“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.”
~ Albert Einstein
Okay so I promise to not quote any more Nietzsche in rash moments of angst.
I’ve just come to the conclusion that if I want to get to the bottom of my son’s aggressions I’m going to have to do it myself. Should that have been exceedingly obvious to me a long time ago? Here I am waiting for the professionals to put all the pieces together.
For years, the schools have tried to chart his behaviors, to associate actions with causes, to figure out why he acts out and when – sometimes, even, he aggresses right after he has just been given a reinforcer (reward) or is in the midst of a preferred activity. And he’s gotten worse. And he’s getting older – he’ll be 11 on Thursday. Now he’s figured out that he has an arsenal of weaponry at hand 24/7: a built-in play-doh factory of crap to sling and smear. All of this everything that makes no sense HAS to make sense to somebody. I just have to find this person, these people, the neurologist somewhere who will discover a medical, fix-able reason for all of it. Or do I?
There has to be a reason. Or does there? I know autism itself doesn’t really make a lot of sense, but there is usually consistency within its world. Or is there? I’m questioning everything I think I know. I need to figure out where to start, to really start helping my son. If I can help.
Always I secretly judged the autism parents who flew their kids to doctors all over the country, searching for an answer. I assumed they wanted to “fix” their child or “cure” them of autism. Maybe they are just like me.
When Jonah was at a day school for kids with autism, I secretly judged the parents who “shipped their kids off” to residential facilities because they “didn’t feel like” taking care of the child anymore. Now Jonah is at a residential facility. And of course before I had a child, I had a million notions of parenting that were better than yours.
God does hath a sense of humor.
Now I have to do something or go crazy with the merry go round of hope and despair. I want to help my son.
This past Saturday, Jonah was pretty good: he only slapped me in the face once with a soapy backhand and, minutes later, got out of the tub and ran dripping to grab at my mother, who was sitting in the kitchen. No real harm done in either case, and neither incident lasted very long. Of course, we couldn’t figure out a reason for any of it. We rarely can.
Here are some pictures from Saturday. And a video. I welcome all comments. Suggestions. Judgement. I’m evidently working off some karma.
Jonah and an early birthday present Scare-Me-Not, Fearless Fred. Boo will be 11 on March 7th.
I love the top of his hair in this picture!
Jonah’s wisdom at the end: More brownie?
The Never Normal 
Well, you know I’ve got nothing, Winkmiester. Here is a poem that sometimes brings me strength. Sometimes I try to make like the clam, pretend I’m not around. (Just for the record, this has no particular application to you. I just like the poem.) By Shel Siverstone.
It’ All the Same to the Clam
You may leave the Clam on the ocean floor
It’s all the same to the Clam.
For a hundred thousand years or more,
It’s all the same to the Clam.
You may bury him deep in mud or muck,
Or carry him round to bring you luck.
Or use him for a hockey puck
It’s all the same to the Clam.
You may call him Frank or Jim or Nell
It’s all the same to the Clam.
Or make an ashtray from his shell.
It’s all the same to the clam.
You may take him riding on a train
or leave him sitting in the rain.
You’ll never hear the Clam complain.
It’s all the same to the Clam.
Yes the world may stop or the world may spin
It’s all the same to the Clam.
And the sky may come a fallin’ in
It’s all the same to the Clam.
And man may sing his endless songs,
of wronging rights and righting wrongs.
The Clam just sets – and gets along.
It’s all the same to the Clam.
LikeLike
i like it to know you are still around, clam.
LikeLike
Its obvious you love your son very much. Try not to beat yourself up. No one is ever prepared to be a special needs mommy. Just continuing loving on him, praying, and doing what you feel is best for helping your son.
LikeLike
Hey there karmic sister 🙂 I hear the same voice– “more brownie” like– in my Alex. And I am right there with you, pondering the same questions, wondering why it is that there seems to be no answer, and am I supposed to find it? Some days I feel empowered, others I feel exhausted. So I just wanted to say I hope your empowered days carry to new discoveries (and on the other days you find peace). Thanks, as always, for sharing your stories. xo
LikeLike
When my Brother was 13,(I was 10 – 1982) my parents couldn’t cope with the challenging behaviours, fighting, self abuse, poop flinging / smearing any more. They pleaded with his social worker for help. Shortly after my brother was admitted to a large hospital for mentally subnormals. I couldn’t understand how my parents could possibly send him away. I thought they didn’t love him any more. In the hospital, he didn’t get treatment or help, he got drugged to make him quiet. He developed new behaviours and was drugged or restrained some more. He spent 14 years in the hospital and only left as it was closing. Care in the community was now the big thing. 6 Months after living in his own home with two other similar guys and full time carers he was a changed person. No more medication. No more restraints. He enjoyed activites and had a full schedule of things he enjoyed doing. The first 6 months were very difficult, but 17 years later he’s a loving person, he likes to be around people, get involved, go for walks. He loves his mum and dad and doesn’t bear a grudge. If he could talk, I wonder what he’d tell us? But I do know he enjoys life now.
LikeLike