Sunday, December 31, 2006
With his dinner tonight, he had bites of peas, raw carrots, celery, green beans and corn. (We've eliminated cooked carrots from the repertoire.) No gagging. No spitting. No questions. No problem.
This Clubhouse would have been a bargain at twice the price.
The idea is to produce a retrospective by posting the first sentence from the first blog post of each month. Here, then, are some glimpses back on 2006 from our corner of the blogosphere:
January: When I started this blog, I thought I would use it to write about a lot of things ("raising a son on the autism spectrum, progressive politics, pop culture, and coffee addiction.")
February: When I arrived to pick up Bud from school yesterday, his eyes were a bit red and puffy.
March: I've been struggling to maintain that perspective I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, or even to find the words to write about the struggle.
April: Bud's spontaneous language just keeps getting better.
May: This weekend as we were getting ready to go outside to play, Bud approached me with his arms full of toys.
June: I was sitting at my desk when my cell phone rang.
July: There is poetry in the way Bud sees the world.
August: I've been scrambling to find a new autism specialist because the developmental pediatrician who's been working with Bud for the past four years is moving out of state.
September: I've been tagged.
October: I have followed, with interest, conversations among fellow bloggers about the use of the terms "high functioning" and "low functioning" as descriptors of autism.
November: I've never been a huge fan of Halloween before, but I have to admit - this year's festivities have left me feeling positively Wiccan.
December: As I've mentioned previously, it's officially Christmas season at our house.
Happy New Year to all my fellow travelers in the autism blogosphere. I look forward to sharing 2007 with you!
Friday, December 29, 2006
As the day wound down, Bud opened the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse DVD that Santa had tossed in his bag as a last minute add-on. (Santa had heard a rumor that Bud developed an intense Mickey Mouse fascination after all the Christmas shopping was done.) Inside the DVD case, Bud found an advertisement for the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse toy - a replica of the house from the show, complete with all of his newly-beloved character friends (in other words, EXACTLY the sort of toy that Bud loves best of all) - and Bud realized that he'd missed his opportunity to request the toy from Santa. Calmly, he brought the ad to me and said, "I want this for my birthday."
As the evening wore on, Bud must have done the math and realized he'd be in for a long wait for his September birthday. He called me from his bed long after I thought he was asleep, and asked, "Mama, can I have a sticker chart?"
Sticker charts are a technique we've used as an incentive for Bud to do things that are difficult - going to sleep by himself, remembering to use the toilet, swallowing pills. Bud earns a sticker each time he successfully completes the designated task, and after a predetermined number of stickers he earns a much-coveted prize. Bud desperately wanted the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse without waiting until his birthday, and he guessed that a sticker chart would be the most likely route to getting it.
I told Bud that we'd talk about it in the morning, then set about considering our options. Bud's motivation for this toy would be high, and I knew it provided an opportunity to work on a particularly daunting challenge. Two things came to mind: nighttime pull-ups and vegetables.
I ruled out pull-ups after only a few minutes' consideration. We use sticker charts for behaviors over which Bud has control. Sticker charts allow him to make choices - do the thing and get a sticker, or don't do the thing right now with the knowledge that you can do it and get a sticker some other time. No pressure. Low stakes. All in your own time. But I'm not sure that staying dry at night is a choice that Bud would be able to make, even if he wanted to. Lots of seven-year-olds - even those without autism - use pull-ups at night. Bud may not be biologically ready yet, and I didn't want to risk setting him up for failure or, perhaps worse, making him feel self-conscious or ashamed.
So veggies it was. Bud has always been good about eating vegetables, as long as they're pureed and in a jar marked "Gerbers." He likes the taste of vegetables, but he balks at chunks of them. Maybe it's the texture. Maybe it's just the idea. Either way, Bud has refused to let a solid vegetable pass his lips for years.
In the morning, when Bud asked again about a sticker chart, I pitched the vegetable idea - and, eager to do whatever it took, Bud signed on happily. We put together a sticker chart with 32 boxes for stickers followed by a picture of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and we hung it on the refrigerator.
At lunchtime, when it was time to start trying to earn stickers, Bud balked again. I'd started with green beans - one of his favorites - but he could barely get past licking them. He finally choked one down by tossing it back with milk, like he was swallowing a pill, then suggested that we start with celery instead. He munched a celery stalk and a raw carrot (I have a hunch he's been eating these at school), and earned three stickers - one for each kind of veggie he'd eaten. We were off to a good start.
At dinner, it was time to try again, but Bud was in the mood for negotiation. He would eat a vegetable, he said, if he could have ALL of his stickers in exchange for it. He whined and wheedled, but I stayed firm as the veggies on his plate grew cold. Finally, he tried another green bean, and he gagged.
Maybe this is too much for him, I thought. Maybe he really can't do this.
I suggested to Bud that for this sticker he could go back to baby food, but that he would need to feed himself. (Another veggie quirk of Bud's is that, although he feeds himself everything else, he will only eat his pureed veggies if they are fed to him - but then he eats them happily.)
Bud sat at the table with his pureed green beans untouched in front of him as he continued to negotiate and complain ("How about cake? Cake could be vegetables!"). Slowly, the rest of the dinner dishes were cleared and Bud wandered away from the table. The green beans sat cold and menacing like something out of a scene in Mommy Dearest. I picked them up and told Bud that dinner was over, and that he could try again tomorrow.
And then, the post-Christmas crash I'd been expecting the previous day descended on Bud as he wailed and cried and shouted and, finally, dissolved. I hustled him into his pajamas and he fell into bed, dejected and discouraged.
"It's okay, Bud," I said. "You don't have to worry. You'll get all the stickers. We'll do it together."
"You will take care of me, Mama?"
"Of course I will."
"It will be okay?"
"It will be okay. I promise. But now it's sleeping time. Do you want me to read a book to you?"
"I just want mumblemumblemumble..."
"What's that, Bud?"
"I just want you to be my friend."
"Oh, sweetie," I said, climbing up beside him, "I am always your friend." Bud slid over and put his head on my chest. I clicked off the light, and he fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, I woke to Bud's calm, clear voice in my ear: "Mama, may I try again?"
I assured him he could try again - and try he has. We're keeping the portions small. We're celebrating the small successes. We're working through a few gags here and there. He's spit out a mouthful or two. But he's eaten corn, carrots (raw and cooked), celery, peas, and even green beans. He's earned seventeen stickers and one big sense of accomplishment. The Fed Ex truck should deliver the Clubhouse tomorrow, right about the time we're posting sticker number 32.
Maybe we'll celebrate with some broccoli.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Yesterday I took him to the local pharmacy, which is a "catch all" kind of store that meets the needs of residents who aren't up to making the 40-minute drive to a box store, so that he could buy Christmas presents for Daddy, Nana, and Papa. I wasn't sure what to expect, but imagined that he'd head straight to the toy department to choose things that both he and his recipients might enjoy.
In fact, he never stepped foot in the toy department. He walked through areas of the store he'd never visited, picking things up, looking them over, and putting them back down. He made his decisions carefully, but decisively, declaring "This one is for Daddy!" or "Nana's going to love this."
We went home and wrapped the presents together, then he took them one by one to place them under the tree, where they stayed for about three hours, until he could stand it no longer and started delivering them to their recipients. We all gathered in the kitchen for the grand unveiling, in which Daddy got heart-shaped soap, Nana got a Christmas-tree shaped tube of shower gel, and Papa got a Christmas platter.
Bud's enthusiasm grew with each present that was opened, and with each shriek of delight that he heard. He hopped up and down, clapping his hands and laughing as we gushed over each present in turn. Then he ran to get two more presents, one for Daddy and one for me, that he'd made at school.
Dad got a lovely covered dish, and I got a book, written by Bud and bound in hardcover. It instantly became my most treasured possession, and once I have access to a scanner and can do it some sort of justice, I will share it with all of you.
Bud wanted to keep the good feelings going for as long as he could, and if one of us set down our gift he scurried over to hand it back to us. He suddenly realized that he was the only one among us without a present, so he dashed over to the kitchen counter, grabbed a gift bag, and tossed in the nearest item he could find: a bottle of Triaminic cough syrup. Then, with his own gift in hand, he joined us in the middle of the kitchen for a celebration of the spirit of Christmas, pulling us all together in a five-way hug.
It was a Christmas moment that will stay with me forever. The shower gel, the platter, the soap, the box, the book - even the cough syrup - are wonderful gifts. But, without question, the warmth and love that filled our kitchen because of them were reminders to each of us that Bud himself is the best gift of all.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Yesterday I attended the first grade holiday concert at Bud's school. I was nervous, because the last school event I attended was the Kindergarten end-of-the-year celebration, which did not go as well as we'd hoped. The first grade event was much more grandiose, with children from four first-grade classrooms crowded on a stage, facing rows of smiling parents in the school's multipurpose room. I reminded myself of the lessons I'd learned last year, and tried to have realistic expectations about it. Daddy, Nana, and Papa stayed away, so as not to overwhelm our boy with too many people out of context. I left the camera at home, so Bud would feel less "on the spot." And I gave Bud several opportunities to let me know he'd like me to stay away as well, and let him have only "school people" at his school event. He assured me that he wanted me to come - though I had strict instructions that I was to JUST WATCH, and not sing along.
I arrived early and found a seat that was close (but not too close) and on the aisle in case I needed to make a quick exit. Once the parents were settled, three first grade classes - all but Bud's - filed in and found their places on stage. My mind briefly flashed to an image of frantic teachers delayed because they were trying to calm a hysterical Bud, but moments later his class rounded the corner into the room. His teacher looked breezy and carefree, and by her side was Bud, smiling, wearing his sound-blocking headphones rigged up with paper reindeer antlers. His aide pointed me out in the audience, and he dashed over for a hug. I wondered if he'd refuse to leave once he was with me, but he happily followed his aide to join the rest of his class on stage, where he waved and smiled and winked at me.
It was a lovely program. Each class sang two songs, then the entire ensemble sang a song together. Bud stayed on stage for the entire production. He didn't sing, but he listened, and conducted, and tapped sticks in perfect syncopation with the rest of his class. He didn't sit, as the other children did, but he stood to the side by his classmates, in a spot that gave him a good view of the other singers, a good view of me, and easy access to his teacher whenever he needed a hug. It was a resounding success.
At the conclusion of the program, we went back to Bud's classroom for juice and cookies. A mom I'd never met before stopped to tell me that her daughter Lily is very fond of Bud and "talks about him all the time." She said Lily had made him a Christmas present and would bring it to school the next day.
When Bud and I arrived at the classroom the following morning, Lily and her dad were waiting for us. Lily's dad suggested that Bud open his present so that I could take it home to make sure it didn't get broken. I helped Bud open a lovely glass ornament on which Lily had painted a snowman's face, and as the other children in the class gathered around to see it, I realized that Lily hadn't made an ornament for all of her friends. She'd only made one for Bud.
Bud was a bit overwhelmed by the hubbub and the break in routine, and was too distracted to take a long look at the ornament, but he did give Lily a prompted "thank you." I told Lily's dad how moved I was by her thoughtfulness and he replied, "Lily was really excited about making it for him." My heart soared.
Last night, Bud was delighted when I suggested that he write a thank-you note to Lily. I told him he could use the computer to write it, hoping that if he didn't have to struggle through handwriting he might write a lengthier note. My plan worked, and without any help from me, Bud wrote:
Dear Lily thank you for this presint
And thank you to Wow I seid
Oh no seid Lily
Msis PrGER luv his frend
Good frends seid Msis Prker
Which translates to:
Thank you for this present. And thank you, too!
"Wow," I said.
"Oh no," said Lily.
Mrs. Parker love his friend.
"Good friends," said Mrs. Parker.
Last night before bed, Bud and I prepared the packages he'd be taking with him for his last day of school before the holiday break: a tin of homemade cookies for his class party, cards and treat bags for his teachers and the special ed staff, and a large supply of Christmas crackers to share with all his friends at school. Bud was so caught up in the spirit of the season that he climbed out of bed before me, rustled around for a while, then burst into my room shouting "Get up, Mama! It's Christmas! It's presents downstairs!"
"No, Bud," I said. "It's not Christmas yet. It's a school day, remember? It won't be Christmas for a few more days."
"No," he corrected me. "It's me, Bud, give presents for you!"
Intrigued, I made my way downstairs to discover that he'd snuck down before I was out of bed, filled my stocking with items from around the house (spoons, a note card, one of his shirts), and placed a few treasures (a beach ball, a stuffed character) under the tree.
"Merry Christmas!" he shouted.
Yes. Merry Christmas.
The very, very merriest.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
Alice Schertle's All You Need for a Snowman.
It's a simple little story about building a snowfriend, but the rhythm and the meter are pure music. It is a delight to read out loud and, based on Bud's reaction, also a delight to hear.
It's absolutely all you need.
Last night, Bud and I were putting together treat bags for his teachers, and he asked if he could eat a piece of candy. He chose a Nestles Crunch bell - something he'd never tried before. He bit in, and his face registered surprise that the candy did not have the smooth, creamy texture he has come to associate with chocolate.
"Mmmmm," he said with a far-away look in his eye, as he thought about the other crispy-coated food he enjoys. "It's just like chocolate chicken."
Thursday, December 14, 2006
1. "Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth" by David Bowie and Bing Crosby
I'm actually not a huge fan of "Little Drummer Boy" as a stand-alone, but couple it with the beautiful counter-melody of "Peace on Earth" and it slays me every time. The Bowie/Crosby pairing is pure genius, though I can't imagine the tv executives (the song originally appeared in a 1977 Bing Crosby television special) who sat around a table and thought "You know who'd make a great duet?" Maybe it's the juxtaposition of the two that makes it work so well, I don't know - but it's like last year's Grammy's mash-up that melded Paul McCartney with Jay-Z and Linkin Park. Only more so. With bells on.
2. "Wonderful Christmastime" by Paul McCartney
If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that this is a no-brainer.
Q: What's better than a Christmas song?
A: A Christmas song written and performed by Palmer Cartney.
3. "Christmas Waltz" by Frank Sinatra
I actually had to look up the title of this one, but it's the one that goes "Frosted window panes, candles gleaming inside. Painted candy canes on the tree. Santa's on his way; he's filled his sleigh with things - things for you and for me." I guess the bit about "this song of mine in three-quarter time" should have been a clue. I just think it's delightful, whatever it's called.
4. "Sleigh Ride"
I love most versions of this song, as long as they are performed in a straightforward way. I am profoundly uninterested in show-off performers adding runs and trills and odd syncopation to my Christmas standards, making it completely impossible to sing along. I am a "Sleigh Ride" purist, and prefer the song played loud when I am alone in the car.
I should mention that the definitive recording of the song for me, which I haven't actually heard in years, was the one that appeared on the Christmas compilation LP we owned when I was a child. I seem to recall that it was a gas station give-away - a free-with-a-fill-up sort of promotion - and it included a version of "Sleigh Ride" by Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme. Now that was a sing-along good time.
5. "Fairytale of New York" by The Pogues
Okay, I'll grant you, this is not your typical warm and fuzzy, Currier and Ives, chestnuts-roasting-on-an-open-fire kind of tune. It's more the seamy underbelly of the Christmas season, with Shane MacGowan's opening stanza slurred out with a scowl:
It was Christmas Eve, babe,
In the drunk tank.
An old man said to me,
"Won't see another one."
And then he sang a song,
A rare old mountain tune.
I turned my face away,
And dreamed about you.
Kirsty MacColl joins MacGowan in a duet that Wikipedia describes as the story of "two Irish immigrants, lovers or ex-lovers, their youthful hopes all but crushed by alcoholism and drug addiction, reminiscing and bickering on Christmas Eve in New York City. " It may not sound like the stuff of which tradition is made, but trust me - not a Christmas goes by without my husband and me crooning to each other:
You scumbag, you maggot,
You cheap lousy f****t,
Happy Christmas your arse,
I pray God it's our last.
Except we sing it with love.
Now it's your turn: post your top five in the comments section, or leave a comment directing us to your blog.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
I had a different take on the book when I read it last year.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Here, then, are the recently-discovered lost works from the master himself:
He had an umbrella.
George is a monkey, so he can do things you can'ts do.
Well, he ate a zero and he changed numbers to thousands to one hundred.
Well, he's a monkey so he can do things you can'ts do.
George and his friends rolled down really fast.
George is a monkey, so he can do things you can'ts do.
He was taking all the sounds for the animals were making.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
I'd been planning on easing into the season, to downplay the merriment and put off the decorations until mid-month, but the fact is that I'm just as big a sucker for the holiday as Bud is. Yesterday, Bud suggested that it was time to get a tree. It didn't take much convincing for him to get Papa and me bundled into the car to head off to make the Big Purchase, and now a brilliant, twinkling Christmas tree stands in a prominent position in the living room. Bud woke early this morning - not as early as some mornings, I'll grant you, but 3:00 a.m. nonetheless - not asking for breakfast, not asking to turn on the television, but simply requesting that we head downstairs to watch the tree. It promises to be a long month, but a lovely one.
Bud also took some time yesterday to compose a letter to Santa. Unlike last year, when Bud dictated his letter to me, this year he wrote it all by himself. It reads:
Wut did you brin to me
I wot a move a toy a bawse house kshrls
Kpydr game by Bud and sumbh and mom
Dad nana puupu pbskids nosze game
Curious gorgre toy
Or, for those less fluent in Bud:
What did you bring to me?
I want a movie, a toy, a bouncy house, controls.
Computer game. By Bud and Sumbah and Mom,
Dad, Nana, Papa. PBS Kids, noisy game,
Curious George toy.
Oh, okay, I helped him with the "Curious." But the rest was pure Bud.
We're off to the mailbox today to send the letter off to the North Pole. Incidentally, we're not including the translation in the copy we're sending. I have it on good authority that Santa can read Bud just fine.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
About halfway through NaBloPoMo, I was certain that I'd made a mistake when I'd signed on to publish a post every day for the month of November, and I wondered how I'd make it through to the end.
But somewhere along the way, I experienced a shift in both areas of my life. With just two weeks left in the semester, my class has hit its stride. My students still don't love writing. In truth, most of them still find it painful. But the classroom atmosphere has changed. The students are more engaged. The conversation is more lively. The experience is more pleasant.
And today, as I publish my final NaBloPoMo post, I feel like I have hit my stride as well. I still don't love the pressure of posting every day, but I no longer find it painful. And the routine of writing every day has changed me. I feel more engaged in the process. My internal monologue about writing is more lively. And the experience is more pleasant.
I'm still eager to welcome December, scale back my posting, and wrap up my class. I'm looking forward to reclaiming my former life, both online and off. But, as often happens, I won't be stepping back into that old life; I'll be stepping forward into a new version of it.
Not bad for one month's progress, eh?
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tonight, Bud reminded me that Wednesdays are not just art days; they are also pizza days - the one day each week when Bud buys his lunch at school. Every other day, he brings his lunch from home and just buys milk in the cafeteria.
So at dinner this evening, when Bud wanted to talk through the days to come, I had some trouble keeping up.
"Mama, what tomorrow is?"
"Tomorrow is Thursday."
"No. Milk day."
"Oh, of course. Milk day."
"Then another milk day, then Mom and Bud day, then Mom and Bud day, then milk day, then milk day, then pizza day."
So, for the record, and for those keeping score at home, that means we have 14 milk days, 3 pizza days, and 8 Mom and Bud days until Christmas.
But who's counting?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Time Bud fell asleep: 8:00
Time I finally crawled into bed: 11:55
Time Bud woke up to start his day: 1:40
Additional milligrams of melatonin I gave Bud: 1.5
Additional minutes of sleep Bud got: 0
Hour I dozed off and on while Bud sang, danced, played, jumped, talked, and twirled my hair: almost 5
Minutes late I was running by the time I finally got out of bed: 30
Hours I expected Bud to make it into the school day before he fell asleep or fell apart: 2
Warnings I issued to school professionals regarding suspected difficulty: 3
Classroom aides who usually work with Bud: 1
Classroom aides who went home sick today with strep throat: 1
Reported problems that resulted from Bud being overtired and having no aide: 0
Minutes early that Bud left school: 0
Minutes of nap time Bud got in the car after school: 10
Hours Bud had been awake by the time he went to bed tonight: 18
Seconds it took Bud to fall asleep: 4
Posts I've completed for NaBloPoMo: 27
Posts left to complete for NaBloPoMo: 3
Hours remaining today in which to post: 4
Ounces of energy in my reserve with which I could compose a post: 0
Posts completed today: 1
Monday, November 27, 2006
Here are some of my very favorite improvisations.
The first characters Bud needed to create on his own were Chris and Martin Kratt, the hosts of the PBS show Zoboomafoo. Here's what Chris and Martin look like in real life:
And here's what they look like at our house,
as played by the Fisher Price family dad and mom. (NB: The mom always plays the role of Martin. I'm not sure, but I think it's because Chris wears the green shirt.)
Bud is also a fan of Moose and Zee, the cartoon hosts over at Noggin:
Except that in Budland, the roles are played by a moose puppet and Norville, the bird from Clifford's Puppy Days:
Sometimes Bud likes to play with Smooch and Winslow, the marmosets from It's a Big, Big World, who look like this on TV:
And like this in Budland:
And, of course, we can't forget the ever-popular Curious George and The Man With the Yellow Hat:
as played in Budland by BJ (of Barney fame) and an anonymous stuffed monkey. (You may also take note of the clever roller skates on George's feet, created by Matchbox cars and twist-ties.):
Bud's current passion is the new Noggin program, The Upside Down Show, starring "brothers" Shane and David, whom (for obvious reasons, when you realize that you're looking at Shane on the right) Bud calls "Shave-it and Dave-it":
This is what they look like around here, where Zoboomafoo stars as Shave-it and Woodstock stars as Dave-it:
And, finally, the piece de resistance and my personal favorite, Charlie and Lola, as they appear on the BBC CBeebies website,
And as they as they appear in our bathroom (That's Charlie on the left):
Sunday, November 26, 2006
See what you think:
We rowed our boat. Then we saw a dolphin. The boat has a hole in it. We put some tape on it. Then we saw a big ship coming at us. And it bump into us.
"Hurry!" shouted Bud. He was so scared and he eat it.
"No, ship!" said Bud.
"I said 'need it', not 'eat it'!" shouted Mom.
He was so mad because a ship was coming up. Because Mom is alright. Bud is new here. The big upside down cap!
We heard someone calling.
"Bud? Mom? Bud? Mom?" It sound like Sumbah. Now he called him again. How he take them back?
"How?" said Mom.
"I don't know," said Bud. He was not accepted. She was all right. And it was correct. He put it in his pocket and they went inside.
Bud said, "Next time, Mom, please enjoy yourselves."
Sumbah was taking them for bed.
Bud is a boy.
Is a Mom and a Bud.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
I'm not sure of the source of this particular set of scripts (Charlie and Lola, perhaps? Curious George?), but I'm finding them delightful. Here's a sampling of a few of our recent exchanges:
"Come on, Bud. Let's go upstairs and get dressed."
"I'm very sorry, Mama, but I'm very busy right now."
"Hey, Bud! There's a really neat parade on tv that has big, giant balloon characters like Snoopy. Do you want to see it?"
"Oh, I'm very sorry, but actually I'm watching Dragon Tales."
"Hey, Bud, your supper is ready!"
"Actually, I think I'd like some potato chips, please."
This phase may not be around too long, since even these fancy words are not yielding him potato chips instead of supper.
But it will be fun while it lasts. Actually.
Friday, November 24, 2006
If you've ever been to junior high, you're probably familiar with the mean girl phenomenon. Mean girls are not just run-of-the-mill hormonal, dramatic, mood-swinging teenagers. They are a breed unto themselves - a breed with a tell-tale modus operandi: mean girls get to know you just enough to discover the place where you are most vulnerable, and then they use that information to exploit it. For fun. Just because they can.
Bud and I had an encounter with some mean girls today. Bud's been seeing the same hairdresser for several years - a woman who's in business for herself, which means that Bud is able to get his haircut without the typical beauty-shop sensory inundation of the sound of blasting hairdryers, the smell of chemical dyes, and the sight old ladies with their hair standing on end. When Bud gets his haircut, the only other people in the shop are Julie, the hair-dresser, and her daughter Meg, who is often in the shop waiting for her mom to be finished so that she can get a ride to soccer or basketball or the movies. Meg has always seemed like a nice enough kid - in that bored, disinterested, angst-filled way that preteens are nice. She has been especially helpful in getting the shop ready for Bud's arrival, by whisking the family dog out of the main room and into the back, or - if the dog is having a high-energy day - into the car, where his barking will not disturb Bud.
Julie has recently moved her shop out of her previous store-front and into an area on the ground floor of her home, and today was the first day that Bud and I went there for his haircut. I'd explained the move to him, but when we pulled up to what appeared to be a stranger's house, Bud was tentative about going in. He stood in the driveway refusing to go any further until Julie came out to greet us. Then he followed her in slowly and uncertainly, and he remained on edge throughout his haircut.
Julie, who has come to understand Bud in the time she's been cutting his hair, remained unfazed by his skittishness, and happily chatted to him as she gently snipped away at his hair. Meg walked through the shop several times during our visit, accompanied by a friend. The shop, it seemed, was in the path from one area of the house to the other, and the girls made frequent trips back and forth, whispering conspiratorially. Each time they passed through, Julie reminded Meg to keep the door shut, giving her a look that we both recognized as "Don't let the dog in here or Bud will get upset."
Julie finished quickly, much to Bud's relief, and we were able to head back to the safety of the car. As we walked down the driveway past the rear of the house, a loud bark emanated from a second floor window.
The bark was not quite canine; it sounded suspiciously like the tone of a thirteen-year-old girl.
Bud feigned fear with a half-hearted "Aaaaaaahhhhh!" that was really more feigning than fear, but he moved quickly toward the car, more eager to put this unsettling new hairdressing shop behind us.
"They are just playing a trick on you, Bud," I said loudly in the direction of the open window. "They are just playing a very mean trick."
I imagine the experience was less than satisfying for the girls. But I've spent the rest of the day wondering: Why did they go out of their way to do that? What did they hope to achieve? What element of superiority did they expect to walk away with? What could they possibly gain from besting a seven-year-old autistic boy?
And all I can come up with is this: they did it just to be mean.
Bud was unaffected by the experience, and I'm sure he stopped thinking about it moments after it happened. But I've been thinking about it all day. When do mean girls turn mean? What about the delightful little girls who have befriended Bud at school? Do any of them show the early signs of developing into a mean girl? Will Bud - trusting, loving, innocent Bud - someday turn to his friend Sophie or his friend Kelly, only to discover that she's the mastermind behind an elaborate joke made at his expense?
Meg and her friend thought they'd have a laugh by capitalizing on Bud's fear of dogs. Their plan fell flat, and they probably noted that they'd have to come up with a better scheme for meanness when they found their next victim. I wonder if they'd be satisfied to know that they hit the target with me and that, by barking out an open window, they left me feeling exposed and vulnerable for the rest of the day. That ought to be good for a laugh or two, right? It ought to be a downright scream - you know, if you're a mean girl.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
My mind turned instantly to Katie McCarron, the autistic girl who should be four years old and should be celebrating Thanksgiving today with her family. But she is not. Katie was murdered by her mother last Mothers Day weekend.
I thought, too, of Marcus Fiesel, of Scarlett Chen, of Ryan Davies, of Christopher DeGroot, and of William Lash.
It is all too much to bear.
So my Thanksgiving post today is a simple one.
I give thanks for Bud.
I give thanks for every moment with him.
I give thanks for the privilege of sharing his joys, his heartbreaks, his soaring triumphs and his daunting challenges.
I give thanks for the opportunity to share my life with him.
I give thanks for the honor of having him share his life with me.
I give thanks for Bud, autism and all.
Today, and every day.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Last night it seemed like I had permutations of the same dream all night long. I say "it seemed," because you know how blurry dream-reality is: I was at your house, but it wasn't your actual house but I knew in the dream that you lived there. And then Tom Cruise showed up, except that he was your Uncle Mel...
Anyway, through my dreams I seemed to spend the entire evening in my office in conversation with a friend/colleague. And in a chipper voice, all night long, she said things like this to me:
"I don't know why people always say you're such a sourpuss. You're not like that at all."
"I mean, really, I just don't see why you get such a bad rap for being so grumpy. Where does that come from?"
"Because, seriously, that's all people talk about. You'd think from the way they talk that you're just an ogre. It doesn't make any sense."
"Of course you're in a bad mood sometimes - everybody is. But, really, why should you have such a reputation for being so grouchy? It's just not fair..."
All. Night. Long.
The first time it happened I woke up, thought "that was weird," and rolled over and went back to sleep.
But there she was again: "You're just not that difficult to deal with. You don't deserve that."
By the time morning came, I wanted to kick her in the teeth.
I don't know where it came from. She and I have a terrific relationship. There's been no significant tension at work. Maybe I just feel like I've been grumpy lately.
We're both at work today, and I've spent the morning wanting to walk into her office and say, "What was all that about, anyway?"
But then I remember that she wasn't actually there last night.
So, instead, I'm going out of my way to be perky and cheery and full of holiday spirit.
'Cause, you know, I don't want to get a reputation...
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... Curious George!
I really like the boat he build, and we're going to make some, too.
George pull out the spaghetti so he can scratch the soft the mystery.
George is a monkey, so he can do things you can'ts do.
He got all the skins back on the wrong fruits.
George is a monkey, so he can do things you can'ts do.
He's getting all the mosquitoes back in the grass.
Curious George is a monkey, so he can do things you can'ts do.
He build a world tree for the pigeon that actually stand up.
He found his way home by following sounds.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Last fall, I went to see McCartney as he toured the country promoting his most recent album, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, and like all slightly manic fans I waited patiently by the gated back entrance to catch a glimpse of him as he zipped past in his limo. While I passed the time with a crowd of warm-hearted, like-minded crazies, McCartney's videographer (I recognized him - how pathetic is that?) wandered out with his cameraman and started interviewing some people in the crowd. I listened from afar, and imagined what I would say if I had the opportunity. The videographer said to the cameraman, "Let's do one more," then he looked up and, from the other end of the crowd, locked eyes with me. Horrified, I instantly broke eye contact and looked away, but he walked directly up to me and said, "Can I ask you a few questions?"
He asked me some sort of open-ended question about why I was there that evening, and I started telling him about Bud - about how much Bud loves Paul McCartney - about how Paul's music is something that Bud and I share, something that connects us - about how Bud watches Paul's last concert film constantly - about how, though language has always been a struggle for him, music has been second nature - about how, even before he could talk, Bud could sing Band on the Run - about how, even though Chaos and Creation had only been out a few weeks, Bud already knew all the lyrics - about how, despite all this, the sights and sounds of a concert would be scary and overwhelming for Bud - about how I was there that night for both of us.
Halfway through the interview, the videographer asked me to stop and start again with a clear opening that would make a good soundbite ("My son Bud is six-years-old, and he has autism...") I don't remember exactly what I said, but my friend says I was concise and articulate. I've spent the last year trying to convince myself that with the thousands of hours of footage they'd taped I wouldn't have a chance of making the final cut. But I secretly hoped that when Bud and I sat down to watch the DVD, he'd see the camera cut away from Paul and cut to me talking about Bud.
I haven't watched the DVD yet (I'm saving it as a special Thanksgiving weekend treat to share with Bud), but my best McCartney-concert-going friend has watched every second, and has scanned all crowd scenes for even a glimpse of us.
In happier news, VTBudFan sent me a link to some recent photos that show Paul looking better than ever despite some very messy business in his personal life:
Discerning fans will note that Paul has abandoned the light brown hair dye for a more natural, more flattering dark brown.
Now all he needs is a better video editor.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
It's hard to say it out loud because I imagine that I'm often saying it to people who regard medicating young children as a cop-out, an attempt at a quick-fix, and the result of an unwillingness to do the hard work of actual parenting. In other words, people who think the same way I used to think about the issue.
When Bud was three-years-old, I brought him for his annual visit with the developmental pediatrician who initially diagnosed his autism, the director of a child development clinic at a nationally-recognized teaching hospital. In our debrief meeting at the end of the hours-long visit, Dr. K explained that he is extremely conservative about recommending medication for young children, and that he always errs on the side of withholding it. That being said, though, he recommended that I meet with a child psychiatrist who specializes in autism to discuss the possibility of using an anxiety medication with Bud.
I was reluctant to follow his advice, so I spoke privately with the Speech and Language Pathologist who had been involved in the meeting, and who worked very closely with Dr. K. She said that he was not exaggerating when he said that he was extremely conservative, and that she'd rarely heard him recommend medication in a child so young. I agreed to meet with the psychiatrist, but when I called his office I learned that I'd need to wait at least a year for an appointment. I contacted Dr. K to let him know, and he had us booked for an appointment the following week.
The appointment with the psychiatrist was helpful. He was willing to write a prescription for Bud, but also said that he didn't think we'd be taking a significant risk by taking a "wait and see" approach. We decided to hold off on medication and we booked another appointment in a year's time.
We had a similar meeting when Bud was four, and once again we decided to wait. Then, the summer before Bud turned six and just before he started Kindergarten, we took him to a child psychologist for testing and decided that the time was right for something. Instead of focusing on Bud's anxiety, we focused on his attention and distractibility and we ultimately landed on Strattera, which has helped significantly with his focus and his ability to engage with people and tasks.
Then, this fall, Bud's anxiety level reached an all-time high. His anxiety transformed him emotionally and physically - he worried incessantly; he perseverated about the weather; he was anxious about leaving the house; he grew pale and sallow; the circles under his eyes deepened into a bruisy purple; he didn't eat very much; his face became gaunt. In desperation, I called his pediatrician and told her we were ready to try a medication for anxiety with him.
She prescribed Zoloft - a half dose for the first week, then a full dose after that. Within days, Bud's disposition started to change. The color came back to his cheeks. His appetite returned. He started to think about things besides the condition of the sky and his calculations about the likelihood of a storm. He started to play again, and to rediscover the things that brought him joy. With each day that passed, he worried about the weather a little less. Then the worry subsided into simple conversation about the weather.
Remarkably, since he started taking Zoloft, Bud has started having more actual, engaged, back-and-forth conversation. He's using more language, more effectively. His grammatical structure has gotten more complex; he's even started correcting himself.
I was goofing with him the other day, and said, "Look! I'm a monkey!"
He laughed and said "No, you not..." but his sentence trailed of and he caught himself, thought for a minute, and said "No, you... isn't."
"I'm not?" I asked.
"No, you're not!" he laughed.
Conversations that used to end at Question-Answer now take several turns. I put Bud's sandwich down on the table yesterday and he asked, "Mama, can I have potato chips with it?"
"We don't have any potato chips, hon," I said dismissively, expecting that he'd either drop the request or shift it to pretzels.
"They taked them?" he asked, indignantly. (I'm not sure who "they" were...)
"No, nobody took them."
"I ate them all," he said, suggesting what seemed the only plausible conclusion.
"Yes, you did."
"That's okay. We can buy some more."
His experience-sharing language has also grown exponentially. When I ask about his favorite part of his school day, I no longer get the same one-word answer: "Recess." Now I hear about Writer's Workshop and counting in math and the painting he did in art.
The other day he named all of the children who go to "Word Study" (the special ed group) with him, and he taught my husband and me one of their exercises. He held up a word card, and we had to say "letter-word-sound" - "B. Bell. Ba. K. Kite. Ka." He corrected us gently when we mixed up the order, by stating it correctly and looking at us intently until we repeated him. When we got through the stack, he said "45 seconds! Great work! And you're doing very good sitting, Mama."
He's calmer. He's more engaged. He's more interested in other children. He's using lots and lots of spontaneous, conversational language. All since he started taking Zoloft.
Of course, for every positive thought I have about Zoloft, I have two nagging thoughts:
What are the long-term effects of a powerful medication on a developing little body? and, conversely,
What would his development be like now if I'd followed the doctor's suggestion and started him on anxiety medication four years ago?
I know that dwelling on the "what ifs" is rarely helpful or productive. I really do know that. But the fact remains: Zoloft has had a significant effect on reducing Bud's anxiety, but it's left me stranded with a whole lot of my own.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Today's Mom and Bud day involved:
1. A visit to the library so that Bud could fix all the clocks (a la Curious George).
2. A stop at Dunkin Donuts for munchkins (him) and medium-coffee-skim-milk-one-sugar-and-a-caramel-flavor-shot (me).
3. Playtime at the park.
We were having a lovely time at the park when a family of four arrived with their dog. Bud was nervous as they unpacked the car, and became visibly agitated as their dog frolicked near them.
"Don't worry, honey," I said, loud enough for the family to hear. "That doggie won't come near you."
"It's okay - he's friendly," the dad shouted over to us.
"We have a dog phobia here," I shouted back, in as kind a tone as I could muster.
The dog barrelled toward us, as if to prove just how friendly he was. Bud darted away with his hands on his ears, shouting "No doggie! Go away!"
"A very, very, severe phobia!" I shouted over my shoulder, a bit less kindly, as I chased after Bud spewing comforting words.
The dad moved to catch his dog and said, in an attempt to reassure Bud, "Yeah, but - he's very friendly."
I stopped when I caught up to Bud, then turned to the dad and said, "Yeah, but - he's autistic."
"We'll keep him on a leash," the dad assured us. I thanked him, and the family moved to a different area of the park.
Bud and I continued playing on the slide, climbing inside the big plastic tube together and copying each other as we drummed out rhythms on the sides.
Later we went for a walk. Bud stopped at every hole in the ground to check for prairie dogs. Then he headed for his favorite stream so he could "skip some stones" (or, more accurately, hurl stones into the water.)
All things considered, it was a very good day.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Still Life (this one is titled "Happy Birthday, Tinky Winky"):
Performance Art (in two movements):
And, of course, photography:
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The same cannot be said for my actual life, in which only parenting supersedes coffee as a draw for my time and attention.
So here it is - a post about my newest coffee-related addiction: Dunkin Donuts flavor shots.
I'm a late-comer to this particular party because I'm not usually a fan of flavored coffees. What I've discovered, however, is that I'm not a fan of coffee made from flavored coffee beans. Flavor shots are completely different. Flavor shots take an already fantastic cup of coffee and add a little bit of heaven.
There are nine different flavors available: French vanilla, toasted almond, raspberry, hazelnut, coconut, chocolate, cinnamon, caramel, blueberry. I've not yet tried them all because as I was making my way through the list - coconut (yum), chocolate (not bad), caramel (ooo!) - it occurred to me that I was probably adding 600 calories of fat to my daily caffeine intake. So I asked a worker for some more information about them, and she told me that they were sugar-free and added a mere 20 calories per cup. (The bad news is that there is probably not a single ingredient in them that actually occurs in nature. But, you know - whatever.)
And here's where I get to the good part. In addition to answering my questions, the worker gave me a life-changing piece of information: the flavors can be combined.
"Try the Almond Joy," she said.
"The Almond Joy?" I asked.
"A three-way combo of chocolate, toasted almond, and coconut."
"Really? It's good?"
"Trust me on this one."
Luckily, I am, by nature, a trusting soul.
I'm trying to pace myself. I'm trying to limit myself to one (or two) a week, so I don't flame out too fast. But, really. Almond Joy. It really is all that.
Trust me on this one.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
More on how you and DAD-NOS navigate household and childrearing responsibilities together. You both work, so how to you navigate all the housework. Just curious.
It's simple, really. We have a secret weapon: live-in grandparents.
For obvious reasons, this is not a solution that would work for everyone. And there are many folks in our inner and extended circles who are incredulous that it works for all of us. But it does. And mostly - most importantly - it works for Bud.
Interestingly, the journey toward cohabitation began when we discovered that we were expecting twins and our heads started swimming with questions about how we'd manage it. My parents lived a state away from us at the time, and we had no relatives who were local. But my mom was approaching retirement age and my dad had been retired for years, so they started making plans to move away from the town in which they'd both been raised to buy a house around the corner from us.
They were in the final stages of planning their relocation when Bud was born and his twin brother, Pal, died. But, even though we were no longer facing the daunting prospect of having two babies at the same time and even though we were not yet aware of Bud's autism, my parents moved forward with their plan to move to our neighborhood. When I look back at it now, I recognize that it's yet another gift that Pal gave us.
In the early months of Bud's life, I worked days and my husband worked afternoons and evenings, and we had a complicated choreography of shift-work childcare, which involved drop-offs and pick-ups and fly-by visits for nursing. As Bud got a little older, my husband switched to a daytime shift and Nana and Papa took on the full-day responsibility of caring for Bud. In a short time, and as a result of a complicated series of events, it became clear that consolidating our households would make the most sense for all of us. So the summer before Bud turned 2, just before we got Bud's "official" diagnosis, we pooled our resources and bought a big house with a lot of levels and a great deal of elbow room.
As with any shared-living experience, there are negotiations and compromises that have to be made. There have been some tension-filled moments. But there has also been a house filled to the brim with Bud-focused energy and insight and love.
It's hard to imagine what Bud's early years would have been like without Nana and Papa in his daily life. The reality is that before the day he started first grade (at almost seven years old), Bud had never spent more than four hours without at least one of the four of us. His life has had the kind of consistency and predictability that he's needed to feel safe and to build a sense of competence. Though he struggled with language for many years, he was always secure in the knowledge that his Big Four would be able to read him.
But Bud hasn't just gained a sense of stability from our arrangement. He has also developed a genuine flexibility and an understanding of human difference. At a very young age, it was clear that Bud understood that Mom is different from Dad who is different from Nana who is different from Papa. He knows us all well, and he has developed a unique relationship with each of us. He navigates the subtleties with ease - he knows what works with each individual: when to turn on the charm, when to push the issue, when to use humor, when to back down. We provide a real learning laboratory for the art and science of human interaction every single day.
And we benefit from having four sets of eyes and ears and hands; four minds; four hearts. We problem-solve together. We worry. We celebrate. We hope. Times four.
Is it a challenge? Of course it is. But we all keep our eyes on the prize. And our prize - our grand prize - makes the challenge seem very small.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
This NaBloPoMo commitment has had me posting every day for two full weeks. Two weeks - fourteen posts in fourteen days - and it's nothing but me, me, me! (Or, as my friend Kay would say, "But enough about me; let's talk about you. What do you think of me?")
I gotta say - I'm just not all that interesting.
In a good week, I've got about one worthwhile thing to say. In a great week, I've got two. But it takes me months to work up to fourteen thoughts that are worth sharing.
And despite that, I keep posting and preparing for the dust bunnies that are sure to start collecting in my comments section. I can almost hear you moaning as my site loads and you groan, "What - you again?" And I've still got 16 posts to go.
But a commitment is a commitment.
I have to wonder, does anyone have something significant to say every single day? I've been surfing around on the NaBloPoMo Randomizer and it seems that a lot of people are... er... struggling for material.
I'm thinking we should re-name this endeavor NaBlahBlahBlahPoMo.
Or maybe it's just me.
Monday, November 13, 2006
I asked a vague question about the nature of the experience, giving them plenty of latitude to evade the question if I was treading on sensitive territory. But they offered an explanation freely. There had been two rapes on the campus, they explained, and shortly after that the young woman got frightened when she believed that someone was following her as she walked to her car.
"I called Campus Police," the mom recounted incredulously. "And they told me that they couldn't guarantee my daughter's safety." And with that, her daughter decided to withdraw.
I didn't ask, but I had to wonder: Did someone on our campus guarantee her daughter's safety? Would anyone here be bold enough - foolish enough - to make such an outrageous promise?
And what would make a parent believe that we could deliver on it?
What would make a parent believe that it was a reasonable question in the first place?
I ask for a lot from the professionals who work with Bud. I ask them to listen to my concerns and to respond appropriately. I ask them to think critically and creatively, to collaborate, and to work as hard as they can for him and with him. But I don't ask for guarantees.
In fact, I think if they offered guarantees I'd quietly pack my things and move on.
I worry about this young woman's upcoming transition to our college, and I wonder if, through an unreasonable set of expectations, she's already set herself - and us - up for failure. When we met today, she and her mom told me exactly what they needed from me. They outlined their expectations at length and in detail.
I listened. I affirmed. I clarified. I suggested.
But I didn't guarantee.
If this woman enrolls in our college in January, I'll follow her closely. If all goes well, we'll have four years together. And I hope that, at the end of those four years when I watch her walk across the stage in her cap and gown, we will have done our job as educators and I'll be watching a woman who is more confident, more secure, and more comfortable with uncertainty. Because as she crosses that metaphoric platform, she may be thinking that she's headed for a particular kind of career, a particular kind of family, a particular kind of future. And perhaps she will be.
But there are no guarantees.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
He always uses the opportunity to tell students about another issue he encountered frequently in the line of duty - responding to motor vehicle accidents that involved moose. We live in a rural area, and it's not uncommon to be driving down a dark country road and suddenly see a moose looming in your headlights. If you are moving fast and the animal is standing still, it often becomes a contest of moose vs. metal - and let's just say the metal doesn't always fare very well. And, often, neither do the people riding in the car.
So Officer Brock offers an important safety tip to students every time he does a fire drill. Ask any student on our campus what to do if you think you're going to hit a moose, and they'll do their best Officer Brock impersonation, admonishing you with a growl:
"Aim for the ass. Moose don't back up."
It's a running joke on our campus.
But two weeks ago, a shaken student arrived at the Campus Safety office looking for Officer Brock. He'd just been on the road and found himself headed straight for a moose. Officer Brock's words rang in his ears and he swerved for the moose's backside. He walked away rattled, but unharmed.
I don't know if you're likely to see moose where you live. But someday you may be on vacation, and you may find your car speeding toward a hulking mass of animal. And if you do, just remember Officer Brock and these words that could save your life:
Moose don't back up.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
One morning this week I was standing in the kitchen making Bud's breakfast when my husband entered the room and greeted me with a hearty "Thabosefolosha!"
"What?" I asked.
"Thabosefolosha!" he repeated.
Uh-oh, I thought, recognizing the tell-tale signs. "What is that?"
"Who. Thabo Sefolosha. He plays for the NBA. I can't stop saying his name. Thabo Sefolosha. Isn't it great?"
And that was that. I've been Thabosefoloshing ever since.
I imagine that if the government had an illegal wiretap monitoring conversations in our house they'd suspect they'd stumbled on to some sort of code-speaking sleeper cell when they heard the kinds of things we walk around saying:
But our Blogosphere friends know the truth. We are not part of a terrorist network.
We are from France.
Friday, November 10, 2006
1. I've spent a lot of time looking at my own blog, and
2. I've spent a lot of time surfing other blogs on the NaBloPoMo Randomizer.
And because of these two things, one other thing has happened:
I've developed blog envy.
There are some very cool blogs out there. There is good writing, of course, but I'm not really talking about that. The blogs that have sparked my interest are the one that are visually interesting, that have character, individuality, pizzazz.
I'm looking at my words on the standard, unoriginal template Blogger provides for the technically challenged, and I'm feeling boring.
I'm stumbling across hundreds of other blogs with the exact same template as mine and I'm feeling generic.
Mostly I'm feeling like an eighth grader who is not cool enough to sit at the popular table in the cafeteria.
I've upgraded to the new beta Blogger, which promised to give me more options, but really just gave me a messier version of my boring, generic, run-of-the-mill template.
So I'm going to play with it. If you drop by in the days and weeks to come and things are looking wacky around here, you'll know why.
And if you have particular skill in this arena and would like to send some suggestions my way, I'd be awfully appreciative.
And my inner eighth-grader would be thankful for the lunch date.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Suffice it to say that Bob Wright and I have fundamental disagreements about autism advocacy - both the ends and the means.
But Bob Wright and I do have something in common: We're both fans of Aaron Sorkin's latest TV drama, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.
A couple of weeks ago, rumors were flying that Studio 60's cancellation was imminent. Then an entertainment columnist reported that Bob Wright wanted to keep the show on the air (and, yes, I realize I'm linking to Fox News here, but any port in a storm, you know?). The reporter quotes Wright as saying, "We'd never get that kind of cast together again. I think it will go on."
And he's right. Studio 60 has a stellar cast. Matthew Perry is the clear standout, in a role that helps him prove his talent as an actor by requiring him to be funny without bearing a slight resemblance to Chandler Bing. But Steven Weber, Amanda Peet, D.L. Hughley, Ed Asner, Bradley Whitford, Timothy Busfield, Sarah Paulson, and Nathan Corddry (who you may not know now, but who is certain to become a break-out star) are an outstanding ensemble.
The acting is tight. The writing is sharp and clever and fast-paced. Early episodes took a lot of time to set the context for the characters, but the plots are beginning to take off.
All this show needs is an audience.
This week's episode was the first of two parts. You can watch it in its entirety on the NBC website.
Why not find out if you agree with Bob Wright, too?
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
An update on the races I mentioned previously. Those in blue were victories for the Dems.
California: Phil Angelides for Governor - but did anyone really think it would happen?
California: Francine Busby for Congress
Connecticut: Ned Lamont for Senate - but Joe Leiberman won, so that's the second best option
Connecticut: Diane Farrell for Congress
Florida: Jim Davis for Governor
Florida: Bill Nelson for Senate
Idaho: Jerry Brady for Governor
Massachusetts: Deval Patrick for Governor
Minnesota: Amy Klobuchar for Senate (thanks, Anonymous)
Missouri: Claire McCaskill for Senate
Montana: John Tester for Senate
New Hampshire: Paul Hodes for Congress (and Carol Shea-Porter too - did anyone see that coming?)
New Jersey: Robert Menendez for Senate
Ohio: Sherrod Brown for Senate
Pennsylvania: Robert Casey for Senate (thanks, Moi)
Pennsylvania: Patrick Murphy for Congress
Tennessee: Harold Ford for Senate
Texas: Nick Lampson for Congress
Virginia: Jim Webb for Senate
West Virginia: Robert Byrd for Senate
Wisconsin: Jim Doyle for Governor (thanks, Daisy)
Wisconsin: Steve Kagen for Congress (and thanks again, Daisy)
Wyoming: Gary Trauner for Congress - stay tuned
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Today is Election Day in the US, and to those readers in the States who are eligible to vote I make these requests:
If you are inclined to go to the polls, please vote for a Democrat.
If you are inclined to vote for a Democrat, please go to the polls.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Most of the submissions are first-person narratives, and most are variations on a couple of themes. For example, it seems that many first-grade journalists subscribe to the philosophy "if it bleeds, it leads," and the magazine is rife with tales of injury and bloodshed. Jennifer writes of getting a bandaid after cutting herself while jumping on a wet log. Sophie writes of a curling iron burn. Lily writes about her dog's almost-broken leg.
Most of the others are "slice of life" pieces which offer a bit of insight into the child's world beyond the classroom:
"I was in the tree. Dad put a ladder up."
"I got out of the car and went to the apple festival."
"I saw some fire crackers outside my house. My mom was scared. My dad was happy."
"My cat was fighting with my dog. Then my cat just ran down into the cellar."
"I saw a rainbow. I was in Nana's house. It was raining. Then it cleared."
And then there's Bud - not just the only child who opted to write his story in third person, but also the only one who opted for fiction over personal narrative:
One day Bud woke up. He yawned just like Bud. He stretched just like Bud.
"I'm very strong. Wow! I've got to tell Sumbah!"
Sumbah's mom made pancakes. They fell on the floor and squished on everybody. And that's exactly what happened.
The bad news is that Bud pulled a bit of an Opal Mehta with this one and borrowed heavily from an episode of Pinky Dinky Doo.
The good news is that he recognizes the importance of plot, character, and dialogue in his writing.
Perhaps it's time to add to the list of educational acronyms to investigate for children with ASD. We already have RDI, ABA, OT, SLP...
But what about MLA?