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.