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Never, Almost Never, Sometimes, Always

6/26/2014

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As I sat in the waiting room of the doctor's office, filling out the arduous, yet necessary paperwork that the lovely doctor and her cheery receptionist handed me, I felt the pen getting sweaty from my clammy hands. The sweet receptionist, with a big, happy smile asked if there was anything else I needed as I stuffed the third, ok fine, the fifth Mini Snickers (I have calculated that 10 Mini Snickers equals one regular sized Snickers so please don't correct me if I'm wrong, unless you think it's 11) into my anxious face. I smiled back, "No, I'm just fine". Obviously she couldn't see my trembling lip hidden under a glaze of chocolate.

No, this was not my annual gynecological exam where I worry as I time the doctor's exam for fear that any longer than usual probing may indicate a discovery of some silent growing tumor. And no, I was not sitting in a pink robe following my mammogram waiting for the dear Radiologic Technician (aka, the lady who squishes you in a way you didn't know you could be squished...aka Mammogram Lady) to walk back in the room with a smile she has practiced hundreds of times in her bathroom mirror, and proclaims, "We just need a few more pictures" as I stand up shaking so hard I forget to hold my robe closed (yeah, that happened). This was a very benign, very easy appointment, until in my head, it wasn't.

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I was not sitting in an anxiety room, I mean waiting room, anxiously awaiting the results of some critical medical test. This was a pediatric neuropsychologist's office where my beautiful boy was upstairs participating in a neurodevelopmental evaluation while I sat downstairs filling out parent questionnaires and parent rating scales that AWEnestly, sometimes are as nerve wracking as the Mammogram Lady's fake, cheery smile. I have completed these forms so many times that the sight of those vague, ambiguous rating scales make me feel nauseous...Sometimes....Almost Always....Always.

It has been years since Ryan has had any formal evaluations other than speech and language. After a roaringly successful year, it may seem odd that I would chose now to have Ryan "looked at again". This assessment was not about a diagnosis, there is no need for that because even though Denial still shows up on my back porch to share a bottle of wine, to quote the doctor who quoted another parent sitting in the anxiety room, I mean waiting room, "if it looks like a duck, talks like a duck, and walks like a duck, chances are, it's a duck". This evaluation was not to confirm or deny Ryan's ASD Diagnosis, this was more about seeing how autism impacts Ryan's learning. And just like that first evaluation all those years ago when we heard The A Word, parent input is part of the process.

I remember the first parent questionnaire I had to complete back when the folks from Early Intervention stopped by to help Ryan catch up in areas where he was delayed. Ryan's speech and his fine motor skills weren't on par with other kids his age, so, a little Occupational Therapy was ordered. It's hard to learn how to cut paper using scissors properly when your sensory system makes the touch of the plastic between your fingers feel like shards of glass. Before the therapists got started on helping Ryan, Dan and I had to fill out the Parent Questionnaire. 

These questionnaires, or rating scales, asked questions like, "Does he transition easily from one activity to the next?" and "Does he initiate play with other peer age children?" and "Does he look at you when you call his name?". It didn't take a board certified psychologist to know what the answers to such questions may mean for my son. I distinctly remember the pen shaking in my hand as I worried, analyzed, and obsessed over every one of my responses.
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It didn't matter that I already knew Ryan's struggles and differences were indeed "a duck". I still get completely freaked out every time I complete one of these forms for various therapists, psychologists and medical doctors, that my choice of circles or numbers falling under ambiguous categories such as Never, Almost Never, Sometimes, Almost Always, and Always, that my child's future is in part based on which circle I color in. I have always colored outside the lines, and with these questionnaires, it was no different, but, the ambiguity of the answers compiled with my near hysteria made the lines I was to color in, very, very blurry.

My hand would shakily hover over Almost Always, but, my heart would be screaming, Sometimes. Sometimes felt safe, after all, Sometimes fell right in the middle and being in the middle was good, right? Not too extreme right or left, therefore, my poorly drawn or colored in circle would not sway the experts one way or the other.

As always back in those days, Denial was sitting next to me helping me complete the questionnaire. "If you answer Almost Always, Ryan will most certainly get The A Word", Denial whispered in my ear. Yet, even with Denial's persuasion, I worried that a Sometimes or Never would prevent Ryan from getting the services he needed to help make life a little less loud and scary for him. Even if I chose to ignore Denial, which I rarely did, how in the world was I suppose to know the difference between Almost Always and Sometimes? I didn't keep a data log counting all the things Ryan did or didn't do, and AWEnestly, with Denial by my side, when I would see something that didn't look quite right with Ryan, I Almost Always looked the other way rather than facing it head on. Then later, I would Very Often feel guilty.

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Completing these questionnaires would get even more complicated when Dan was asked to complete one. Wow. For someone who is very logical and literal (Apple. Tree.), answers like, Not True at All, Pretty Much True, Just a Little True, and Very Much True almost made Dan's head explode. Between my fear of what our answers would mean to Ryan's future and Dan's need to quantify Just a Little True with hardcore statistics and ratios, if the doctors saw us completing these forms, I feel certain under the category "People who Need Evaluated and Medicated", the doctor would have picked Very Much True.

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Even if Dan had been given his ratios and statistics, and even if we had compiled data on all of Ryan's behavior, I would have still worried that the circle I colored in, the box I checked, or the number I circled would dictate Ryan's future. Man, that is a lot of pressure on a neurotic, overprotective mama bear. In my mind I understand that these questionnaires or rating scales are one piece of Ryan's puzzle that help point the doctors to the right diagnosis, the right therapies, the right services, the right support and the right accommodations, but, sometimes my brain has a hard time convincing my fearful heart that my innate need to protect Ryan could lead me to pick the wrong circle/box/number.

As I sat in that anxiety room, shoot, I mean waiting room, with Snickers smudged on my face and chocolate sticking to the office pen (sorry Doc) that was still trembling in my hand, somewhere deep in the recesses of my twisted brain, I was able to push past the fear, push past the "what if's" and I was able to recognize that circling Just a Little True instead of Pretty Much True is not the tell all answer for Ryan's future. I know that there is no answer that I can circle, that Dan can analyze, or that a doctor can score, that could have ever predicted how far Ryan has come or how far he will go. 

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So, as the doctor called me into her office, I wiped the chocolate off my trembling lip, handed over the questionnaire and desperately tried to shake off the PTSD effects I was still suffering from due to walking into that other doctor's office all those years ago with Denial by my side. I smile at the doctor and her co-worker with Snickers between my teeth and I remind myself that whatever this delightful doctor and her colleague discovered, whatever ways they believe autism is impacting Ryan's learning, I know that like so many things in the past, Ryan and I will take it on together.

Once upon a time I would have been horrified that Ryan greeted this wonderful neuropsychologist and her staff in his best British accent, but, now I just laugh and assure them he was not raised in London, but, his favorite Minecraft Youtuber was. Ryan has grown by leaps and bounds since the first time we heard The A Word and so have I. Even though some days it's harder than others, I Almost Always accept Ryan's autism and embrace his differences. And even though Sometimes I lose my patience, my temper and my mind, I Never forget how far we both have come and no matter what the future holds, Ryan knows, I will Always be his biggest advocate, his biggest supporter and his biggest fan. That my friends, regardless of a circle, a box or a number, will Always be Very Much True.

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Well, we all know where his love of chocolate comes from.
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If the Shoe Fits.....

6/19/2014

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I have been less than pleasant this week. My poor kids, especially Kyle who is a hardcore That 70's Show fan, and thanks to the magic of On Demand, Kyle, has repeatedly witnessed the way hormones wreaked havoc on poor Kitty as her heart desperately tried to cling to her youth while her body came crashing into menopause. Kyle knows what's coming, he just hopes my ovaries don't give out until he is in college. I'm not saying I am going through "The Change" just yet, but, with fewer and fewer pleasant days each month, change is frighteningly, just around the corner. And like Ryan, with some changes and some things that are new, I dig both feet in clinging to the comfort of the good old days.

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Just yesterday, Ryan and I were both fighting change. As I was helping him stuff his feet in his two sizes too small shoes, a battle ensued over new shoes and I could feel the hormones raging to the surface. That one vein in my neck started pulsating and there was a tightness in my chest that fortunately was not a sign of an impending heart attack (I did check for tingling in my left arm though), it was a sign of a hormonal volcano ready to blow. "YOU HAVE TO GET NEW SHOES THAT FIT! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!", I bellowed (in shouty capitals).  With an equally shouty voice, "You sure are mean and grouchy...all the time", Ryan said, to which I replied, "Yeah, well, if the shoe fits...". Ryan looked at me incredulously and said, "THE SHOE DOES FIT, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU!". Oy vey.

Ryan has needed new shoes for months. Every time I help him tie his shoes, I check his toes and say, "You need new shoes dude." and he says, "No, I don't, this shoe fits." The shoe doesn't fit...at all, but, with all the progress Ryan has made, all the road blocks he has overcome, all the fears and anxieties that have been left in the past with my youth and properly functioning ovaries, new shoes are still very trying for him. Old shoes that "fit like a glove" and are scrunching up his toes are more comfortable than the unfamiliarity, the stiffness, the not yet broken in discomfort of new shoes. New shoes feel different, they wear different, they look different, they are not the same as old shoes. 

As a woman who literally trembles with excitement when the UPS man drops off a new Zappos box, Ryan's fear of new shoes is sad and unfathomable to me. I love new shoes and like most women, I sacrifice comfort for fashion and sometimes the shoe doesn't fit, but, I still wear it...with band aids, peds, inserts or whatever it takes to be like Ryan, and convince myself that the shoe does indeed fit, even if the shoe feels terrible. Whether it's new shoes, a new activity, or a new experience, new is difficult for Ryan, so sometimes it's easier to hang onto old.
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When we experience something new, we all feel better relying on something that is comfortable, whether it's an old pair of Reeboks or an old habit. I've become glaringly aware of an old habit of mine, that pops up time and time and again when I meet new people, regardless if I'm wearing old comfortable shoes, or three inch heels that I assure myself look and feel good (three inch heels never feel good). As with any new introduction, the first thing people typically ask is, "Do you have any children?" which is then followed by "What do you do?", and that's when I break out the old Reeboks.

After sharing the names and ages of my kids, the "What do you do?" question leads to The AWEnesty of Autism Blog and Ryan's ASD diagnosis. "My son Ryan has an Autism Spectrum Disorder. It's very mild and he is very high functioning." I then proceed to tell this new person about Ryan's GPA, his phenomenal memory, his musical gift, and his AWEsome brain. I want people to see past the label, see past the stereotypes of autism, see past the things Ryan struggles with, and just see him, yet, I continually define him by one more label, "high functioning".
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By quickly relying on my old, comfortable "shoe" of "high functioning" does that somehow make Ryan's autism less? Less what? Less important...less defining...less pervasive... less of a worry? I don't want others to see Ryan as "less" so I constantly declare that he is "more"...more capable, more intelligent, more loving, more gifted...more than just autism. It happens every single time. As Ryan's mother it is my job to protect him, to love him, to make him feel safe and happy, it is not my job to define him, yet, I do...every....single....time. I don't want these new people I meet to make assumptions about Ryan, yet, I make assumptions about them. I assume they will hear The A Word and see Rainman. I assume they will hear The A Word and pity Ryan and me. I assume they will hear The A Word and think "less" so I always define him as "more". 

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What does that say about me? As much as I abhor labels, as much as my friends Denial and Clueless convinced me to wait out The A Word label, I continue to add an additional layer to that label, the label of "high functioning". Maybe it's not to convince others, maybe it's to convince myself. Maybe after years of accepting and understanding how far Ryan has come from yesterday, to where he is today, I still worry about where he will be tomorrow and by assuring others that Ryan is more than autism, I am assuring myself of that too. Maybe in addition to my label of "grouch" and "perimenopausal" another label we could tag onto my head is "hypocrite". Well, if the shoe fits...

My intentions are well intended, even if I screw up from time to time. That's called motherhood. Chances are good that until school rolls around again, I will probably continue to stuff Ryan's feet in shoes that are too small for him, but, I refuse to let others stuff the rest of him in an autism box. A box that is too small for his abilities, his hopes, his dreams. As much as I hate labels and the stereotypes that go along with them, when I meet new people, chances are I will continue with my old, comfortable habit of describing Ryan as "more"...more than autism. 

Does that make me a worried, overprotective mom or a hypocrite or both? "If the shoe fits, wear it" simply means, if it applies, take it to heart. As long as I am educating, advocating and protecting my son, I will continue to wear either one of those shoes regardless if the shoes pinch, rub, or feel uncomfortable. I will continue to describe Ryan as "more" so others never, ever think "less". 

As Ryan and I both anxiously await the next change that comes around, hopefully we will be wearing our comfortable old shoes in order to make the journey a little less blistery. Hopefully, for the sake of my children and my husband, some tread remains on my shoes before The Big Change comes to town so, I can quickly run to the nearest pharmacy for some estrogen in order to make life a little more comfortable for all of us.
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The shoe doesn't fit, but, he still wears it.
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Let's Play Pretend

6/12/2014

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Summer vacation is finally here!! That glorious time of year when kids get to stay up late, sleep in, catch lightening bugs (aka, fireflies for all you city dwellers), swim, Slip n' Slide, have sleepovers, and slurp down popsicles as the sun sets. It's a magical time of year for kids and for moms who get to slurp frozen cocktails with girlfriends as we watch the kids Slip n' Slide, swim and catch lightening bugs. And after years of being awakened in the middle of the night repeatedly, now that the kids finally sleep in, we moms get to stay up late in order to binge watch Orange is the New Black and the final season of True Blood (oh, Bill and Eric how I will miss you next summer), and anxiously await the two dreaded words that will blow out of kids mouths as quickly as summertime bubbles, "I'm bored.". Kids are such hypocrites. 

These darling little children spend all year counting down the days until summer vacation begins, then before you can say, "summer solstice", these little darlings get all whiny with, "I'm bored."..."What can we do?"...."You never take us anywhere."...."There's no one to play with." and "No, I don't want to go to summer school.". And let's not forget the ongoing, never ending battle over too much screen time that takes place at least 20 times a day. Yep, a mere 60 hours after school ended, when I shut down video games, iPods and televisions, Ryan uttered that five letter "b" word, and I wasn't the least bit surprised, in fact, I was expecting it.

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We've all heard, "I'm bored!" weeks, days, even hours, into the start of summer break, regardless of how many camps, vacations, play dates, and day trips we have planned, the inevitable "I'm bored" echoes off the walls so quickly that we moms long for school to start again...sort of....as long as we have finished binge watching all the episodes of House of Cards. And along with the inevitable "I'm bored" whining comes the standard mom replies like, "go outside and play"...."build a fort"...."play house in the shade of the oak tree"....and the grand daddy of all mother replies, "use your imagination". And there it is, those three words, "use your imagination" that has plagued Ryan for years. When I told Ryan to shut down Minecraft and "use his imagination", he looked at me like I sprung a second head, and grumbled, "Sorry, I don't have an imagination." then quickly picked up his Xbox controller to kill a zombie.

Ok, so, just like I promised to be AWEnest, I have to ask you to be AWEnest and promise me, you won't tell Ryan I said this, but, Ryan is....(whisper) wrong. Seriously, that kid hates to be wrong almost as much as he hates to be bored, so don't dime me out, but, in this instance, Ryan is wrong. One of the myths of autism is that these kids don't have an imagination. It's true, imagining, pretend play, and imitation are not at the top of Ryan's "Things I Am AWEsome at List", but, he can do it, if he deems it worth his time, and although I am no autism expert, I believe for Ryan, that's it in a nutshell. Ryan certainly has an imagination, but, his use of pretend play, imitation, and make believe has always been, well, less than imaginary.
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When my friends Denial and Clueless would spend hours with me Googling The A Word, I would frequently see, "lacks pretend play" or "plays with toys in an atypical manner" as a red flag. Well, like any of the red flags for The A Word that completely freaked me out, I would find myself consumed with watching for those red flags. I would quickly turn off the computer and drag Denial and Clueless with me to the playroom to obsess, I mean, observe Ryan.

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Back before our formal living room was so formal, it was a little boy's paradise. A playroom filled with Thomas the Tank Engines, cars, trucks, balls of every size, shape and color, pirate swords, fireman's hats and gigantic tubs filled with Fisher Price Rescue Heroes that portrayed every boys' "What I Want to be When I Grow Up" dreams like firemen, policemen, lifeguards, and scuba divers. All of those pretend toys remained untouched as Ryan sat in the middle of the cornucopia of boyhood dreams with an electronic ABC toy mimicking every beep, bleet, ding, and buzz. Toys that made sounds, toys that lit up, and cause and effect toys were Ryan's preferred toys of choice, not playing pretend.

Don't get me wrong, Ryan would sometimes gravitate to the train table, but, he didn't play with the trains the same way Kyle did. There was no "toot toot, all aboard", or stopping at the water tank to fill the steam engines up, Ryan would just roll the trains along the track, up and down, round and round. The same held true for the big Tonka Trucks that Kyle spent hours crashing and taking to the gas station to "fill 'er up". Ryan would push the trucks around, but, rarely did the truck "vroom", "beep" or pull up to the gas station. Sometimes Ryan would just lay on his side and watch the wheels on the truck spin round and round. I began worrying about my sanity and my morality when I would sit and watch Ryan and pray that he would just once send that truck over a pretend cliff with it's pretend inhabitants pretend screaming. Sigh. 

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As I watched Ryan spinning the trucks wheels, not once contemplating a fiery car crash, my wheels began to spin. Denial assured me I just didn't have the "right" pretend play toys and that it wasn't that Ryan couldn't play pretend, he just didn't want to play with trains and trucks. Listening to Denial...again, I convinced myself that she was right and since Ryan "loved" to play with my friend's daughter's Littlest Pet Shop house, I ran out to Toys r Us and bought him one. And yes, Ryan did indeed play with that Pet Shop house by spinning the swings round and round, and making the elevator go up and down and up and down. The Pet Shops didn't talk to each other, have a tea party, or get into a dog and cat fight, they just spun around and around, went up and down the slide (without so much as a "wheee") and took that elevator from the top to the bottom over and over again. Cause and effect, not pretend.

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For Ryan, there was no playing house, playing fireman, or playing doctor. The closest pretend play Ryan imitated was running a toy vacuum, that you guessed it, lit up and made noise. When Denial and I would see this, we would crack open a bottle of champagne and scream, "Hooray! Pretend play, he's not autistic!". You can only imagine our reaction when Ryan would play with the toy toaster...toast in, toast out, button in, button out, up and down, up and down. Sure, he didn't put butter on it and feed it to me, but he was pretending in his own way...so I believed.

In order for children to use their imagination and pretend play, they have to be able to put them self in someone else's place. What would a fireman do next? How does Mommy feed baby sister a bottle? Where does the doctor stab the hideously painful shot? Children have to be able to observe and imitate behavior in order to pretend, and observing and imitating people and their behaviors was not something Ryan spent a lot of time doing since he was so overwhelmed with sensory input and worried about surviving in a horribly chaotic world. I have often wondered, now that Ryan is older, was pretend play difficult for him because he was so deeply entrenched in his own world that he did not "see" others therefore, he failed to imitate their behaviors, or was Ryan so smart that he just didn't see the point in wasting his time on such ridiculous activities?

Why would Ryan feed a stuffed teddy bear a bottle when clearly a stuffed bear does not have an esophagus or a stomach, it is not alive, therefore it can not drink and even if it could, there was no real juice in that bottle anyway? Why would Ryan crash a Tonka Truck off a "cliff" with people screaming for their lives when obviously the coffee table is not a cliff and there is no human small enough to get inside a Tonka Truck? And why in the world, would Ryan have Littlest Pet Shop toys talk to one another when clearly a cat, a lion, and an octopus don't even live in the same habitat, yet alone have the ability to speak.
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To this day, I still don't have the answer. Ryan's belief that he "doesn't have an imagination" and that using his absent imagination is a "total waste of his valuable time" (his "valuable" video game time) tends to lend to both theories...it's to hard to pretend or it's too dumb to pretend. Does Ryan really believe he doesn't have an imagination or does he see no purpose in using it? I tend to believe that from the get go, Ryan has always been smarter than me, smarter than most, and he tends to view the world more practically than us daydreamers. Most pretend play children imitate is grown up behavior and who in the heck wants to be a grown up? Ryan watches me grumble as I fold the laundry, unload the dishwasher and scrub the toilets so why in the world would he want to play "house" when he could destroy Creepers and Zombies and save his Minecraft World? Ryan has seen enough movies to know that policeman get shot by the bad guys and firemen get hurt in deadly fires so why would he pretend to be anyone who has chosen such a dangerous line of work. I assure you, Ryan sees no point in playing doctor and "injecting toxic poison" into the arms of innocent, unsuspecting children when he could watch Austin Powers take down Dr. Evil for the thirtieth time instead. Hard or boring? Maybe both.

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Yes, summer is here, and yes, I will probably hear the "b" word 275 times until I hear the other "b" word...back to school. I will try not to sound like a 90 year old woman by starting every sentence with, "Well, when I was a kid we use to..." because I know times have changed and I don't want to be a hypocrite since I am fairly certain without Netflix, and HBO GO, I would crumble up and die. I will do my best to keep the kids busy, entertained and hydrated with popsicles, ice pops, and Italian Ice while hydrating myself with frozen concoctions that the ice cream man does not sell (wow, he is really missing a big financial opportunity there). 

And I will do my best to convince my darlings that fun can be had using their imaginations and pretending, even if that means chasing down Creepers and Zombies with a Diamond Pick Ax while scripting the latest Gumball Episode versus playing the deadly game of "cops and robbers" or the horribly mundane game of "house". Ryan can use his imagination because he does indeed have one (shhh...remember, don't tell him he's wrong), he just needs to find something or someone worthy of imitating or pretending, and I found out yesterday as I picked weeds, raked up shrub clippings and watered the ferns alone, that landscaper is not one of them.

Only 1,776 hours of "boring" summer vacation left....not that I'm counting.

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Ryan used his nonexistent imagination to create this spaceship for Patrick. Last time I checked there were no spaceships in Bikini Bottom. He must have used his imagination....shhhhh....


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The "i" in Team

6/5/2014

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Tick tock, tick tock....there are only a mere 24 hours until the school year ends, 24 hours until this mom can breath a sigh of relief that Ryan not only survived his first year of middle school, but, that he kicked butt and took names. Actually, he really didn't "take names" because names are not his strong suit, and where in the world would he "take" a name anyway? And even though I think Ryan "kicked butt" he would tell you he most certainly did not kick butt because that would be rude, violent, against the rules and a lie. So, I guess I will just say that with only hours left of 6th grade, Ryan's school year was AWEsome! Hooray!

There will be plenty of "I told you so's", from the likes of my husband, Ryan's therapists, my friends, his brother, and his former teachers. People ready to gloat that all my fingernail chewing, all my sleepless nights, all my How to Survive Middle School with an ASD Survival Guides that I created, were all for not. Gloat away folks, because no one could be happier about being wrong than me. I just wish all these gloaters would share their crystal balls with me and spare me all the anxiety that will surely roll around in August once again. 

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When Ryan reluctantly walked out the doors of elementary school last year at this time, anxious for what was yet to come and heartbroken for what was left behind, my biggest worry wasn't school yard bullies, getting him up at 6:15AM or the shape of the school pizza (although those were all very genuine and legit concerns), what kept me up at night on the "what if" roller coaster that is my brain, was the concern of what if Ryan, my one man, man, can't survive being placed on a middle school team. I don't meant the basketball team, the volleyball team or the debate team, I mean an academic team that consisted of five teachers for core subjects and ten other teachers for various specials. Ryan was use to one or two teachers that he had to get to know and who had to get to know him. I was AWEnestly convinced that rather than be placed on the 6R Academic Team, Ryan would have chosen to take his chances of a spike to the face on the middle school volleyball team. The pain of a volleyball spike would diminish much quicker than enduring a different teacher for nine periods each day. 

I know it's probably been a while since you have done middle school math (unless of course you have a middle schooler and unlike me, you can actually help your kids with math past the second grade), so I am going toss out two equations for you. Here goes:

9 class periods+9 teachers+9 varying teaching styles+9 sets of rules=1 anxious boy

1 anxious boy=1 worried, fretting, nutsy mom

I always hated math.

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Ryan isn't much of a "team" kind of guy. Being part of a team, means getting to know your teammates, understanding everyone's role on the team, and being able to interpret facial expressions, body language, and social cues that often go hand in hand with being part of a team. Autism makes all those things hard for Ryan, not impossible, but, difficult enough that he would rather stick with his one man show. Ryan is a solo sport kind of guy, he prefers having to only look out for himself and being responsible for "I" not "we". The saying goes, "There is no i in team", but, Ryan most assuredly would beg to differ (actually he probably wouldn't since there literally is no letter "i" in the word team, but, work with me here folks, it's been a long school year).

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Throughout the school year, I never once heard Ryan say "we" or "team", but, he frequently and proudly used the word "I". "I made the honor roll!"...."I got a 100% on my test!"...."I handled it on my own."...."I passed."...."I understand the material perfectly". "I, I, I", not "we, we, we" and Ryan's right, he did do all those things, but, just like a pitcher may run off the mound screaming, "I threw a no hitter!", without his team's flawless defense, without his team's support, a no hitter would have been impossible. A quarterback who is patting himself on the back for having such a successful season may say, "I hold the NFL record for most completed passes." which may be true, however, without his defensive line protecting him and he receivers catching the ball, that quarterback would not have thrown a single completion.  

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For Ryan, whose fight or flight is so heightened, taking care of "I" makes recognizing the importance of "we" challenging. Autism makes the notion of even an academic team, seem full of unforeseen, unexpected, danger and peril. An academic team, may seem almost as dangerous as a rope team climbing Mt. Everest. The English teacher may use a stopper knot to keep her team together and safe, while the Science teacher may prefer to use prusiks on the rope, a completely different way of reaching their goal safely. These different strategies all work, but, for a child who prefers "same" getting to know all those differences and understanding them, is like free climbing Mt. Everest without a Sherpa.

A mountain climber who screams from the top of the Earth, "I climbed Mt. Everest", would have never made it to the summit without being tethered to a team, a team whose soul job is to keep each member safe, while they reach the summit. Being part of a climbing team, the team members understand the whole "you go, I go" motto, even though none of them want "to go". They understand that being tied to that team helps each climber, regardless of the differences in ability and stamina, reach their goal. Often the distance of the rope is shortened for the climber who occasionally stumbles and struggles to ascend, the climber who may struggle to see the crevasse buried beneath the snow. The members of a good rope team, know when and how to make the adjustments and keep a struggling climber close, ready to self-arrest and do whatever it takes to make each member of the team reach the summit safely...even the climber who struggles. No mountain climber can ever say "I" without the "we" of his rope team that guided him through hazardous and unpredictable terrain. 
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The academic team that Ryan was fortunate enough to tether himself to for his first year of middle school, kept him close and kept him safe as he found his way over the hills and peaks of the strange terrain of metaphors and figurative language, as he eased himself over algebraic methods, and happily explored the elements of the Earth's crust, all while making new discoveries on the people, climate, and culture of French Guiana. This amazing team, knew when Ryan felt safe enough, when he became more confident in his abilities and they extended the distance between themselves and him on the rope. A distance great enough to make him forget the "we" in team and happily declare, "'I' made it to the top!".

With only hours left until 6th grade comes to an end, I promise you Ryan will descend the bus steps on that last day, with tears in his eyes since ending something familiar and beginning something new is both difficult and heartbreaking for my sensitive son. With all his successes, all his accomplishments, Ryan could scream from the rooftops,"I did it, I made the Honor Roll all four marking periods and I am a seventh grader!", but, he won't because bragging isn't his thing and because climbing on the roof, untethered is as dangerous as free climbing Mt. Everest. This declaration may not be shouted from the rooftops, and chances are high that he won't even utter a single word about it, but, as his forever grateful, lifetime Sherpa, no one knows Ryan better than me, and I promise you 6R Team, he feels it, he knows it, and he believes it, all because he was tied tightly to an amazing team. 

Thank you 6R Team, for pulling my son, for pushing him, for securing him, for reaching him, for teaching him, and for believing, "different, not less".  Mostly, this worried, tired, about to open a bottle of wine mom, thanks this team of AWEsome teachers for not allowing my son to fall through a crack or a crevasse by providing him with just the right amount of rope that gave him the strength and the confidence, to reach the top and to proudly find the "i" in team.
"I cannot emphasize enough the importance of a good teacher."
    -Temple Grandin

Picture
Where Ryan spent hours putting the "i" in team.
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    Definition of Awe:
    "a mixed emotion of
    reverence, respect, dread and wonder inspired by authority, genius, great
    beauty, sublimity or might." Yep, someone should have consulted a mom 
    before
    spelling AWEtism.

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