All grown up

 Well, hello there.  Long time -- seven years, to be exact -- no see.

Seven years in which so much has happened, I cannot begin to tell you; but I can tell you what brought me here today.  An Instagram post by the young man formerly known as Diver.

That this young man, formerly so beset by his challenges that I called him a "prisoner of his autism", is now a fully functioning, independent member of society in his last year in college, where he won a faculty scholarship and serves as a student leader, working a challenging job in his field, cooking, baking, building his own computer, reading, setting  yearly reading goals, and Instagraming about it. 

When Diver was 8, newly diagnosed and still not reading, I asked the Special Education teacher if Diver would ever read.  He shrugged and said, "I don't know."

It is miraculous. You have only to read this blog from the beginning to understand this.  

The age of miracles is still with us.  And my son is one of those miracles. 

Proud mom. Happy mom. Content mom.
Diver just went off to a job interview.  Not just any job interview but an interview for the job of his choice: firefighter for our hometown.
There he was, calm and composed in his suit, shoes polished, tic tac in his mouth, ready for what lies ahead.
It's hard for me to look at him, this quiet 6'4" sylph of a man and connect that person with the chubby, noisy, joyous, tortured boy who used to run around here.
It's like day and night: boy to man, short to tall, chubby to slim, tortured to calm.
We are one of the lucky ones; a family whose child came out of autism.
Diver once heard me say, "He escaped the prison of his autism," and insisted it wasn't a prison.
But I was there. And it was a prison.
We are so fortunate. I am so grateful.

Letting Go #3

Today I dropped him at the airport to fly off to Israel, which requires a whole new level of letting go.  I remembered the first time I experienced this as he rode off on horseback on a Mexican vacation; in fact, I blogged about it in 2009 on the occasion of another letting go moment:
"Let him go, let him go, let him go.

Physically, I did.  Mentally, not so much.

Just before midnight, Diver joined a crowd of other teens waiting to board a bus at a satellite YMCA site in the city.  

Bye!  Have fun!

Not even a backward glance.  We'd already had our talk about the right way to behave, not getting drunk on sugar and pop, who to turn to for help. 

I remembered the first time I waved him off alone.  We were on Stone Island in Mexico, and he went horseback riding with a group.  I don't ride.  I grimace and worry, so I waved him off through gritted teeth and angst'd for the next hour.

Which is pretty much what I did last night.  Nine hours have passed and I am so tempted to call the youth leader on her cell.

Then I remember all the things he has successfully navigated.  Snorkeling, scuba diving, diving boards, flying, skiing, customs, bar mitzvah parties; things I could never do, not just alone, but ever.

So he can do this trip.  Even if the phone rings right now, with the cry  "Help.  Come get me!"; calls I used to get a lot, he's already succeeded.  He got on the bus alone last night and journeyed to an unknown world.  He'll come back stronger and more confident.

Maybe I will, too. "

I'm glad I revisited this, because it's the same thing: letting go.  So he can do this trip.  He's journeying to an unknown world, and he'll come back stronger and more confident. I believe I will, too.

Graduation Day

The tears flowed like rain and I cleaned up cat vomit.

That's what I do. That's what any special-needs mom does.
We'd gone to graduation #1 this morning at the special school my son actually attends and it was lovely.  Every graduation should be so thoughtful, personal and affectionate.  After the ceremony, the 18-year-old formerly known as Diver (honestly, I need a glyph like Prince) and his Dad went to Target and then to see Bubby.

I went to the gym and began to cry in the pool.  Because I had worked so hard for so many years for this day; and typical of any day during the last 18 years, I'd had to bend over backward to take care of things. And really nobody knew - nobody but another special-needs mom.  And on the spectrum of special needs parenting, I'm one of the lucky ones; still, today, after the last week of high-wire tension about the graduations and volunteer duties and work and preparations for glyph's leaving the country on Sunday and my back injury - and the broken phone and the cat vomit, I wept.

Then I came home and cleaned up the mess.  I had picked up and discarded the actual hair balls and left the spots covered with Borax for the last 48 hours but could leave it no longer. So carefully lowering myself to my knees (oh, that sore back!), I got down on the carpet and scrubbed.  And vacuumed.  And wept crocodile tears.

Almost 18

Well, well. Here we are on the cusp of 18, blogging again.
Maybe we should make this an annual event?
It's been a good year, with exponential growth for the young-man-previously-known-as-Diver.
He's 10 days away from 18, with so many plates in the air that my head is spinning.  Last night, they started to slow him down.  After a heady afternoon - picking up his suit at the Men's Warehouse, then grimacing through trying it on for Mom and Dad, only to hear that it was badly altered and didn't fit well - frankly, he looked like a punch line in a comedy sketch about a hayseed in the city - then, returning to the Men's Warehouse to try to get it rectified, while I harangued corporate customer service about their appalling work -
I know this is the run-on sentence of the century, which just gives me a glimmer of what's going on his head.  So in three weeks, he's leaving high school - the small, intensely personal school where he has spent the last four years. Last weekend, he crammed in a state convention for law enforcement exploring, where he won a first in hostage negotiation.  His advisors have asked him to be chief next year. Then we were informed that he won second place in the stock market game in the entire midwest and will be honored at a luncheon next week.  He (along with me and his teachers) are scrambling to get him set for community college in the fall, an effort we should have started 9 months ago.  We're hosting a family reunion in two weeks involving 30 out of town family guests and multiple social events.  On June 5, he has two graduations; one at his small school and one at the high school in his home district.  Three days later, he leaves for 10 days in Israel on a Birthright Israel trip.  Then he's home for a week before going off to be on staff at his beloved Camp Kodiak. Then home for 10 days and he starts at a still-to-be-determined community college.
And this is a kid who doesn't like change.
Last night, after returning from his second trip to Men's Warehouse, he retired downstairs to do some "processing". At 9:30 he told me he was heading into the garage. He said yes, there was a lot going on but he didn't want to talk.  He was still sitting there in the dark at 10:30, when I urged him to get to bed as soon as he could.
This morning he did not go to school.  "Yes, I do have a lot going on and there's something else but I don't want to talk about it" he told me.  So I withdrew, and have stayed out of the way.  Which I think is what I need to do.  Because he is almost 18 and grown, and can and will work these things out on his own.  I'm backing off and writing about it here.

And now we are 17

When I started this blog early in 2009, my son was 12, and I was a much-younger 50-something.

Who's grown more?  He is now a deep-voiced, manly,  6'4" man; calm, self-possessed, mature, able to function without me.  I, on the other hand, am shorter, fatter, weaker, slightly less-sharp, and more dependent on him.

My work here is pretty much done.  I am well-aware that I am one of the lucky ones: a parent whose ASD child has made a miraculous recovery.  Contrary to what the doctors say, it is *not* because of me.  Yes, he has had good parenting and good interventions, but every parent knows the hard truth that you can do all the right things and still get a bad result.  I credit God, plain and simple.

As he sails off independently, he will no longer be my significant other, rendering the blog purposeless.
If there are other parents out there who would like to caucus, I am happy to share my experience.  Beyond that, know that the age of miracles is not dead.

A word from the 16-year-old

My experiences at Camp Kodiak have been amazing. I am going to share some of them with you. Camp Kodiak is in Ontario, Canada, near Georgian Bay. It was started in 1991 for the purpose of giving a regular camp experience to kids with ADHD, Autism and other learning disabilities. However, it has grown into a place where anyone can go for a great camp experience, regardless of their abilities. Camp Kodiak is a prodigious place where you can make friends for a lifetime. The people you meet  become like a second family and the camp, like your home away from home.  I have been going to Camp Kodiak for six years now. In these years I have had some of the best experiences of my life so far.

The first year I went to camp I was apprehensive as most anyone would be who is going for the first time to a faraway place. I was 9 years old at the time and I had never traveled away from home on my own. Although this was not my first time on an aeroplane, flying to Canada unaccompanied was quite an experience. When I arrived at the airport, I was greeted by a detachment of counselors who were sent to receive the campers and accompany them on the three hour, coach bus ride to complete the journey to camp. As we finally rolled into camp in the mid-afternoon, I was pleasantly surprised to see a crowd milling about, waiting to greet us.  Stepping off the bus, I was greeted by one of my counselors to be, Jen Bollan. She took me to collect my bags and then went off to our cabin area where I would spend the next month.

One experience from that year that stays with me is the overnight out-trip that we took by canoe to an alternative camp site.  I have never (so far) experienced a more powerful thunderstorm than the one that came that night. This was very scary as the ground was shaking and I was feeling it quite directly as I was in a tent. Other than the thunderstorm, it was a fairly uneventful out-trip.
When signing up, you are given two options for what your weekday mornings at camp will look like. These are appropriately entitled “option 1” and “option 2” where option 1 is academic and option 2 is an elective. That year my parents had opted to put me in academics. Basically I just really did not want to do this at all. There were some days where I would get my work done and earn the opportunity to participate in more desirable activities later in the day. Other times, I struggled to complete my academic work and had to stay back from normally scheduled, daily activities. These activities included watersports, land sports and crafty things. Looking back, my academic refusal seems ironic because this past year now I was actually working as a tutor in the academic program.
For about three years, I was a non-kneeling knee boarder. I would simply lie on my board on my belly and enjoy being towed around the lake. Eventually, I got up on my knees and have enjoyed being a more proficient knee boarder ever since. In fact, this past summer, I earned a gold award for my sweet boardin’ skillz. I was very excited to earn this award because it was proof that I had put time and dedication into learning and practicing and improving a new skill. This showed me that it is important to have difficult, yet reachable goals.

A final experience I want to share with you about Camp Kodiak is the time when I got to participate in choreographing a play. Each year during first session, a play is put on for the parents on visitor’s day. Last year (2012) the play was, “Peter Pan.” I helped think of the choreography for this play and got to teach it to the other campers. This experience was difficult at first and as I got into more, it became easier and flowed better.  There were three main people involved in the play: Keagan, Hannah and Alana.  Most of my time was spent working with the head choreographer, Hannah, who was one of the counselors at Camp. I enjoyed working with her as we got along and worked well together. On visitor’s day, when all the parents had taken their seats for the play, one of our leaders greeted the crowd and talked about who had helped with the production. I was named as one of the choreographers and this made me feel proud. I felt very good about my efforts and involvement in this play.

In conclusion, the times I have spent at Camp Kodiak have been some of the best and most memorable of my life. I am very happy that I am able to continue going to camp for these experiences. I know that I am loved there and this makes me very happy and proud. I look forward to continuing my growth as I progress in the L.I.T (Leader in Training) program over the next two years. Ultimately, I hope to become a J.C. (Junior Counselor) leading to an experience of becoming a counselor. Camp Kodiak has been an integral part of my life and I am very thankful for this.
P.S. – Thank you Dave Stoch

New Video from Camp Kodiak

Six years ago, I sent away for a Camp Kodiak DVD, thinking perhaps someday my son might go.  When it arrived, I plopped down at the table, slipped it into my computer, and proceeded to watch.  My son wondered in, watched over my shoulder and announced, "I have to go there."

He did, again and again.  It was the best thing I ever did for him; the best therapy he ever received, a gift, I have no doubt, from God.  All these years later, the camp has produced a new video.

Every word is true.

Hope

"What doesn't kill me makes me stronger."

I don't know if its true, because autism took a toll on my family.  It made for isolation, misery, nightmare days, and hopeless nights.  Mine was the child melting down in stores and airports, throwing furniture, breaking doors, running out of school, flummoxing teachers, alienating family, leaving us hurt, alone, miserable, and, I feared, hopeless.

And that's my son dancing in the flashmob.  I've written before about the miracles we've experienced, but after watching this video, I want to share again that there is hope.  If things with your autistic child seem hopeless now -- if you fear he will never read/write/drive/dance/speak/date/thrive/manage himself/work -- don't give up.  Don't despair.  I feared all of those things, and the evidence and experts gave me little reason for hope.

But today he reads, writes, drives, dances, speaks, dates, thrives, manages himself, works, and participates in flash mobs. So there, experts and naysayers.  And there, parents who despair, there is hope.  Do not give up.

Superfluous. Surpassed.

His flight was scheduled to leave 15 minutes ago.
Don't know.  Didn't check.
Dropped him at the airport 3 hours ago so he could fly off to his 6th summer at Camp Kodiak.
Kodiak has made him the young man he is today; calm, confident, compassionate.
An annual ritual allows us to measure progress, and today we recalled the first journey to Kodiak.  He hyperventilated all the way to the airport, had a meltdown in the ticketing line, and another at the gate.
I flew with him.  Once he was met Kodiak staff in Toronto, I was superfluous.
Its gotten better every year.
He just phoned (responsible) to calmly (mature) let me know there was a maintenance issue with his aircraft, so they're switching planes.
I'd be sweating and having the runs.
He's surpassed me.  I'm gateful

Birthday Miracle

Its Anonymom's birthday.

I don't expect gifts, the the ASD teen delivered in an unexpected way.

Last night, after announcing that he had a belly ache and some diarrhea, he downed the last dose of pepto bismal, and went to bed. This morning, after announcing that he knew what day this was, he mentioned that he still felt sick. I phoned in an excuse to school, headed off the the convenience store for fresh pepto, and returned home to find him taping this sign to the door:

"Must go to school"

And off he went. It's the first time I can recall him playing through pain, as an athlete would say.

Hooray for him. Happy Birthday to me!

One month

Image via WikipediaIn a single month, the ASD teen got a job, trained for a job, worked a job, excelled at a job, and quit a job.

A roller coaster ride for anyone, especially someone with Aspergers. And his Mom.

He was excelling, giving it his all, which is how he operates. He would come home feeling good, but exhausted. He missed some school, struggled to juggle & coordinate his three schedules (school, law enforcement exploring, work). (For those of you who don't have ASD or ADHD kids, this is known as an "executive skill" and is challenging for our kiddos.)

He double-booked himself one day, which escalated the issue to crisis stage. He struggled to manage, calling around to find a replacement. Striking out, he sank into a silence, emerging once or twice to announce "My heart says one thing; my brain, another."

Next day, he himself said, "There's too much on my plate right now. I took this job too young. Maybe I can handle it when I am 16, but right now, it is too much. I appreciate the opportunity and I even enjoy the job. But it is too much."

Which is essentially what he told the store manager. I listened from the hallway, as the manager expressed his disappointment and said, "Without giving 2 weeks notice, you will never work for this company again."

"I understand," said my son.

I do, too, now. I was disappointed. I was sad. But now that he's back in his pre-working routine, I see that it was too much for him. There was too much on his plate.

Thus we grow.

Related articles

• Asperger's Syndrome and ADHD (everydayhealth.com)

Feeling good

Image via WikipediaI must be an OK mom.
Sent the ASD teen an email with a honey-do list of home maintenance chores. Without a word, he appeared from Xbox land, screwdriver in hand, and went about completing the list.
Ha!
This morning, without fanfare, he walked home from his Dad's place, a 3-mile hike he'd said "no-way" to when I suggested it last night. The day before he biked to and from Dad's to pick up a flashlight in my absence.
Who is this boy? Who is this woman?
Oh, and did I mention he got a job? A job, folks, bagging groceries. He is feeling might fine about himself.
So am I.

Watch and listen and love

Image via WikipediaLast time I posted was 7 weeks ago when he went off to camp.
Today he's coming home.
I am one of the lucky auti-moms. With a diagnosis of Aspergers syndrome, my kid was at a place on the autism spectrum where his chance to thrive where greater; and, we found people, places and things that have enabled him to thrive.
So as he journeys home from Camp Kodiak in north-of-nowhere Ontario, I prepare myself as best I can for what's ahead. Whatever that is. Kodiak has been the best thing we've ever done for him and he comes home hugely changed. I'll have to watch and listen carefully to see who he is and what he needs now. In other words (I know this is not the first time I've written this), I have to grow as he does. I can't welcome him home from the camp the same way I did when he was 11 or 12 or 13 or even 14. He's a man now, a young man. He may be my boy, but I can't treat him like one.

Growing

Image via WikipediaAnonymom is growing up.
Because as Diver/Elmer/Dude
has grown, mastering new skills,
I've had to back off. Pull away. Chill.
The hours/months/years that went into getting him what he needed-
Aren't needed anymore.
It's a blessing. A miracle. And for this mama of a child on the autism spectrum, a challenge.
Raising a child with special needs is all-encompassing. Now, by the grace of god, I'm unencompassed. He's just 15; not fully grown, but no needier than any other teenager.
Today he flew off to Canada, unaccompanied.
Which means I'm unaccompanied, too, and unencompassed.
Say what you like about raising our kids - and it is all-encompassing - it does fill up the days.
So this is new.
Now I pray for the skills to grow, just as he has.

Milestones, Stepping Stones

Image by Getty Images via @daylifeBetter than morning coffee, a morning email:

"I just had to write because I ran into your son at the Fest tonight and I was stunned at his maturity and social skills. He shook my hand, and my husband’s, said that it was nice to see me and was just so grown up and poised! He was way more polite/mature than the average teen! You must be so proud! You have always been such a good and patient mom and it seems to have paid off!"

It was a big night. Nine months after joining the local law enforcement explorers post, Diver (Elmer? Dude?) was on duty with his post at the local summer fest. It was highlight 2 out of three he'd been anticipating since last fall, and by all signs, it was a rocking success. His week - his summer - was planned around it, and as they day approached, he began preparing; organizing gear, nutrition, sleep, rides. He came home at 2am this morning, having reported for duty at 2pm the previous afternoon. I was already awake. Even though I knew he was with the safest possible group, my old, over-protective auti-mama'ing had kicked in and I lay awake batting away thoughts of worse-case scenarios.

His only comment when he came in (quietly) at 2: "It was amazing. Good night."

The email I copied above is from his first social skills coach, who worked with him twice a week shortly after he was first diagnosed; back when he would rarely get off the couch, when he sometimes would not speak, when he was rarely able to tolerate other people and places; when he could not follow the rules of a game, when his autism ran his life.

He manages beautifully now. For that I a grateful to God and to all the grown-ups who have walked with us to help him on the right path.

Fifteen

Image via WikipediaTomorrow he turns 15. Tonight he talked.
The Dude (aka Elmer) (previously, Diver) instigated the conversation himself, asking me to come to his room. There he remarked on the oddness of not being excited about his impending day. And everything else under the sun. He reminisced about previous birthdays, remarking on the number of toy fixations that have passed. He remembered more than I. He talked about how pleasant it is to reminisce. Then he asked if I remembered when he couldn't do more than request yes or no questions.

I remember. And here he is, chatting away introspectively like an adult. Without autism.

What is this but a miracle?

It's the law

Image by conner395 via FlickrWhat could make this lazy anonymom blog after so long?

The Dude packed his meds.
All by himself, without my asking, he took out the multiple bottles and counted out four days worth of everything into a portable pill case. In my absence.
He's off to the four-day state conference of police explorers, which has taught him something strongly resembling discipline. He's a kid who never even tucked in his shirt, now spci-and-span in his pressed uniform and shined shoes. The non-nonsense, military structure appeals to him - a lot.

And today he packed his meds.

Milestones

Image via WikipediaThat stone I've been carrying uphill these 15 years?
He's making his own now.
On the cusp of 15, the Dude has a wallet, a check card and a cellphone.
He needs me less and less. Tells me less and less. And teaches me lesson after lesson.
Today he came home from school and planned his evening: "I need to take a bath before Explorers, so I'm gonna play some xbox, then take a bath."
He's going to take a bath voluntarily?
"Do you need anything from me?" I asked.
"No."
And in short order, he played Xbox, took a bath, dressed, ate, packed his gear, screwed his courage to the sticking point and went to Explorers (currently a source of both pleasure and anxiety). He had a brief moment of panic when he realized he'd forgotten a permission slip, then took a breath and muttered, "Next week."
So he organized himself, took responsibility for his hygiene, managed his anxiety, and went out into the world.

Regent of the Interregnum

Image by Eva Ganesha via FlickrWith history as my guide, I was worried about winter break aka the interregnum; that loosey-goosey period between regularly scheduled activities. Yet one week in, we're doing just fine. We've weathered two feet of snow, three days snowbound, the cancellation of an uncle's visit, the absence of volunteer opportunities, friends or family, and still, we're all right.

Anyone with a child on the autism spectrum knows the importance of routine. Our kiddos don't like a hair out of place. So in the past, school breaks felt like being on an ocean liner in a storm-tossed seas. Ay-eee! The Dude's frustration and discomfort cast a pall not unlike Darth Vader's.

Now, at 14, he is managing just fine. Doing more of the cooking. Taking care of the animals. Working the phone solo in search of volunteer opportunities. And maintaining TV-free dinner conversation. (Cue the angel choir!)

Today he's putting in his teens-are-only-allowed-1-shift-a-week volunteering at the food shelf while I soak up Mozart and sunshine at a coffee shop.

Days like today give me hope. I'mm'a hold onto this for the next time I approach despair.