Swearing by my kids

Ruby Sue: Shittin' bricks.

Clark: You shouldn't use that word.

Ruby Sue: Sorry. Shittin' rocks. – Emily Latzen and Chevy Chase

When I was 8 (ok, let’s fess up here…I honestly don’t know how old I was. At this point I am only guessing somewhere between 6 and 12, and even that is a stretch. But 8 sounds good, so let’s go with that.) Where was I?  Oh yes. When I was 8, I said my first bad word. Well, probably not my first bad word, just the first one that I got in trouble for. I didn’t even say it around my parents for heaven’s sake. My older brother heard me say it and ratted me out to our folks. Oh yeah, like he was such an altar boy. He swore so much, I think that they actually made him join the Navy. “Uh, Mr. Kahler, due to your uncontrollable swearing, we are going to have in incarcerate you in a sound-proof room, or you are going to have to join the Armed Services.” Even to this day he swears like a, well…sailor.  (good career move, there buddy). And riding in the car with him is like being with a man that has vehicular tourettes. But I don’t blame him, for my swearing or my getting in trouble. I blame (wait for it,) our mother. Yes, I know, strange to hear, and even stranger to think about, but there it is. I learned all my cuss words from my mother. And I mean ALL of them. Even the ones that make women slap you when you call them one of those words. That woman could make a sailor blush with her language, and probably did. For as long as I can remember, my parents, mom in particular, used foul language. And I always knew the rule, just because you hear it, doesn’t mean you repeat it. But one slipped out. On our swing set. With no one around but my brother. Next thing I know, I am being called into the house and grilled under bright house lights. “Did you say a bad word?” Where did you hear that word? Who taught you that word?” Even then I was smart enough to not accuse my mom, for fear of additional corporal punishment. So I named a random kid that lived up the street, and that was followed up with a proper washing out of the mouth with soap routine. Lava soap, to be exact.  Right then and there, I made myself a promise to not get angry or upset with my own kids if they ever repeated something I said. Can’t promise that I have always stuck to that, because, lets face it, I am a man, and we constantly say and do dumbshit things. But I have been pretty consistent with both of my kids, and try very hard to not punish them for my stupidity. And yes, I cuss like a…well, like my mom. Which means loud, often, and occasionally at inappropriate times.

Given my upbringing, as well as my frequent use of colorful language, I am not surprised when my children occasionally spring an ill-chosen adjective or noun. In fact I am surprised that I don’t hear it more often. And when I do, it is usually when the whole family is in the car. Take for example last week, before Thanksgiving, when we picked up the kids from school to head up to the mountains. We had just gotten on the highway when my son (and it is almost always my son that swears) blurts out “Damnit! I forgot my library books!” Pretty innocuous, I know, but still falls on the swear-word spectrum. Or the time we were driving back from the store, my daughter fast asleep in her car seat, and my son trying to communicate some point about something that I really didn’t care about.

ME-“What?”

CJ-under his breath - “Jesus Christ.”

ME-very calmly - “What did you say?”

CJ-silence, while he stares out his window, and then intently focuses on his shoes.

WIFE-“It’s ok, buddy, you can say it. We just want to know what you said.”

CJ-more silence.

ME-still calm - “It’s ok. I promise you aren’t going to get into trouble. I just want to know what you said.”

JACKIE-still asleep, she lifts her head from the side of the car seat, and without opening her eyes or missing a beat-“He said Jesus Christ.” And then immediately put her head back down on the car seat.

The hard part for me when this happens is to not look at my wife. Because if I do, we usually both burst out in fits of laughter. Yeah, I know, no one is going to nominate me for parent of the year. However we do try to use it as a teachable moment, and explain to both of them (if they are both awake) that they will get in trouble in school if the teachers hear them speak like that, and just because I say it, does not mean they can. Until they are 18. And not living at home.

Lunchtime

"Lunch is for wimps." Michael Douglas

Me - CJ, how was your day?
CJ -  Great!
Me - Awesome! Who did you eat lunch with?
CJ - I ate with-Oh wait!
Me What?
CJ - Bob* threw my pudding spoon on the floor.
Me - What?!?
CJ - Yeah. Can you tell his dad that he did that?
Me - Well, what did you do?
CJ - I got really mad at him, and then he cried. Can you call his dad?
Me - So, just so I understand this...Bob* threw your spoon on the ground,  you made him cry, and now you want me to talk to his dad about what he did?
CJ - Yeah
Me - You do realize that YOU made him cry right? I would call that about even, wouldn't you?
CJ - Oh, never mind.

Clearly my son struggles with the concept of consequences. I tried to explain it further to him about how i is hard to get Bob* (obviously not his real name) in trouble, when CJ already dealt out his own version of justice.

Unsung Heros

“You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talking…you talking to me? Well I’m the only one here.” – Robert De Niro

Normally, I spend the bulk of the time blogging about my son – makes sense, right? Since he is the one with Autism. But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one of the biggest supporters of the family. The definition of an unsung hero is a person who makes a substantive yet unrecognized contribution. These words could not be more apropos when describing my daughter.

Like most parents, I watch my kids when they aren’t looking. Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those parents that hover over my kids, trying to cover them in bubble-wrap to ensure they won’t get hurt. My wife and I believe that children need to explore and test their limits, so they can figure out what they are capable of. They need to learn that it is ok to fall down, and how to pick themselves back up.

Our concern is what happens when we cannot be there, to tell them that it is ok to fall, and even better to start again. Our son is prone to frequent emotional breakdowns; it comes from having a heart the size of Texas and having it get stepped on repeatedly, intentionally or not, by other friends of his. Unfortunately, those breakdowns seem to occur more frequently the older he gets, probably due to the fact that he, like the rest of us, want friends that don’t tease, don’t make fun, but accept us for who we are.  And on an even more subtle level, I think he realizes the need to be socially accepted in school.

So what does this have to do with my daughter? Good question. First, a little back-story (yeah, I know, I’m all about the back-story). We adopted our daughter when she was one year old, from China. At that time, our son was two and a half, and not yet diagnosed. Perfect family picture, right? (If any of you actually have the perfect family, come see me, I have a trophy for you.) It wasn’t for another year until CJ was diagnosed. At that time, his vocabulary had slowly started to drop off, until he stopped talking altogether.  His pre-school teachers said that he was just shy, but going completely non-verbal, coupled with about a dozen other symptoms at home, led us to get him tested, and then moved into a special school. At the same time, my daughter started talking. A lot. I mean A LOT,a lot. Words, sounds, singing, giggling, humming, you name it. If there was a sound she could make, she would make it. (And for the most part, still does today.)

The therapists told us to carry on a conversation with CJ, and answer the questions for him, as if he was the one answering. So imagine my wife riding around town, with my son staring blankly out the window, with my wife talking to herself, answering her own questions, while crying. I am sure a lot of passing motorists must have thought she had lost her mind. Two years of no talking. Of course, my daughter picked up on these conversations with my son, and started talking to CJ too. She would talk about everything and anything that a 3 year old finds interesting. Which, for those of you that have or have had 3 year olds, knows that is EVERYTHING. And then, one day, it just happened. We Don’t even know when. He just answered her. This only encouraged her to talk to him more. And he kept answering her. And talking to her. And to us. A bit at a time, little by little. To this day, my wife and I give full credit to our daughter for helping CJ to find his voice again. It is a bit of a running joke in our house. We half-joke that he felt that he had better start talking, or she would never stop. (Well, buddy, you were half right).

So, with the back-story out of the way, I watch my kids. The thing that amazes me most about my daughter is how much she loves her brother. If we are at a park, and nobody is playing with CJ, Jackie will stop playing with her friends, and seek out CJ to play with him. CJ and Jackie both know that she is much more athletic than he is, and she will spend time working with him to help him improve his skills, be it running, playing catch, or riding a bike. When he has a meltdown in the car because another kid was mean to him that day, she gives advice in the way that only a 7 year old could, and in a way that only a 9 year old would appreciate. And when she accidentally and unknowingly sets off one of his emotional breakdowns, she hurts too, not for herself, but because he hurts. Don’t get me wrong, they still have the same sibling issues that all kids with brothers and sisters do-“you’re on my half of the back seat” and “why does he/she get to do that when I don’t?”, but she has a level of maturity and understanding about her that I don’t even see in many adults. With us, her parents, we still get the 7 years going on 13; the attitude, the eye rolling, temperamental door slamming, and even an occasional sassing, but with her brother, she is a rock star. She adores her brother and idolizes him, but on some level, she also knows how to support him and soothe him in ways Diane and I never would have thought of. She actively seeks him out to include him in games and play, and tries to engage him in ways that his parents never could.

So this post is for all of the Henrys and Stellas and Jackies out there that help their special needs siblings in so many ways, without complaint or request of compensation. But mainly it is for Jackie, my little rock star. You are my hero.

Scout Camp

Having a son with Autism, even high functioning, creates a myriad of issues that most people never really think about. Well, not necessarily issues, but …situations may be a better description. And not necessarily actual situations, but ones that I play out in my head, trying to figure out which event will cause the best outcome. Wow, this is harder than I thought to describe.  Perhaps an example would be better.

Smoke alarms.  Great, right? Right! And the experts say that you should have one in every room (well, maybe not the closet, or the bathroom, but you get the idea). Having bought  a house that was built before everyone figured that we needed to be wrapped in bubble wrap, they only installed one smoke alarm, in the main hallway. So, kids born, smoke alarms go up. Which is great, until my son starts having fits about the smoke alarm light (you know, the green or red light that says “yes, I am still working, even if you never hear me”). The fits got so bad, that I finally took the alarm out of his room because he would have a complete meltdown every time he went in there. (Don’t worry, I will provide the phone number to the local child welfare authorities at the end of this e-mail.) Then he started refusing to go upstairs due to the red light on the smoke alarm in the hallway.  So now that one is covered with electrical tape-the red light, not the entire alarm. But when I finished the basement and put one in there, ZERO issue.

The point is this; things that sound great on paper, may work some of the time, or work this week but not next. He may say he wants to go to Skate City, but as soon as he gets to roller skating, he then wants to go home because the disco lights are blue, and we can’t stay. And you have to leave, because if you don’t, all hell breaks loose.

That was an extremely long set up to talk about Scout Camp, wasn’t it? So CJ has been in Scouts for over two years now, and I have always been hesitant to commit to overnight camping. If it is just the four of us going camping, that is one thing. If we need to turn around at 11 at night and pack up and go home, no biggie. But to pay money, make commitments, and have people rely on you when you may have to bail, that is a bigger issue. But this year I bit the bullet when I saw how excited my son was to go.

I figured the excitement would wear off as the date got closer…however when I got home from work on Friday, my son came out in the garage wearing his hat, coat and gloves, and got in the car and waited. So the first hurdle was behind us. My next fear would be a few hours later, when we bedded down for the night. CJ has always been one that is afraid of the dark at bedtime, even though he hates to have a night-light on in his room. (Irony is usually lost on him.) However, we uneventfully set up the tent in the dark, and as we bedded down for the night, he asked me to tell him a scary story, and then went right to sleep.

CJ and his friend in front of our tent - that is his stuffed puppy on his head

The next day as I watched the other scouts and their parents around the camp, I came to the conclusion (perhaps falsely) that a large number of Cub Scouts are made up of two groups; those whose fathers were in Scouts, and those children who are socially awkward, be it due to physical or mental ailment, or just ‘cause. Don’t get me wrong, I am not knocking Scouts. I think it is a fantastic program, and I plan on encouraging my son to stay with it for as long as possible.  But if there is a scale for socially awkward with normal on the far right, and awkward on the left, he would most definitely be on the left. We have left the Scout meetings on more than one occasion to have my son break down in the car on the way home, about something trivial (at least to me) that happened in the previous hour, that has culminated in his mind to this massive issue. The part that makes it worse is that he gets that he doesn’t fit in, but doesn’t understand why.

 (Learning how to sharpen his knife)

The most bitter-sweet moment came that night, after dinner. CJ complained that he wasn’t feeling well, so we started to walk back to our tent for him to lay down. After we were out of sight and ear-shot of the other campers, he broke down crying, saying that he missed his mom and his sister. Tough sometimes to face the fact that you aren’t EVERYTHING in the world to your kids, even for one weekend.

(Sharpening his knife - getting ready for the hunt)

Being socially awkward can get you teased, we all know that…be it one of the teased or the teaser. It saddens me to think about it. But for me, I caught a glimmer of hope this past weekend. Sunday morning, before breakfast, CJ and his friend were sitting at one of the tables talking when some other kids started calling them names. For the sake of full disclosure, I got all of this information from another parent who witnessed it…I was busy packing the car. Don’t know which boys, or if they were scouts or siblings. What I do know, at least from the other parent, is that when the name calling started, my son, very politely said “Can you please not call me names?” One of the boys replied that they weren’t calling CJ names; they were calling his friend names. To which he replied “Do NOT call my friend names.”  Made me proud to hear him advocate, not only for himself, but also for a friend.

(Earned his whittling chip - perhaps he should look at what he is cutting)

So all told, we made it through an entire weekend without having to leave early, and without any meltdowns. And no I don’t consider homesickness to be a meltdown. I think that most parents of autistic children run much like the Boy Scouts; Be Prepared. You are always thinking about a backup plan, in case life decides to take a shit all over your current one. Luckily, this time we didn’t need it.

The LONG drive home

I am lucky enough to work for a company that allows for flexible hours, which in turn allows me to pick my kids up from school (at least for part of the year). Because of this, it allows me the opportunity to talk with my children about how their day was. Unfortunately, this year has gone from bad to worse. The conversation with my son went something like this:

ME: How was your day?

CJ: Fine

ME: Who did you play with at lunch?

CJ: No one

ME: No One? What about Billy? or Dave? (Names changed to protect...well, you know the drill)

CJ: Nope. They didn't want to play with me.

ME: What about at recess? Did you play with anyone at recess?

CJ: Rocks. I played with rocks.

Hear that? That is the sound of my heart beaking. Billy is mean and yells at my son. Dave follows Billy's lead. CJ isn't athletic, and the other kids are off playing football or basketball, which holds no interest for my son. How do you explain to someone that would give you the shirt off your back that some people are mean? Especially when he has to see the same kids every day.

The bigger problem is that I have no idea how to help with this.

So that was my afternoon...how was yours?

Homework

School has started again...oh joy. Three weeks in, and this is not going well. I love my son, love my son's school, but if this is how much homework he has now in third grade, I loathe to imagine how much homework he will have by the time he is high school. It isn't even the homework so much as the struggle to get him to do it. I honestly think that he would rather have bamboo slivers shoved under his finger nails. Last night it took a solid three hours to get through all of his assignments. That is, of course, if you count the intermittent meltdowns and weeping. God bless my wife. I have infinite patience when it comes to my children on almost everything...scraped knees, broken toys, meltdowns...everything that is except for homework. But my wife has endless patience and is able to work with him through all of the tears and struggles to help him make it. Not really sure where I would be without her.