OCD, my big, shameful blow up, and other ways grief affects my daughter with autism.

By Jennifer Dyer

t easy

I’ve always wanted to be honest here. Sometimes I still hold back, fearing what will happen if I let others see my raw emotions over the struggles of raising a child with special needs. I suppose that’s why I haven’t blogged much in the last year–too many painful moments I didn’t have the strength to share. Happy moments, too, but so little time to write. But as I reflected over this past week, I’ve decided I’m probably not alone in my desperate thoughts or my moments of deep frustration. So, I decided to share. I hope you know you are not alone. I hope I’m not alone, either. Autism isn’t easy, but neither are so many of the other challenges we all face.

In early March, Rachel started talking about field trips. It began with her signing “Brown” and “Bus,” meaning she wanted to take a brown-bag lunch on the bus, which is what happens as part of all her school field trips. She also signed, “Duck” because on one field trip to Mayfest we saw a person in a giant duck suit.

s bus2

Great. Mayfest wouldn’t happen for more than a month, the duck might not be there, and the school probably wouldn’t go there again.

But, being the language-development-minded mama I am, I found the sign for field trip and taught it to her. Then she asked for “brown,” “bus,” “duck,” “field trip.” Pretty amazing.

Or so I thought.

About ten thousand brown-bus-duck-field trips later, I thought: What. Have. I. Done?

Then she started adding “seal” (clapping) and “fish” because someone told her the next field trip would be to an aquarium.

Friday, when we got home from her horse therapy, she cornered me in the kitchen. “Seal, fish, brown, bus, field trip.” I tried to tell her “later,” but she thought I wasn’t understanding she wanted to go the aquarium on a school bus That Minute, so she clapped louder. In my face.

She repeated the signs and clapping every few seconds, maybe ten times a minute. I’m not in MENSA, but that’s about 600 times an hour. I tried acknowledging. I nodded. I told her “later.” I talked about the aquarium. I talked about her horse. I talked about food. I tried to get her to jump on the trampoline. She communicated louder. In her case, that meant screaming, hitting her head, and more clapping in my face.

The shut-ups started deep in my chest. ShutupShutupShutupShutUP! Before I knew it, the shutups and other things leaked out my mouth. My words started quiet, but increased in volume. “I can’t tell you! I can’t control it! I can’t get a bus here or plan a field trip! I can’t talk about this anymore!”

Why did I ever wish she could talk?

Even as I thought that, an ocean wave of shame plowed over me. How could I be so calloused? Yes, I’m desperate for her to talk. Desperate to help her strive toward an independent life. I long for her to communicate, but not like this. Not the same thing over and over and over and over. It’s not communicating. It’s obsessing.

She clapped more, screamed, cried, kicked. I finally escaped to my water closet. I sat on the toilet and stared at the hole knocked into the wall by Rachel during numerous tantrums, many of them over wanting a stupid field trip.

For a moment, I envied my husband’s aunt, dying from cancer as I wrote this.

A wave of shame tsunamied over me. A hurricane of guilt followed. No, no, no, no, no. I didn’t mean that. I’ve already faced possible death from my own battle of cancer. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to live to be a mom, I begged God to give me more time to be a mom.

But I couldn’t help thinking…I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know how hard, hard, hard being a mom would be.

Even as I drowned in shame, I still envied our aunt, about to enter Heaven where communication disorders shouldn’t exist. Where pain and impatience shouldn’t exist. Where field trips, if they do take place, won’t be the subject of E.V.E.R.Y. conversation. Nor would I have to wonder “What Would Jesus Do” because I would be able to Watch What Jesus Does and thank Him for doing it instead of me.

What kind of person was I to think such horrible thoughts?

Probably a normal one who hadn’t slept well in a decade with a child screaming in the next room about a field trip.

I leaned over my knees. I wanted to escape. I wanted things to change. I wanted to see a day where Rachel wasn’t severely disabled. I. Hate. This.

My thoughts swirled around. “It’s not fair, God! I see so many families on Facebook. At the park, at schools, at the beach. People on vacations with their happy, shiny lives.”

I know it’s not all carnival games for them, either, and I know I don’t really mean it, but sometimes I find myself wishing I could have THEIR issues instead of mine.

Rachel still screamed, so I jumped into the shower and hid under the spray, my anger swishing and washing down the drain. Finally strong enough, I exited the shower and tried again.

And. She Kept. Going. Screaming and crying. Kicking and stomping. I knew that night would bring another middle-of-the-night bout of screaming and crying and kicking. She’d ask about a field trip, over and over. More holes, more damage, more moments of madness.

I called my sister. “I can’t live like this! I can’t do this for another forty or fifty years. It’s not fair, not fair, not fair. I can’t help her!”

In that moment, as I sobbed on the phone, I realized THIS wasn’t about this.

This screaming from Rachel wasn’t about a field trip. My screaming at Rachel wasn’t about field trips.

This was grief.

Earlier that day, we had stopped by my mother-in-law’s house to say hello and check on our aunt. I didn’t intend for Rachel to see her–the door was closed–but Rachel sensed her presence anyway and ran into her room. She stood in the doorway, signing “I love you,” but our aunt didn’t wake, was too weak. Rachel signed “Up” because she wanted her aunt to get out of bed, to talk to her like normal, but she couldn’t. I told Rachel she was just tired and that she loved Rachel, too, but I knew she wasn’t able to wake because she was so close to the end of her life.

A sharp arrowhead seemed to be stuck in my throat. I couldn’t swallow past it. For years, our aunt had reached out to Rachel, had worked hard to engage her. Rachel wouldn’t always respond, yet here she was initiating a conversation.

And her aunt didn’t get to see it.

It. Killed. Me.

And so, in my dark moment on the phone with my sister, I realized Rachel’s obsessive behavior was about anxiety, about my grief and the strange way I’d been acting, about the way her aunt didn’t talk to her, about the world not making sense.

Sometimes I forget how much Rachel sees and feels, even if she doesn’t exactly understand it all. And it’s amazing how much my stress level affects her anxiety. As her anxiety goes up, her repetitive behaviors and obsessive thoughts increase. It’s all linked, only I forget that I have to be the one who stays on top of that.

As those thoughts lined up like cars on a train, I thought about my personal struggle with death, I remembered the love I’d felt for my children in that moment. I grasped it with the tips of my fingers, a jagged little piece of hope.

I pulled it close. Yes, I could do this one more moment. One moment at a time. It’s difficult, impossible. I clung to my faith that gives me hope that someday things will be different, even if it’s not while I live on this earth. I clung to my faith that tells me God will give me what I need in the moment I need it. And I clung to my faith because sometimes it’s the only thing keeping me sane.

The next day we made some changes. We borrowed my mother-in-law’s recumbent bike as another way to help Rachel exercise more. The more exercise she gets, we hope the less anxiety she will experience. We took Rachel for a brown-bag-lunch picnic at the park, and in answer to my prayers, our aunt woke up and was able to see Rachel tell her “I love you” only one day before she died. And I’ve worked on my own emotional state. Like the Dog Whisperer says, a calm, assertive state of mind in the family leader creates relaxation and a sense of calm in the rest of the pack.

 

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Mockingjay cake!

mockingjay cake

My daughter is a big fan of The Hunger Games series, so she decided she wanted to watch the newest movie for her birthday party. So, I needed to make another Hunger/Games-themed cake.

Cake from last year:

I used a toothpick, a table knife and some edible modeling dough to form the bird. To make the ring that sits under the bird, I rolled out the dough like a snake, put it on the flat rim if a glass bowl and smashed it down. I know, we’re super high tech here. To get the brassy color, I sprayed the bird and ring with black edible spray paint then layered that with gold edible spray paint. It took a few layers to get it right. Then I brushed yellow gel over the top to make it shiny.

 

For the fondant, I roll it over the cake then steam it with my iron to make it shiny…the only time I seem to use the iron, BTW.

 

Rach loves helping me. To her, it’s like playing with Playdoh.

 

To get the fire, I used a combination of red, orange and yellow sparkle gel frosting and brushed it into peaks with a paint brush.

I also chose to cover the board edges with the black fondant. I thought it looked better than the silver board.

 

And I tried not to cry when we cut it up and ate it.  Ha! It turned out super cute. The girls loved it and said I was cool. You can’t get a better compliment than that from a bunch of 13 year olds!

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Pants up. AKA Mommy loses her cool.

by Jennifer Dyer

It might sound like this will be about fashion. Not really. Yes, wearing saggy pants leads to perilous moments of ankle waddling, but this is about my daughter with autism and her sensory issues.

Rachel likes to pull her pants down. I don’t know why. I suspect the pressure of a waistband on her tummy while sitting is painful. If any kid has gut issues, it’s my sweet girl. We have most of her tummy troubles under control with diet, but I imagine she still has discomfort.

So…the pants. We buy the softest, most stretchy leggings possible. I buy her long dresses to wear over those. But if it were up to her, she’d skip the leggings.

In the car, on the bus, wherever she goes, Rachel likes to sit on her bare bottom. She pulls down everything under her dress and sits on the seat commando style. I don’t know why. I never pretended to understand her sensory issues. But I know that’s at least a part of where this stems from.

I understand it’s difficult for her. But I also understand that in society, pants are not optional. Maybe in some places…but not in most. School, grocery stores, libraries–pretty much pants-required kinds of places, or at least they are pretty adamant about covering of your hindquarters. The pulling down her leggings to sit has become a big issue at school, especially. It’s keeping her from going to general ed classes and mixing with the other kids. It’s affecting so many areas of her life.

While riding in the backseat with Rach, I asked her to pull her pants up. She did about halfway. A second later she yanked them down. We rinsed and repeated, so to speak, each time with her pulling her pants back down a second later. I know this is beyond a sensory issue–it’s compulsion taking over at this point, but she has to learn. I reached around to keep her pants up behind her back. “You have to keep them up.”

She screamed and said no.

I took a deep breath. I hate confrontation. I hate hearing her cry. I don’t want to make her miserable, and I have compassion for anyone with sensory issues. I had them myself. But she seriously has to keep her pants up! I’m her mother. It’s not my job to keep her happy. It’s my job to develop her character. I have to be strong. All of that ran through my mind as we struggled.

I was doing pretty well to keep my cool, but Rachel grabbed my hand and squeezed the kung and the fu out of one of my bent fingers. I jerked away, but she has a death grip. My brain quit working, adrenaline pounded through my limbs. “Get away!” was the big message in my mind. I smacked her thigh and yelled, “Stop!”

Eldest, sitting in the front seat beside Grandma, whirled around to see what happened. Grandma veered and glanced in the rear-view mirror.

I don’t hit. I occasionally spank, but it’s rare these days because it escalates Rachel’s behavior rather than helps it. When Eldest was little, there was usually a verbal warning of “I will spank you.” And then it was done in a calm manner.

There was no warning here. I didn’t hit hard, but shame washed over me because it felt like I’d acted rashly. I felt liked I’d done something terrible even though in retrospect it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined it. In fact, it was an immediate response that communicated to her she needed to stop. And I truly didn’t hit her hard enough to even make her thigh red.

Regardless, in that moment, I wanted to curl up and hide because I’d let myself lose control of my emotions. I looked out the window and noticed a meadow full of pink wild flowers. A powerful urge washed over me to jump out of the car and run screaming through the grass and melt into shadows.

But motherhood isn’t about running away. It’s about standing firm, putting my own feelings aside and doing what’s best for my family. Yet I’m not a robot. I have feelings, I feel pain, too, and I get over stressed.

I took a deep breath and apologized to Rachel for losing my temper. I don’t know if she understood me or not, but I told her I should have pulled away. It’s not OK to hit people in anger or in fear. But it’s not OK to hurt people, either, and there are consequences for that.

In retrospect, we shouldn’t have started that battle of the pants on that day because I was too tired to begin with and didn’t feel well. Those big battles have to be started when I’m up to following it through for the long haul. We’re going to try again with her behavior therapist and work our way toward changing her behavior patterns that way.

Furthermore, I need to stop being so hard on myself. I know y’all understand. We have these ideals we hold ourselves to, but fall short. Or people who don’t understand our circumstances criticize and wound our hearts. Sometimes, though, the failure is much greater in our minds. Sometimes we have to offer ourselves grace and move forward.

Grace, it’s often the greatest, but most difficult, gift we can give ourselves.

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I need a fork–solving communication problems in autism.

by Jennifer Dyer

The other day at Special Olympics practice I saw a friend who substitutes in Rachel’s class. After catching up, she told me about the last time she subbed.

She said something like, “Rachel kept asking me for something at lunch. She showed me her hand moving from her food to her mouth. I couldn’t figure out what she wanted. Was it chips? Her lunch meat? Poor girl. It took at least five minutes for me to figure out she needed a fork.”

My heart clenched. Rachel has barely learned to use a fork in the last few months. Before, handling utensils was too overwhelming for her. I try to remember to include her fork in her lunch, but I forget. And here she was trying to do what was right, but having trouble because she can’t communicate clearly.

For Rachel, I think communicating is like trying to drink a waterfall. Overwhelming. There is so much involved. Her mind can’t get it all going at once. Autism is like a veil over her mind, making the world more confusing. Add onto that apraxia of speech, which can be like having a blender mix up the sounds you want to say before it can get to your mouth. The process of putting sounds into words is daunting.

About six years ago, I velcroed (is that even a word?) little word pictures and symbols all over the house. Grandpa even bought us an expensive software program to build the pictures. I put them in the fridge where I put the lemonade so she could hand me the picture to ask for a drink. I put them on the grapes. On the TV. On the…you get the picture (har har).

Picture Problems.

But all they served was to give Rachel something to pile up and flap in her hands. It was too early. The pictures were such a disaster I gave up. We eventually used them again in a notebook when she was about six, but her therapist wanted us to move away from the pictures when Rachel started using more signs.

But signs are difficult. Sometimes people don’t understand. Rachel has trouble making her signs clear, too.

A multi-faceted approach:

So I think, at least for Rachel, a combination of communication systems has helped. Some people said it would confuse her, but Rachel uses all sorts of methods to communicate: she points, gestures, signs, shows me pictures, types in symbols on her ProLoQuo app on her iPad. She also uses some word approximations.

The signs are good because it is more close to real time communication, and she always has her signs with her. Pictures are great because they are usually clear. (For instance, when she wanted me to find a toy, she brought me a picture of her room and pointed to the toy.) The picture symbols with words on them are good because I think it helps with reading. (In addition to being a mom, I’m a speech-language pathologist, for what it’s worth.)

Some people also said I had to choose a communication system and stick with it, but I disagree with that too. We use different ways to communicate, so why can’t Rachel? Several of her speech-paths have agreed with me. Some haven’t. It probably all depends on our experiences.

I know my child. You know your child. If you think having different systems is overwhelming, keep it simple. But if you think she can handle it, different methods, I think, will help the brain generalize communication. For instance, the more Rachel learns about letters and putting words together, the more she understands language. The more she sees printed words associated with pictures, the more she learns to read.

Concerned using sign language or picture symbols will inhibit speech? Don’t be. It actually helps to build a foundation and positive communication experiences.

Worried your child won’t speak? I was too. I even got into a pretty heated discussion with a speech-language pathologist a few years ago over this. She had been taught past age five the brain lost its ability to be plastic enough to learn a skill like speech.

Research is starting to show the opposite. I remember from our Relationship Development Intervention (RDI) training, that the brain does continue to learn. Other programs are having success with teaching children to speak after age five. As I said, each experience builds on the next, especially with language. The important thing is to find some way for your child to communicate and build on that. There are problems like muscle weakness or stiffness that can inhibit speech, but Rachel doesn’t have those issues.

And realize this is a long journey. It doesn’t change instantly.

The brain is like a city filled with roads. Each experience builds new thoroughfares, and makes the roads bigger. The more pathways you can build, the better off the brain will be. The more you use certain “roads,” the bigger they get.

So, for Rachel’s lunch and her fork problem, I used my phone and PicMonkey photo editor to make her another little word symbol. I put a plastic fork on a piece of white printer paper and took a pic. I uploaded it to PicMonkey and added the writing. I printed it on tag board and put clear contact paper over it. Then I put sticky velcro on the back.

Pretty simple, once you have the supplies. (These are the ones I have on hand. The brands don’t matter.)

And I velcroed it into her lunchbox.

It’s a clear way she can tell someone to get her a fork the next time I forget. The more I do this the better off she will be. It fosters independence and feelings of success.

If pictures and words are helpful to your child, the good news is you don’t need those expensive computer programs any longer. I mentioned PicMonkey photo editor. I use the free version and my phone or symbols included in my Microsoft word program to make what I need. It’s fast and easy. And free!

Will Rachel ever talk? I don’t know. She’s trying. And I believe the brain is plastic and can learn. So, I have hope. Will it be easy? No. But the more she learns to read, the better she understands the structure of language. It’s a long road. Sometimes I feel like the bear who went over the mountain and sees…another mountain to climb. But I still have my hiking boots and a granola bar somewhere in the bottom of my purse. There is hope. It is dim at times and sometimes I lose sight of it, but it’s there.

For more examples of how I’ve used word pictures and symbols, see:

Preposition lessons with Rachel.

As the bus turns. (simple social stories)

 

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Needing encouragement?

Sometimes mothering is as easy as stuffing a tiger into a pillow case. I can’t seem to keep it all together. And I often mess up.

Ever feel that way?

I do, especially when I trip over the scattered contents of my linen closet, or walk into my closet to see all my clothes pulled off the hangers by my busy younger child.

And then there are the times I butt heads with my preteen…

The other day Eldest and I had a wonderful mother-daughter date … until the drive home. Somehow, reflection on a movie shifted into an argument about laundry, which ended in me screaming, “Listen to me!”

Nice one, Mom …

I apologized, but my action shattered our fun. We arrived home in icy silence and entered the house, which looked exactly as we had left it. Cluttered countertops mocked me along with the “room of doom” upstairs where my other daughter with autism had been busy in my absence. She’d filled the room with the contents of the linen closet, paper scraps … and glue.

I wanted to hide and scream. “Why, God? When I pictured motherhood, it didn’t include scraping sticky newspaper bits and scrubbing peanut butter out of the carpet. Nor did I envision screaming like a hormonal banshee. I’m just so tired.”

Life never turns out the way we expect, does it? And moms are human, too. We make mistakes. And that’s why we need to encourage one another.

Click here to read the whole post “Mom’s Need Encouragement” at MomLife Today.

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Food issues and autism.

by Jennifer Dyer

We have food issues in this house, many of them texture related. And I’m not talking only about the kids. Hubby and I have them, too, or did as children. So, I get it. I know why raw carrots gag people. They gag me. I can’t stand the feel or smell of bananas. I know why my kids have issues.

But Rachel has taken food and texture issues to a new stratosphere. Her autism and OCD both contribute to the challenge. That combined with my own food issues has made it difficult for me to tackle. But I’m starting to see things from a different perspective…

Click here to continue reading my post about Autism, Food, and Weighty Parenting Issues over at MomLife Today.

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Operation Brown Bear–looking beneath the surface to understand Rachel’s thinking.

by Jennifer Dyer

The adventure begins…

Rachel’s been talking about teddy bears lately. She will point to her iPad and show us a picture, usually a screen shot, of a bear. Her favorite is Dora’s teddy bear.

So, for her birthday we thought it would be fun to take her to Build a Bear to make her own bear friend.

The trip to the mall went well. We ventured there on a Monday evening where it would not be crowded and left time for her usual elevator ride and carousel spin.

Eldest stayed a few feet ahead and pretended not to know us in true preteen fashion, and we had to make a few trips to the bathroom, but otherwise no fire alarms went off and no one stripped naked.

When we got to Build a Bear, Rachel was fascinated by the stuffing machine. She couldn’t focus on picking a single bear, or maybe she didn’t understand what we wanted her to do. But she was certain of one thing: she wanted to watch that stuffing.

Sadly, money doesn’t flow as easily as the stuffing in their machines, so we helped her choose one.

She loved the machine’s whirr and grinned while the downy white stuffing circled inside the glass case. She laughed and hooted with joy.

We talked about names. She signed “brown” and “bear,” so we christened our new friend Brown Bear and pointed Rachel to the bear clothes. But she wasn’t interested. She wanted to do the stuffing process again.

Warning bells went off in my head. She really liked that stuffing…

Uh…oh…

That night Rachel hugged Brown Bear tight and kept him close, so I went downstairs with warm thoughts about her new best friend. It wasn’t until the next night that I realized…

Build a Bear, we have a problem…

I couldn’t find Brown Bear in Rachel’s room, so I went to the guest room where she likes to hide things. I would lock that room if I could, but unfortunately, one of her therapy swings is installed in that doorway, so open, the room is, Master Yoda.

And I found Brown Bear…all over the room.

20140205-072854.jpg

And that’s when I made a huge mistake…

I, shall we say, lost my own stuffing. “Rachel, what happened to Brown Bear?” I carried his empty shell to her room like a lawyer to a witness on the stand. “What did you do to him?”

Rachel isn’t able to express herself verbally and the nuances of expressing and reading emotions are still difficult for her, but I could tell I’d embarrassed her.

Rachel grabbed Brown Bear’s shell and shoved him under a blanket.
I, being on planet Not-Tuned-to-Rachel,pulled him out and showed him to her. “Rachel, why’d you do this?”Rachel sat on him. Get the hint, Mom, and drop it.I went downstairs, shoulders slumped. Not only had she destroyed the bear, there was another huge mess to clean. I had just spent an entire weekend cleaning that room with her. Now it looked like a Build a Bear blizzard had blown through. It wasn’t fair! Me, me, me…

The next day when I gathered Brown Bear’s scattered innards to re-stuff the poor guy, I stopped in the doorway. Half my hair went gray. Since Someone had made such a blooming deal out of the unstuffed bear, Rachel had decided she needed to cover up the mess. I had embarrassed her, so she was recovering the best way she knew how…with the contents of the linen closet and a giant mound of shredded tissue paper.

20140205-085308.jpg

The lesson?

I failed to take the extra moment to think through Rachel’s actions. Sometimes understanding Rachel is like mining for gold in the dark. It’s not easy, but always worthwhile. She’s complex with a vast intelligence kept under the surface by this blanket of autism.

So, why’d she do it? In this case, she loved the stuffing and wanted to experience that fun moment again. Instead of chastising and shaming her, I should have helped her re-stuff the guy without the verbal fussing.
Then I could have told her to leave the stuffing inside and sewn him up. I missed the opportunity to lead by example, instead choosing to yap my big mouth.

With autism it seems so much is about making every moment a teaching opportunity. Every action of mine models an action for Rachel. Each overreaction is a lost opportunity to connect with her. And, sadly, I often lose sight of the fact that it’s more of a marathon than a sprint with her. She needs repetition, consistency, and calm, assertive leadership.

The key? I think Dora says it best: “Stop and Think.”

P.S. I’m happy to report Brown Bear was admitted to the ICU at Grandma General and has almost completed his rehab. He should be back in action with reinforced seams this week.

Bear hugs, friends. May you keep your stuffing where it belongs.

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A decade with Rachel—big blessings come in tiny packages.

By Jennifer Dyer

 

A baby is born…

I can’t believe a decade has slipped by since Rachel made her first appearance on a sunny day in January. After a troubled pregnancy with multiple scares, a miraculous reattachment to the uterine wall, and months of bed rest, Rachel decided enough was enough. Although she was a month early, she was ready to make a grand entrance.

And it was grand. With 13 people in the operating room counting sponges repeatedly, Rachel readied to exit stage right. My heart lurched when both doctors leaned over my belly and gasped, saying, “Oh, my God,” in tandem.

They delivered her, placing her on my chest for about two seconds before whisking her to NICU. Fortunately, Rachel was released after only a few hours, and we thought all was well.

A baby with a destiny…

The next day, my doctor came into the room and cradled Rachel close to her chest. Her eyes glistened with tears, and she leveled me with a look. “I want you to understand how many times over this baby is a miracle. She should not have survived, but God intervened for her multiple times. This is a miracle baby. God has big plans for her.”

I tucked that into my heart and felt tension melt away. God had plans for her. Everything was going to be all right. I mean, big plans means big stuff, right? President? Campaign for international justice? Building water wells in Africa? Who knew how far she would go?

A shift in thought…

So, why in the next several years did Rachel lag behind developmentally? For a while, we thought she was deaf. The doctors also said she was just catching up to her peers. One neurologist walked into the exam room, glanced at Rachel sitting in the corner and stated, “There is nothing wrong with that child.” He left the room about two minutes later.

Enter Autism…

But just before Christmas, a month before she turned three, Rachel was diagnosed with severe autism. After the initial shock wore off, in some ways I was relieved. I finally had a reason my life was so stressful. What took most moms ten minutes took us hours. Each day was full of screaming tantrums. My picture-perfect home and life were lost under a mound of laundry and messes. Sleep was a long-forgotten memory. I scrubbed poop off the walls, furniture, and carpet daily…for years. We couldn’t go in public without Rachel stripping naked and screaming, or worse, darting through crowds like a cat with ten hounds on her tail.

And don’t get me started on the sensory issuesfood issues or her obsession with dumping the contents of any container.

Tiny prayers mean big things…

The other day I paused to look back. I remembered a tiny prayer spoken years ago. “Lord, I don’t want to be stressed all the time. Help me to be more laid back.”

Not the most eloquent of prayers, but meant from the heart. I was tired of being Stressed-Out Jennifer. My perfectionism held me in a gripped fist. I was sick of worrying about the perfection of my house, my bank accounts, my body, my…everything.

Have you ever heard that saying, “Be careful what you pray for?”

Yeah, I’ve heard it too…

Rachel saying hi.

Rachel moving ahead.

Sadly, sometimes we have to take a ride through hell to gain a deeper understanding of God’s grace. Sometimes we need trials to shape our hearts into something beautiful. And sometimes we have to walk through the deepest of valleys before we learn to look up.

Do I wish things could be different for Rachel? Of course. When I look at her typical age peers, my heart squeezes so tight it shatters. But when I see Rachel’s beautiful smile or hear her say “Elmo,” my cracked heart becomes soft again. It is as if I see the sunrise for the first time whenever Rachel says “Mama”, eats a bite of an apple, writes her name, signs her sister’s name, and signs “Grandpa.”

Finding hope…

I’ve learned to find beauty in the tiniest of moments and to see rays of hope in the darkest hours. I’ve learned that messes don’t matter and that the external fades away (just ask any mom after years of sleep deprivation).

Rachel knows she is different—she’s very smart. But it doesn’t bother her. She is the picture of joy, especially when left to her favorite mediums of glue and paper or when jumping into a pool.

Lest I make this all about me…

I’ve seen a depth of character in Eldest that is born from a life of trials. She was right beside me through all the messes and tantrums. She had to ride in the van next to a naked, screaming child. And she was the one Rachel would crawl in bed with each night–although Rachel doesn’t know how to interact, she doesn’t want to be alone. And when Eldest is gone, she is the one Rachel asks for…repeatedly. (The girl doesn’t give up. Ha!)

Rachel has made a difference in too many lives to count. A hug from Rachel is enough to bring tears to people’s eyes. Hundreds of people who have met her have a changed view of the world. She gets into hearts and makes them grow several sizes. Our family will never be the same, and we are all better for it. She brings out the best in people, even when it’s people forgiving us for flooding their houses…twice.

And you know what? Who knows what Rachel will achieve in her future? Look at Temple Grandin. But even if the world were to end tomorrow, I’d venture to say Rachel has accomplished more in her first decade than many in their entire lives.

Happy birthday, my precious Rachel. It’s OK that you don’t always like the singing. I know you’ll watch it a thousand times on your iPad and love every minute of it.

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Taking Rachel to the mall.

by Jennifer Dyer

The other day, hubby and I decided to go to the maul mall. In a stunning move, Eldest opted out, but we knew Rachel would love it, especially the escalators and indoor fountains. (The trick would be keeping her from jumping into the water.)

Rachel didn’t always like going out. When she was three, an outing to any store would end in her screaming and stripping naked. And Mom would end up in tears. The sensory overload to her system must have been horrible, all the smells, sounds, people, noise…everything unpredictable and random from her point of view.

If she wasn’t screaming, she was darting away from me like in this story. I couldn’t go anywhere in shoes that did not get traction. Through years of therapy, we slowly worked on her staying beside us. (For more on how we decreased her darting behaviors, see here.)

We also learned to plan shorter outings, and did all kinds of sensory therapies to help her nervous system calm.

So, off we went to the maul (I keep doing that) mall, armed with her iPad, a packed lunch, and a bag of activities.

Our first destination was Fuddruckers. (It’s by the mall and has GF buns for their burgers. Yum-o. Plus, it’s kid friendly.) This, however, presented our first challenge. Rachel has very narrow food preferences, so what to do?

First, we examined our goals.

We wanted Rachel to sit in the restaurant and behave appropriately. So, the food was secondary. I brought her packed lunch, but ordered food I could share with her.

While ordering, though, Rachel wasn’t focused on the food. She made the sign for potty and yelled “Pah!” so many times it was amazing I didn’t order my cheeseburger with a side of toilet.

Hubby went off to find us a table, and I took Rachel to the restroom.

Which lead to our next challenge.

My anxiety level amped at the thought of traipsing through a public restroom, even though we do it all the time. As I mentioned in my last blog Walking with Rachel, I did the deep breath routine. Keep calm. It’s about the time with Rachel, not getting something huge done.

Rachel and I entered the stall together. When she FINALLY finished, I had to remind myself again that I had a goal in sight. This was about helping her grow more appropriate and independent, not rushing. So, I watched to see how she would do with the slide lock on the stall door. I had to watch her fail (agonizing) a few times and then walk through it step-by-step, but she learns best through visual and tactile methods.

We were ten minutes into our outing and hadn’t left the bathroom.

After we escaped, Rachel wanted to see the arcade games. I froze. I can’t recall how many times I’ve told her no in public and been rewarded with a huge tantrum. Sometimes I feel like the rat in the maze that’s been zapped so many times its fearful of making any sudden moves.

I had to remember the purpose: Appropriate behavior in a restaurant.

If this went south, we could get our food to go. I took a deep breath. “Later.” I grabbed our drinks and showed her to the super high tech drink machines. Whew. Redirection successful. Crisis averted.

We only spilled our drink once, so another success. I pointed to Hubby and asked her to walk with me to the table. I was afraid she would dart, but she stayed beside me. Yay.

We sat in the booth for an entire ten seconds before she started asking about the games again, but in the midst of her barrage, she passed me napkins and pressed her hands together to pray. I brought in her iPad to keep her entertained, if need be, but she actually ate some of her lunch with a fork.

Did the people in the restaurant stare at us? Yes. But did Rachel have a meltdown and strip naked? Nope. Woohoo. I’ll call it a success.

We managed the rest of the ten minute meal without major issues, and Rach was rewarded with some time in the arcade area where she played with the steering wheel on a game that wasn’t plugged in. Even better.

The mall was next.

Again, we kept clear goals in mind.

Yes, we were there to buy Rach some dresses, but I could always order them online. The goal was to have Rachel stay by us and not throw a fit when told no or waiting for short amounts of time.

Here is how we managed:

We alternated fun activities for her with each short shopping goal.

I grabbed some dresses for her and pointed out the escalator. As soon as I purchased our item, we rode the escalator.

We walked around the upstairs and took an escalator down. We looked in one store and went to the play ground. We stopped at a fountain before glancing around another store.

There were a few moments she had to wait, and without two of us it might not have been nearly as easy, but I kept everything to a minimum. If I didn’t find something within five minutes, we moved on. I tried on one pair of shoes off a sale rack, but nothing else. We kept moving as much as possible.

The trip was more about success for Rachel than getting stuff.

And we only stayed about an hour. That way none of us got too tired and lost our patience.

Mission accomplished.

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