When Maddie was in third grade, some behaviors reared their ugly heads in our house. Perhaps one day I will go into more detail about this, but for now suffice it to say she was acting out physically, especially toward me.
Maddie was born sweet. She really was. She was generally content and happy as a child. I do recall, however, a reluctance to express herself even she was an infant. If she was hurt, she would stifle her cries.
“Cry!” we would tell her. “Let it out!” But it was her way to keep it inside. We didn’t have any idea why she was so reluctant to express herself even then.
Eventually, however, Maddie began to change. She was eight years old. At first it was just a general sassiness that I hadn’t seen before, best exemplified by the way she would stick one hip out and place her hand there for emphasis to show her irritation. Other moms might have been angry or offended, but I thought it was so funny. She had just never been that way before, and it seemed to come out of nowhere. My response was to stick my own hip out, in an exaggerated way, throw out my hand and place it on my hip, and say “Oh, really?” Fortunately, Maddie found this amusing rather than infuriating.
But during that year, as her hormones were probably starting to stir, her emotions became more intense, and her emotional maturation was not met with equivalent verbal abilities. So when she got mad or frustrated, she just couldn’t express it well. For many kids on the autism spectrum, identifying and communicating emotions are challenging tasks. Whereas most people learn those skills more naturally, for these kids it’s kind of a required class. She needed to learn how to put a word on her emotions and then say it out loud.
In the face of this challenge, Maddie turned to her body to express those “negative” emotions. If I wanted her to do something, and she didn’t want to do it, and I continued to press, she became increasingly physical. I knew she was still sweet inside, and that it was frustration from her lack of emotional savviness that led her to this behavior, but I had no idea how to parent in this particular circumstance.
Once she even said it wasn’t okay to say the word “mad.” I told her so many times that not only was it okay, but that was desirable. I would even give her the words along with intonation. “I’m really mad at you, Mom!” I would yell, giving her permission to do the same. Most parents were telling their kids not to yell, and I was showing her how. But it wasn’t helping.
So for the first time I turned to a child psychologist for help. It wasn’t so much that I wanted help for Maddie. I wanted someone to help me figure out how to parent her. I knew I wasn’t equipped.
Maddie would meet weekly with Dr. W., who first worked to build a relationship with Maddie that would help Maddie open up. The purpose wasn’t to explore Maddie’s deepest thoughts and motivations, but rather to help Maddie learn to think and speak more abstractly. Much of that was done through imaginative play, which for a long time was nearly impossible for Maddie.
And then, occasionally, I would meet with Dr. W. to discuss Maddie’s progress, what was going on at home, and what I could do to both help Maddie develop her skills and avert future physical outbursts. Eventually we talked about things like personal hygiene and doing homework, since Maddie was struggling with the idea of having to do anything in particular.
One topic that came up a lot was charts. Make a chart to show her what to do in the morning. Make a chart to keep track of her homework. Chart this, chart that. It sounded reasonable, in a way, during our meetings.
But as it turned out, I am not a chart person. Neither is Maddie. I am not the most organized person in the world. I’m just not. I know somebody who bought a laminator for her special needs kid, and I know why: you will be told to laminate cards that tell your kid how to do everything. And it’s cheaper and more convenient to do it at home. I once had a laminator in my Amazon shopping cart, but that’s as far as I got. Oh, well, I guess I can be proud of myself for being realistic.
Reward charts are HUGE in the special needs parenting community. I know they’re pretty popular with parenting little kids, too, and I didn’t do it then either.
Here’s what I did try over the years:
- A series of laminated cards with images and words describing, in order, the steps Maddie needed to take to get ready for school in the morning and/or get ready for bed. She never looked at them.
- A chart for tracking and rewarding Maddie’s morning routine and homework completion. Big rewards awaited at the completion of a column. She never looked at it, even at my suggestion.
- A prize basket full of fun, inexpensive items so that Maddie would get immediate rewards, since it seemed too abstract to Maddie to accumulate points for some future reward. She earned a prize exactly once. And then she didn’t care anymore.
So I gave up on that stuff. And apparently Dr. W. wasn’t happy about that.
As everyone with a special needs child should, we have had a whole team of people working on our behalf. And I really mean a team. My own psychologist, Maddie’s psychologist, and Maddie’s psychiatrist, and even her social learning teacher at times, would consult with each other about what was going on with all of us. It’s a gift to feel like you have so many people on your side.
On one particular occasion, Dr. W. was discussing our family with Dr. R., my own psychologist and personal guru. Dr. W. was frustrated. “I’m always giving Chris things to do at home and she doesn’t follow through.” She mentioned some of the items listed above. Well, she was right, I might have tried a couple times and then given up. Maybe I should have stuck it out longer. Maybe eventually Maddie would have lit up at the idea of a reward, either now or later (not likely later, though).
I had some guilt already. I’m just not a charter. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I was that parent for Maddie, a magnificently organized mom, with a daily schedule posted for all to see, for whom consistency and structure came easily? I know other parents like that. I wanted to be like them, but I wasn’t. I’m still not.
But in the conversation between the two doctors, something magical happened.
“That’s not Chris’ gift,” replied Dr. R. “Her gifts are her flexibility and empathy. She is able to read Maddie and know what she needs in a given moment.” She’s a fan of mine, I happen to know. She knew that charts just weren’t going to be the magical answer, but believed that what I have to offer is so much better. I may not be structured, but I can move and change as my kid requires. And that’s easy for me.
So all those years of feeling inadequate because my charting skills fell short were wasted. I will never be the person who has a week’s menu planned out on Sunday. I go to the grocery store three times a week and can barely figure out what to get. I don’t have Taco Tuesdays and Spaghetti Fridays, although I know my son would love it if I did. And I will never be that person.
Some days I’m a bear about homework. Some days I’m not. Some days I’ll push the shower agenda. Other days I won’t.
But there are reasons for that. At some point I realized I could tell by Maddie’s body language and expression, when she hopped in the car after school, whether she was up for any tasks or not. If she’s wasn’t, I figured that pushing my agenda was a recipe for disaster, and who needs that? Maybe today she’s energetic and happy and can crank through her homework, so I’ll stick to my guns. Maybe tomorrow she’ll be depleted and need dinner in bed. And I’ll give her that. Happily. I’ll hug her and rub her back and give her what she needs that day. We’ll turn on a funny show and relax together. And everything will be fine. Now that she’s in high school, I do try to push her to do homework more regularly, and she’s more able to do it most of the time. But I’m constantly reading her and reading the situation and figuring out the best course of action (or at least trying to figure it out). And so far, the best course of action has not ever been to make a chart.
I will never forget when Dr. R. relayed that psychologist-to-psychologist conversation to me. I was so relieved to be recognized for my gifts (in fact to realize they actually were gifts) , and I was able to forgive myself for what I had perceived to be failings for so long. I now see that for our family, my flexible approach is what works best. Sure there are things we could all do differently and probably better. Isn’t that the case for everybody?
I hope you all have a Dr. R. in your life, somebody who sees in you the beauty of what you have to offer, especially in the face of challenges like ours. Whatever gifts you have to offer–and I guarantee you have many–have a powerful impact on your child and your family.
The Year of Living Hopefully 