explore.  He is happy in a car and will happily ride for hours. No, I can’t take him to see a movie, but then you can’t take most three year olds to a theatre and expect them to sit still. It’s more fun to rent them and watch at home with popcorn anyway, that way WE don’t have to be quiet!

My son is not a ball and chain.  Neither is my wife or our other children.  We are a family.  We have a few difficulties, just like any other, but we’re happy when we’re together and secure when we’re apart.  We’re there when any of us need support, a shoulder of a hug.  We live by example and we smile and laugh a lot, even when things aren’t as easy as they could be.

The only way my son could be a burden to me would be if I thought of him as one.  Perhaps that’s the way these people would feel if they had an autistic child, but we do not.  Our son does not challenge my life.  He opens my eyes to things I never would have seen had I not met him.  He helps me to see the greatness in very small things and to understand that whatever challenges we face, we can face them together and come out ahead.

So, to all of you who feel that my life is somehow not as good as it was the day before I knew my son was autistic… Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but it isn’t. If anything it’s a far more wondrous place today than it was then. And I’m pretty sure tomorrow will be even better.

Lil’ B. is an escape artist.  He has, in his very short life, escaped cribs, playpens, car seats and homes.  He has mastered child-proof devices, can easily thwart deadbolts (from the inside) and can open the windows, though he hasn’t yet figured out that the screens come off.

He is also a runner.  He thinks nothing of taking his small three-year old self and walking a mile down the street with no supervision. He has no concept that what he is doing is dangerous, nor does he think it’s a bad thing to do. (No matter how many times we tell him that it is.)

Last week he managed to escape the house with no one noticing.  I was in the living room and heard nothing.  His brothers heard nothing.  W found him a mile down the road with a very nice grandmotherly type and her children, all of whom were very concerned (as was I), and trying to get him to show them where his house was.

Of course, as these were strangers, he wasn’t talking.  He rarely talks to strangers.  Even if he had, I don’t know that they would have understood him.  He is talking, but it’s still at the level of a two year old or less, and much of what he says is only understood by immediate family and close friends.

I have finally resorted to lock sat the top of all my doors.  I’ve also disconnected the inside switch for the garage door, since he’s figured out that he can get out that way, too.  The house is on full lockdown at any time that someone is not directly in contact with Lil’ B., because he can, and will, defeat even these measures someday.

We’re moving to Alaska, where running off could quite literally get him killed.  If anyone has dealt with and overcome this need to run that seems to be very common in autistic children, I’d love to know what you did.  I could use the help with this one

I haven’t had the time or energy to post a lot here over the past few days.  Lil’ B. is home sick with a nasty cough and low grade fever and his brothers have decided to turn their attentions to killing each other of before heir next birthdays roll around.  For the most part I’m just trying to hold a routine together; a nearly impossible task with a sick three year-old, let alone a sick autistic three year-old.

At the moment blogging is a fever-pitched thing punctuated by the sound of a small cough, which sends “Dad” to his bedroom door to see if he is still sleeping or if I need to spend some time sitting with him while he dozes off again.  It’s not quite bad enough for a doctor visit, bit if it hods on another day or two, I’m going to call that necessary.

I’ll do my best to get something more cohesive put up here later today or tomorrow, but for now I’m on sick kid duty, so my time is limited.

Peace. I’m out.

Life sometimes changes focus for you and sometimes you have to decide it’s time to change the focus of your life on your own.  In either case it’s inevitable that the focus does change, that the direction you took yesterday doesn’t jibe with the course you’ve chosen for the next week, month or year.

It’s the same with a blog of this type as well.  When I started A father Speaks I did so with a very clear mission statement.  I would speak for my Autistic son until he could do so for himself.  It was my way of coping with some of the frustrations involved in having a nonverbal child.

Now he can speak for himself.

It’s still only in a limited fashion, but every day his vocabulary and mastery of language grows.  He can ask for what he wants and express himself.  He can tell me when he hurts or when he’s happy.  He laughs, he cries and he asks questions.  He’s still delayed, but is no longer stranded behind the glass wall of Autism.  He’s moving into the world with the rest of us.

The original point of this blog is no longer valid.  I’m not sure what I had originally thought I would do at this point. I didn’t think it would get here so quickly.  His advancements have thrilled and amazed everyone involved, from teachers and coordinators to family and friends.

Don’t get me wrong, these are welcome advances.  Every time he says something new I revel in his ability to learn.  I’m so proud of him that I could burst. His brothers help, they show encouragement and his mother beams and cries from her post across the Atlantic ocean.

But I no longer need to speak for him.  Lil’ B. is now capable of doing that on his own.  with that comes the choice of whether to simply walk away from A Father Speaks or to adapt it to fit the new realities of our lives.  I have chosen the latter.

Lil’ b. has never existed in a vacuum.  There’s a whirlwind of life around him. His brothers, the dog, his mom who is serving overseas.  Family drama, absolute insanity and terrible boredom.  All of these things work on our daily routine.

This blog is shifting to encompass all of those things.  In short, it’s turning into a Daddy blog in the true sense, with less than 100% of its focus on Lil’ B. and much more on the issues that a family deals with.  It all belongs here now and I intend to give all of these things their due.

I hope the changes are OK with all of you.  The new course is set and it will take time to make adjustments.

For now,

Peace.  I’m out.

Unfortunately, my life never gets any less busy.  Being a work at home dad and a mild workaholic can lead to a pretty long workweek. (My last workweek lasted 19 days.) Of course on top of the work, there is being Dad, which takes up at least as much time as work does.  In the end there are the unavoidable moments when I have to choose between working yet another day or taking some time for myself before burnout sets in.

The last few days have been just that.  My R&R time.  I always feel regretful for lost time, but my mind was getting fuzzy and my creativity was waning.  A break was needed.  Many aliens were harmed repeatedly in the making of this break, though England was saved and the U.S. ended with a fighting chance.

Through my short hiatus, live for the kids still rolled on.  Lil’ B. had some very good days, which is school is happy to describe to us:

Good day. Quieter than he usually is. He verbalizes every request now instead of just pointing.

I’ve noticed the same thing.  His verbalization and retention skills are improving very rapidly.  If progress continues at this rate he might be off the spectrum well before I had ever dreamed he would be.

Today’s repor was equally as encouraging:

Great day.  Initiated playing ball and ring around the rosy with other students

Now there’s progress!  This is the kid who never interacted with anyone even close to his own age group.  Now he’s playing because he wants to!

I really do attribute many of these advances to the fact that his brothers (who I will introduce you to tomorrow) have come to stay with us full time.  Constant contact with them has made him want to be more like them and less turned in on himself.  to them go the credits though.  I’m still just slogging along.

For tonight I’m going to head back to my happy lazy place.  Tomorrow it’s back to it at 120% as usual.  Right this minute it’s time for No Reservations.

I spend a lot of time writing about how well Lil’ B. does at school and at home here on this little slice of the web. I think a lot of why I focus on the positives is because that’s what both the school and I focus on the most.  That doesn’t mean that llife with an Autistic three year-old is always fun and games, or that every day is better than the last.

Yesterday was one of the not-so-great-days; both at school and at home:

Hard time sitting still at circle today. Said “no” a lot. He diffidently knew what he liked and didn’t like today.

This was followed by an extremely tired child returning home from school with a chip on his shoulder and a tantrum at the ready for any situation.  A nap would have solved the issue, but Lil’ B. hasn’t napped unless he’s sick since he was just past 2 years old.

Add a new overnight guest to the mix and it was a rather hectic evening right up until bedtime, at which time he was asleep within minutes and a sort of blissful dimming in the chaos of the day presented itself. (Not that is was quiet, there were still three boys in the house.)

As the title suggests, much of the little guys issues yesterday were due in a large part to a stubborn streak as large and unforgiving as a tsunami.  He comes by that stubbornness honestly.  Both his mother and I are just as stubborn, a trait I consider a positive if used properly but rarely a plus if used in the wrong way or at the wrong time. I’m sure he’ll learn to master this trait eventually but yesterday was just one of those “not so great” days.

This morning he’s a perfect angel.  I think he was just overtired.

Peace. I’m out.

I really like the fact that the school sends a daily update of Lil’ B’s progress.  It helps me figure out what the rest of the day is going to be like… At least usually.  If I get a note like the one I got today it usually spells a pretty good afternoon:

Another Great Day. He helps me at circle and music time.  He likes doing the weather.

Most days that would spell a great homecoming.  Today is not quite one of those days.  Perhaps it’s a matter of perspective, but to me Lil’ B. seems crankier than usual today and a bit prone to throwing a fit at the drop of a hat.  I think he’s just overtired, but I can’t prove that theory until after dinner and bed time.

On the plus side, he’s advancing in language skills very rapidly.  when we first heard that he was probably autistic we were warned that he might never speak, but he’s proving the doctors wrong all across the board on that one.  With any luck we’re dealing with an extremely delayed child that will be a very close approximation of normal (whatever that is) by the time he’s in High School.

That’s my hope at least, but then it’s my job to dream big, isn’t it.

For today; Peace. I’m out.