We’ve finally gotten a final diagnosis of Autism for our son.  For those of you who don’t know what that entails, it’s a three hour set of tests designed to see where the little guy stands in certain levels of development and personal interaction.  It’s grueling for the parent and in the case of my son, it’s sheer hell involving rapid changes in activities and a level of contact that he’s not necessarily comfortable with.

For a child with autism, this is a form of sensory overload. It destroys the routines that the child is used to and pushes them far outside their comfort zone. In the case of Lil’ B. the half-way point was the breaking point. An unscheduled 30 minute break was added to the schedule to give him cool-down time at that point and a slow walk around the building where he was in charge of what he did got him back on track for the rest of the testing… Barely.

By the end of the session both he and I were frayed and frazzled, but in true style, he still didn’t nap.  He spent the rest of the day destroying anything he touched and trying very hard to find a comfortable place in life again. I spent the rest of the day trying to make sure that he didn’t do any permanent damage to himself or the furniture, but still lost the sofa in the process. (Yep, it’s a goner, he put three large tears in the back cushions.)

It’s not this one incident that has me writing today, though.  Both my wife and I are thrilled to have a formal diagnosis in-hand.  It’s been a long time coming.  The issue I have is that now every single agency that is supposed to be helping our son has slated another set of assessments, most of which are also full evaluations.  In the next two weeks my son will be in the center ring of his very own dog and pony show and playing the part of both ringmaster and clown.

I’m grateful for the help.  I’m happy that he’ll be attending preschool soon.  I’m glad that everyone is pushing so hard to get this done as quickly as possible, but I hate having to put him through this more than once.  It messes with his mind, it affects his moods and it makes him an emotional wreck.  The last is most difficult since Lil’ B. is almost totally emotionally detached and forcing them to the surface can be painful for him at times.

Trust me.  We’ll be at every appointment. I’ll do my best to keep from tearing yet another psychologist-wannabe into pieces for causing my child distress and we’ll get him into the school he so desperately needs, but I don’t like it and I won’t like it.  I won’t be happy until Lil’ man is done with the process and getting the help that everyone is promising.  that means two assessments this week, one next week and who-knows how many the week after.

I’ll be good, I promise.  He needs me to be, so I will.

Peace. I’m out.

Well, of course he counts!  he means the world to his mother and I, but that’s not what the title of this post refers to.  It’s all about our son actually “counting” to eleven. some of the words still aren’t clear, but he’s working on it.

Pardon the messy room, we’re in the middle of moving, so things are pretty hectic.

I’ll try to post more of an update later today.

Peace, I’m out.

The last few days have been nothing short of universe-changing, earth-shattering and monumental in a very Dr. Who saves the earth with nothing but a sonic screwdriver and a stick of bubble gum kind of way. If this were an epic fantasy, I would proclaim in my best bard’s voice that Our Brave Hero has officially mounted his trusty steed and is now riding with purpose toward the Citadel of Silence to do battle with the dread and all silencing Aut-ism, armed with the one weapon that can defeat such a dread foe.

Our Hero carries with him not a screwdriver which also happens to be sonic. He carries with him something far more versatile and devastating to the Lord of Silence and misunderstanding. The one weapon which can place the dread lord safely into a prison from which he can never hope to escape. He carries his voice.

He’s started talking.

The words are as yet few, but he’s begun mimicking us, the television and anyone else who speaks around him. He’s noticing facial expressions and cuing in on them and he’s doing his level best to make the people around him smile (at least when he’s not just being 2-1/2 and being mischievous.) Our hero has mastered the concept of words, and one of the first that he used was one that melted the heart of this knight in his not-so-shiny-armor.

He said Daddy, then smiled and pointed right at me.

I know that he knows what he said. he repeated it gleefully for over an hour, sometimes dragging his mother, the Good Queen through the house just so that he could point and say Daddy where she could see it. He very much enjoys pleasing the Queen, so for him it was a bit of an adventure.

He happily tries to count to three with us, mimics the sound of Sesame street characters or dora the Explorer when they say the alphabet or count, and has taken to saying “yeah”, “yep” and “uh-huh”. (He is Texan, after all.) He has also begun signing words that he has difficulty with, like “more”, in places where it is appropriate and working hard to complete the tasks his therapists set for him. It’s like someone opened the flood-gates and now there’s no stopping him. Pretty soon I’ll be asking him to stop talking for a little bit so that I can concentrate, but in his case I’m going to say that’s a good thing.

This is shaping up to be one heck of a week!

For now I’m going to take advantage of a bit of momentary silence and try to get a few things straightened up, secure in the knowledge that Our Hero will emerge victorious in the end. He’ll get through this and emerge stronger for it and we will be stronger for the journey.

Peace, I’m out.

And in the case of our son, he’s figured out how to ask for it. Like most of his breakthrough’s this one came out of nowhere and simply floored both his therapist and his parents.

He signed More, and is trying very hard to say it!

For those not versed in Baby sign language,”More” is signed by bringing the tips of the fingers together with your thumbs touching the index finger of each hand, like so:

It’s a simple thing, but very important.  It gives my son one more tool in his arsenal of things that he can request on his own, even if it is just “more of something”.  The fact that he is completely aware that he’s supposed to be saying the word with the motion is something inspiring in it’s own right.  he’s still just making a noise, but he’s trying.  He signed “more” five times during today’s therapy session, and has done so several more times since, though I’ll admit to not knowing what he wanted more of.

And he’s looking right at us when he does it.

Eye contact is a huge issue with people in the autistic spectrum.  Since they usually have difficulty understanding facial expressions, autistic kids just don’t bother looking at faces.  Lil’ B. has gotten much better at this.  He seems to be getting a small understanding of facial expressions as well, which is heartwarming, since it will make his life a lot easier if he can understand a person’s emotions by the way they look, rather than having to guess at it.

I’m sure there was something else I was supposed to say here, but I can’t remember it right at the moment.

Peace All, I’m out!

It’s been a  very busy few days.  Our hero fell victim to that thing most adults know as “life” on Friday, when his therapist failed to make the scheduled appointment.  While annoying, this is no great cause for alarm to me.  I simply wait 30 minutes and then assume that there is a no-show. (A great amount of time and practice went into the ADHD father being so flippant about timeliness, I might add.)

Unfortunately, an autistic child thrives on routine even moreso than someone with ADHD.  If my schedule is broken, I can find my way to accomplishing at lest a bit of what should have been done for the rest of the day.  For Lil’B. a disruption in schedule is the end of the day, there is no recovery, and Friday was like that all afternoon.

Unfortunately for your kindly narrator and the Good Queen, our hero ws also running a mild fever and feeling cranky all weekend.  Whether or not it was teething or growing pains, I’m afraid we will never know.  The end result was a very surly hero indeed.  One who refused to eat, sleep or drink without displaying his ire in the only way he knows how to; a series of banshee-like shrieking sessions that lasted for hours at times.

The dawn of the new week saw our hero in better spirits and eating well.  His meeting with the “Wise lady of the plains” (played by Sandra) went strikingly well.  His attention span was admirable and he pushed through the entire session, though meltdown loomed on the horizon a few times.  After said meeting our hero took his repose for several hours and awoke seemingly refreshed.  A good day indeed.

Today however, has not been so peaceful.  Our hero started the day well, with playing and frolicking and other things that heroes of his age are wont to indulge in.  In the late afternoon we had a meeting with “The lady of song” (Played by his speech therapist, Carol).  The meeting went well enough, and for once the Good Queen was in attendance.  it was good that not only did she provide support to our hero, but gave this humble narrator a bit of time to handle other duties and responsibilities that wer wanting of attention at the moment.

Upon the end of his session, our hero made as if to rest himself, but it would seem that something was amis.  Not only has our hero still not taken his repose for the evening, but as the clock readies itself to strike ten of the clock, our hero is still in a rather unpleasant state and is trying the patience of his companions mightily.  This is not usual for our hero, and is something that both the Good Queen and I are in great distress over.

For the nonce, the only objective of our band of stalwart travelers is to quiet the hero and help him to seek the rest he so richly deserves after a day of training that would weary the greatest of heroes.  Tomorrow dawns a new day and that must be faced on its own merits.

For now I bid you all Good Night.  This narrator must be off to other duties.

I’ve got to admit that I’m starting this day in a very apprehensive mood.  at 1:00pm Lil’ B. has is very first speech therapy session and i’m not sure at all how this is going to go.  The session is slated to last 45 minutes, but holding the guy’s attention for more than 30 seconds can be completely impossible at times.

I’m seriously afraid of a meltdown here.  If he’s pushed too far or gets too uncomfortable, the ensuing fit can last upwards of three hours, all at very high volume.  Sometimes he becomes so distressed that he vomits and no amount of calming him seems to help at times like these.

For now I’m hoping for the best outcome to this part of the tale, in which our hero sizes up his opponent and gains a strategy for its ultimate defeat.  Regardless, I’ve got the not-so-shiny armor at the ready, should this particular battle overwhelm him.

I’ll update after the session is over and the house is calm.

Has anyone else had a problem like this one? If so, how do you prepare a two year old for what’s coming?  I’d love to know.