I double-checked to see if I had posted this before, since the notion seemed so bloody familiar. Apparently, though, I am not re-posting this, so here goes: Parents of Children With Disabilities Face More Daily Stress. No kidding!
Thanks to Shulamit for the link. Thanks to other folks for reminding me of a response to "Welcome to Holland," written by Cathy M., who says what I so often want to say, and says it so much better than I can: http://giftedhomeschoolers.org/articles/hollandresponse.html
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Maybe your parenting isn't so bad after all
Nice post by the Eides on how the criticisms of "helicopter parents" were off the mark:
http://eideneurolearningblog.blogspot.com/2010/04/helicopter-parents-revisited-ld.html
http://eideneurolearningblog.blogspot.com/2010/04/helicopter-parents-revisited-ld.html
Friday, June 19, 2009
That old falling-between-the-cracks feeling
Let's get this out of the way first: I have tremendous respect for the Eides and their work.
Now then: When I read the article about ADHD and motivation, I laughed, bitterly. I have always been opposed to the idea of paying children for getting good grades. Now, I sit here and watch my son stalling, whining, and generally refusing to do his incomplete work. Did I offer incentives to get him to complete his work? Oh yes, I did. Current incentives include: a trip to the movie theater to see "Up;" purchase of awesome new binoculars for birding (I offered to split the cost with him 50-50); a stack of biology textbooks that O has been dying to get his hands on. Total cost?? Well, getting him to finish this work and move on would indeed be priceless.
So, I think we all can agree that these are significant incentives. This must mean the work was completed quickly and efficiently, and O is knee-deep in bio books and blissfully happy, right?
Wrong.
Math was completed over one weekend, wherein my husband dragged O, kicking and screaming, through half of a math textbook. The book report took two more weekends and multiple evenings during the week. The economics project, which was due two weeks ago, is proceeding on a similar trajectory. O sat at my computer for eight hours yesterday, and wrote one sentence. I deleted all games from the computer, password-protected my files, and advised the young man that I am able to track his internet wanderings. He insisted that he is motivated, he wants to be done with his work, he cannot wait to read that ornithology textbook, he is absolutely terrified that "Up" will no longer be showing when his work is done. He wrote one sentence.
So, here we are.
We met with O's new therapist this week. I mentioned the Eide's piece on ADHD and motivation. J said well, unfortunately, as is so often the case, the results are less clear-cut when dealing with individuals who have more than just ADHD. It can be complicated to tease out the underlying reasons for certain behaviors. Are they rooted in ADHD, or are they rooted in other disorders?
If I had a dollar for each time I have been told that, unfortunately, the situation is far more complicated when there are multiple co-morbid disorders, I would have enough money to hire someone else to sit beside O and make him finish his work. Until that happens, I guess I will pass the time by reading Gill's Ornithology. It's not like O will be reading it any time soon....
Now then: When I read the article about ADHD and motivation, I laughed, bitterly. I have always been opposed to the idea of paying children for getting good grades. Now, I sit here and watch my son stalling, whining, and generally refusing to do his incomplete work. Did I offer incentives to get him to complete his work? Oh yes, I did. Current incentives include: a trip to the movie theater to see "Up;" purchase of awesome new binoculars for birding (I offered to split the cost with him 50-50); a stack of biology textbooks that O has been dying to get his hands on. Total cost?? Well, getting him to finish this work and move on would indeed be priceless.
So, I think we all can agree that these are significant incentives. This must mean the work was completed quickly and efficiently, and O is knee-deep in bio books and blissfully happy, right?
Wrong.
Math was completed over one weekend, wherein my husband dragged O, kicking and screaming, through half of a math textbook. The book report took two more weekends and multiple evenings during the week. The economics project, which was due two weeks ago, is proceeding on a similar trajectory. O sat at my computer for eight hours yesterday, and wrote one sentence. I deleted all games from the computer, password-protected my files, and advised the young man that I am able to track his internet wanderings. He insisted that he is motivated, he wants to be done with his work, he cannot wait to read that ornithology textbook, he is absolutely terrified that "Up" will no longer be showing when his work is done. He wrote one sentence.
So, here we are.
We met with O's new therapist this week. I mentioned the Eide's piece on ADHD and motivation. J said well, unfortunately, as is so often the case, the results are less clear-cut when dealing with individuals who have more than just ADHD. It can be complicated to tease out the underlying reasons for certain behaviors. Are they rooted in ADHD, or are they rooted in other disorders?
If I had a dollar for each time I have been told that, unfortunately, the situation is far more complicated when there are multiple co-morbid disorders, I would have enough money to hire someone else to sit beside O and make him finish his work. Until that happens, I guess I will pass the time by reading Gill's Ornithology. It's not like O will be reading it any time soon....
ADHD, incentives and motivation
Recently, the Eide Neurolearning Blog featured an interesting item on motivation in individuals with ADHD. "Rather than ADHD appearing as a fixed deficit in executive function, increasing evidence suggests that children (and adults) with ADHD behaviors are showing impulsivity mainly in non-reward situations." Thus, the solution might be to offer greater incentives to complete tasks. Perhaps we (parents and teachers) might have more patience and understanding for the child who would rather dash outside and play than complete his spelling homework.
Then again. . . .
Then again. . . .
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Medicinal marijuana and children
In DoubleX's "debut," a mother writes about why she gives her son marijuana. "Sometimes, you just have to go with your gut."
Thursday, April 23, 2009
My "other" child
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
I was thinking of writing about my “other child,” the non-2E kid, the chameleon. I thought I might write about the people over the years who have asked me if my “other child” is gifted, too. I could write a book about "Bilbo” – how, when he was eleven months old, he grabbed my face with both hands and asked “Mama, is that a car over there?” -- when I had no idea he could talk; or how I sent him to pre-school when he was two and a half years old, and in no time he had full control of the teachers and the playground.
Instead, I want to tell you about what B has been doing over the past few weeks.
Two weeks ago, my older son’s tics spiraled out of control. For six hours one day, Origami suffered a steady attack of violent, major tics that followed one after another in five to thirty-second intervals. O could not stand; he writhed, screaming in pain, unable to control his body. B and I took turns holding O down so he would not injure himself. While B held his brother, I scrambled to find help.
While I held O, Bilbo found O’s favorite stuffed animals, his pillow, and his blanket, and brought them to us. Then B rolled up another blanket and fashioned a cushion for his brother’s neck, to minimize the impact and bruising from neck tics. B grabbed another pillow and some spools of wire, threw the pillow on his brother’s stomach, and laid himself across O’s midsection. Then the boys worked quietly on wire sculptures while Bilbo talked to O to distract him from his pain and ticcing. I began to feel as if my help was not really needed.
Bilbo just turned ten. Origami’s issues have had a big impact on B as well as on the rest of the family. We try to protect B and give him his own space and his own share of attention. We take Bilbo to support groups for siblings of children with TS. But while B is a remarkably resilient person, the effects of living with a sibling who has special needs are evident.
B rarely invites friends over for playdates, waiting for times when O will be out. For years, B has defended his brother against teasing and ridicule. Although we have not expected B to help care for his brother, B has assumed that role himself. As O’s tics worsen, B is always watching for situations that might trigger violent tics: B takes his brother’s hand at the mall when he sees O trembling before a tic. At tae kwon do, B runs over to pick O up off the floor after every major tic.
And so it goes. Last week when the boys and I went for our daily run, I had to talk B out of trying to run with his arm around his brother. I assured B that I was capable of helping O, too, and that if they tried to run while so intertwined, odds were that both of them would end up falling. At home, whenever O tics B drops what he is doing and runs to help his brother. People who see Bilbo supporting his brother are impressed by B’s maturity and thoughtfulness. I am proud of B, too, but I also see signs of stress and strain in someone who really should not have to be dealing with these issues. B needs time and space to be his own person, not his brother’s caregiver.
So, Sunday was a very important day; it was the first day of the spring soccer season. Soccer is the one activity Bilbo has that is all his. B has been with most of his teammates for nearly three years; they give B his own little slice of “normal” life. Soccer is the most important part of Bilbo’s schedule. He needs and craves the time to run around, yell, sweat, and just be a boy.
I was thinking of writing about my “other child,” the non-2E kid, the chameleon. I thought I might write about the people over the years who have asked me if my “other child” is gifted, too. I could write a book about "Bilbo” – how, when he was eleven months old, he grabbed my face with both hands and asked “Mama, is that a car over there?” -- when I had no idea he could talk; or how I sent him to pre-school when he was two and a half years old, and in no time he had full control of the teachers and the playground.
Instead, I want to tell you about what B has been doing over the past few weeks.
Two weeks ago, my older son’s tics spiraled out of control. For six hours one day, Origami suffered a steady attack of violent, major tics that followed one after another in five to thirty-second intervals. O could not stand; he writhed, screaming in pain, unable to control his body. B and I took turns holding O down so he would not injure himself. While B held his brother, I scrambled to find help.
While I held O, Bilbo found O’s favorite stuffed animals, his pillow, and his blanket, and brought them to us. Then B rolled up another blanket and fashioned a cushion for his brother’s neck, to minimize the impact and bruising from neck tics. B grabbed another pillow and some spools of wire, threw the pillow on his brother’s stomach, and laid himself across O’s midsection. Then the boys worked quietly on wire sculptures while Bilbo talked to O to distract him from his pain and ticcing. I began to feel as if my help was not really needed.
Bilbo just turned ten. Origami’s issues have had a big impact on B as well as on the rest of the family. We try to protect B and give him his own space and his own share of attention. We take Bilbo to support groups for siblings of children with TS. But while B is a remarkably resilient person, the effects of living with a sibling who has special needs are evident.
B rarely invites friends over for playdates, waiting for times when O will be out. For years, B has defended his brother against teasing and ridicule. Although we have not expected B to help care for his brother, B has assumed that role himself. As O’s tics worsen, B is always watching for situations that might trigger violent tics: B takes his brother’s hand at the mall when he sees O trembling before a tic. At tae kwon do, B runs over to pick O up off the floor after every major tic.
And so it goes. Last week when the boys and I went for our daily run, I had to talk B out of trying to run with his arm around his brother. I assured B that I was capable of helping O, too, and that if they tried to run while so intertwined, odds were that both of them would end up falling. At home, whenever O tics B drops what he is doing and runs to help his brother. People who see Bilbo supporting his brother are impressed by B’s maturity and thoughtfulness. I am proud of B, too, but I also see signs of stress and strain in someone who really should not have to be dealing with these issues. B needs time and space to be his own person, not his brother’s caregiver.
So, Sunday was a very important day; it was the first day of the spring soccer season. Soccer is the one activity Bilbo has that is all his. B has been with most of his teammates for nearly three years; they give B his own little slice of “normal” life. Soccer is the most important part of Bilbo’s schedule. He needs and craves the time to run around, yell, sweat, and just be a boy.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
"The Hawthorne Effect"
The author of Slate's "medical examiner" column discusses alternative therapies for autism, why he believes none of them work, and why he believes parents continue to swear by them. The article is interesting -- and less caustic than one might expect. I believe the author does miss one key point, though. I think it is entirely possible that parents continue to cling to treatments that are dismissed by the scientific community because they need to know that they are doing something that is helping their children. Nobody wants to give up hope.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
It's a really big hill, revisited
A while back -- two years ago, now that I think about it, I wrote a post called "It's a Really Big Hill." I was thinking about how people do not grasp what Origami is all about until they have had a one-on-one interaction with him. Here is an excerpt from what I wrote:
In general, it does not take anyone very long to notice that O is "different," but very few people are able to grasp that we are dealing with another degree of "different."
When I tell people that we bought a house with a huge sledding hill in the back yard, they will nod and say something like "Oh, yes, our kids like to sled in the back yard, too." "No, really," I will respond, "You can ski down this thing, it is huge." "Oh yes, we know what you mean," they say. Then they come to our house. "Whoa! That hill is huge!! I had no idea you meant it was that big! How on earth do you mow it?" Seeing is believing, I suppose.
In the same way, we talk to people who will say, "Oh, yes, O seems smart, but don't they have programs for that in school? How far ahead could he be?" Well. There is no good way to quantify Origami's needs without coming across as a jackass, so in general we do not even try. The short answer, though, is: pretty darn far ahead. The longer answer might be more along the lines of, "Well, why don't you come on over and try to mow our back yard?"
I found myself thinking about this again recently, as I did sprints up the hill as part of my speedwork. I guess that oxygen deprivation shook something loose in my brain.
My son's tics have worsened dramatically in the last several months; this is to be expected at his age, but expecting the tics to get worse has not made them easier to handle. No parent wants to see his or her child in pain; it should be obvious to any observer that my son's tics cause him a great deal of pain.
I have written about how severe Origami's tics are. I have talked to friends and relatives about how severe Origami's tics are. Everyone has been wonderfully sympathetic and supportive. But I really do not think anyone understood just what I meant by "severe" until I shared video of O's tics. The extreme always makes an impression -- or is that, seeing is believing?
Let me put it this way: When Origami saw what his major tics look like, he was upset. He deals with the pain and the anxiety all the time, but he had no idea what the rest of the world sees when he tics.
I am not going to share video of Origami's tics on a public blog. Instead, I will share a photo of O enjoying the first snow of the season in our back yard. It's a really big hill, trust me -- or see for yourself.
In general, it does not take anyone very long to notice that O is "different," but very few people are able to grasp that we are dealing with another degree of "different."
When I tell people that we bought a house with a huge sledding hill in the back yard, they will nod and say something like "Oh, yes, our kids like to sled in the back yard, too." "No, really," I will respond, "You can ski down this thing, it is huge." "Oh yes, we know what you mean," they say. Then they come to our house. "Whoa! That hill is huge!! I had no idea you meant it was that big! How on earth do you mow it?" Seeing is believing, I suppose.
In the same way, we talk to people who will say, "Oh, yes, O seems smart, but don't they have programs for that in school? How far ahead could he be?" Well. There is no good way to quantify Origami's needs without coming across as a jackass, so in general we do not even try. The short answer, though, is: pretty darn far ahead. The longer answer might be more along the lines of, "Well, why don't you come on over and try to mow our back yard?"
I found myself thinking about this again recently, as I did sprints up the hill as part of my speedwork. I guess that oxygen deprivation shook something loose in my brain.
My son's tics have worsened dramatically in the last several months; this is to be expected at his age, but expecting the tics to get worse has not made them easier to handle. No parent wants to see his or her child in pain; it should be obvious to any observer that my son's tics cause him a great deal of pain.
I have written about how severe Origami's tics are. I have talked to friends and relatives about how severe Origami's tics are. Everyone has been wonderfully sympathetic and supportive. But I really do not think anyone understood just what I meant by "severe" until I shared video of O's tics. The extreme always makes an impression -- or is that, seeing is believing?
Let me put it this way: When Origami saw what his major tics look like, he was upset. He deals with the pain and the anxiety all the time, but he had no idea what the rest of the world sees when he tics.
I am not going to share video of Origami's tics on a public blog. Instead, I will share a photo of O enjoying the first snow of the season in our back yard. It's a really big hill, trust me -- or see for yourself.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
"Why Parents Expect Too Much From Their Kids"
A thought-provoking article on Slate from Alan Kazdin. Do I agree with it? I don't really know right now; it has been a long, exhausting week, and my kids are, yet again, screaming instead of playing soccer together.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Nebraska's "Safe haven" law
NPR reports that most of the children who have been left at emergency rooms under Nebraska's new safe haven law are over eleven years of age. These children tend to have severe behavioral problems and/or psychiatric disorders. Many of the parents and guardians involved are handing their children over to foster care because they have no resources to get their children the help they need. The first comment posted about this story expresses outrage over the parents' callous behavior. The second commenter speaks to the dearth of services available to children with mental illness.
I have no idea what is really happening with these families in Nebraska, but I can say that when our family faced past crises, there was little-to-nothing available until we found the TSANJ and the psychology clinic at Rutgers. I would call clinics and hospitals, begging for help, only to be told "Well, we're kind of busy" (translation: It's Friday afternoon, and we wanted to leave early.) "We have an opening available in six months;" "We only see children over age eighteen (???);" "Your child is too complex/difficult/inconvenient for us to handle." It very literally took me almost six years to find anyone who could help us, and then we were fortunate enough to be able to pay out of our own pockets for whatever was needed.
I have no idea what is really happening with these families in Nebraska, but I can say that when our family faced past crises, there was little-to-nothing available until we found the TSANJ and the psychology clinic at Rutgers. I would call clinics and hospitals, begging for help, only to be told "Well, we're kind of busy" (translation: It's Friday afternoon, and we wanted to leave early.) "We have an opening available in six months;" "We only see children over age eighteen (???);" "Your child is too complex/difficult/inconvenient for us to handle." It very literally took me almost six years to find anyone who could help us, and then we were fortunate enough to be able to pay out of our own pockets for whatever was needed.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
"But I Did Everything Right!"
Thanks to Corin for sharing this link to a story in Newsweek on how genetic differences affect behavior: "DNA discoveries are revealing why even the best parenting doesn't have the effects experts promise, from breast-feeding to letting kids learn from mistakes."
The first reaction many of us are having to this story is "no kidding!" This information should be obvious, right? My second reaction was to remember how lost I felt when my son was very young, how I could not figure out why none of the parenting books and parenting experts seemed to offer techniques that worked with my child. I remember doubting my own instincts for the longest time; indeed, they were nearly impossible to hear over all of the solicited and unsolicited advice I received from every person who met my son.
So, if this story grabs the attention of a few parents who are feeling lost, confused, and overwhelmed, and they hear "It's not you! It's not something you did! Your child's brain really is wired differently." -- then great, the article has served a purpose.
The first reaction many of us are having to this story is "no kidding!" This information should be obvious, right? My second reaction was to remember how lost I felt when my son was very young, how I could not figure out why none of the parenting books and parenting experts seemed to offer techniques that worked with my child. I remember doubting my own instincts for the longest time; indeed, they were nearly impossible to hear over all of the solicited and unsolicited advice I received from every person who met my son.
So, if this story grabs the attention of a few parents who are feeling lost, confused, and overwhelmed, and they hear "It's not you! It's not something you did! Your child's brain really is wired differently." -- then great, the article has served a purpose.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
It is not the age(ing) thing
Well, I am supposed to be working on a "Parents' Perspective" essay for the 2E Newsletter, and here I am, posting to my blog instead. The reason for this is fairly simple, once you accept the rather convoluted way in which my mind works.
Seattle is our family's adopted home -- even though we have not lived there for nearly nine years. Both of my boys were born in Seattle. I was exposed to jazz in Seattle, not to mention microbrews and the fact that there is more to Pearl Jam than "Jeremy."
Seriously, I had to love a city that seemed to have four coffeehouses and three teriyaki joints at every intersection, a city that hummed with intellectual energy, a city with clean air and crazy light, a city where the "fringe" element was so omnipresent that it very nearly became the mainstream.
So it should not surprise anyone who knows me to learn that, this past month, I have been hopelessly distracted by Pearl Jam's all-too-short East Coast tour. For the past week, I have been able to think of nothing but Eddie and the rest of the guys, playing their hearts out for "complete maniacs" like myself. During "Dissident" (a song which just absolutely sounds like Seattle) last Friday, I turned to my husband and screamed "We have got to move back home!"
Ahh, memories....
But what does any of this rambling have to do with this blog??
It is pretty simple, really. I found myself recalling those mornings when I would put my son, "Origami," who then was just a toddler, in the car for our weekly field trip to one of Seattle's many kid-friendly attractions. Our first stop was a nearby espresso stand, where, as part of our weekly special treat (hey, we were on a graduate student's budget!), I would try to clear away the low-hanging clouds with some strong caffeine, and Origami would get a madeline cookie to decimate as we drove around town.
Many weeks, we would arrive early at the Seattle Center. Origami would spend half an hour or so scooting around in the Little Tikes cars inside the Center, smiling happily. A few early-bird senior citizens would be dancing to big band sounds, but in general the Center House was quiet. As 10:00 neared, we would head over to the Pacific Science Center, or downstairs to the Children's Museum.
Big deal, you are saying, right? Show me a mother who does not look back fondly on the time when her child was sweet and innocent. Show me someone who does not miss their lost youth, you say.
But, for me, there is more to it than that. Yes, I admit that as my hair re-grows, each lost hair seems to be coming in gray. I am not happy about it, but I try to accept it.
What I really miss is that time before we really suspected that something was "wrong" with Origami. O's infancy was, simply put, a brutal time in our lives -- but it passed. Once Origami learned to walk, he was able to take on the world around him, and he did so with great energy and enthusiasm. We had nearly two years during which most days were full of -- exhausting -- fun as we helped our little bundle of energy suck in as much information as he possibly could acquire. We still were tired, but we were tired in a good way.
So, I guess what I am saying is, I miss the simplicity of that time, even though packing for a day around town involved multiple changes of clothes for both of us, towels, an endless supply of toddler snacks, and a sore back (for me). I miss being able to simply enjoy an activity, without always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I miss the time when I did not need to be always on the alert for an impending explosion or implosion; I miss not having to worry about what other people thought of my child and of me as a parent.
Seattle is our family's adopted home -- even though we have not lived there for nearly nine years. Both of my boys were born in Seattle. I was exposed to jazz in Seattle, not to mention microbrews and the fact that there is more to Pearl Jam than "Jeremy."
Seriously, I had to love a city that seemed to have four coffeehouses and three teriyaki joints at every intersection, a city that hummed with intellectual energy, a city with clean air and crazy light, a city where the "fringe" element was so omnipresent that it very nearly became the mainstream.
So it should not surprise anyone who knows me to learn that, this past month, I have been hopelessly distracted by Pearl Jam's all-too-short East Coast tour. For the past week, I have been able to think of nothing but Eddie and the rest of the guys, playing their hearts out for "complete maniacs" like myself. During "Dissident" (a song which just absolutely sounds like Seattle) last Friday, I turned to my husband and screamed "We have got to move back home!"
Ahh, memories....
But what does any of this rambling have to do with this blog??
It is pretty simple, really. I found myself recalling those mornings when I would put my son, "Origami," who then was just a toddler, in the car for our weekly field trip to one of Seattle's many kid-friendly attractions. Our first stop was a nearby espresso stand, where, as part of our weekly special treat (hey, we were on a graduate student's budget!), I would try to clear away the low-hanging clouds with some strong caffeine, and Origami would get a madeline cookie to decimate as we drove around town.
Many weeks, we would arrive early at the Seattle Center. Origami would spend half an hour or so scooting around in the Little Tikes cars inside the Center, smiling happily. A few early-bird senior citizens would be dancing to big band sounds, but in general the Center House was quiet. As 10:00 neared, we would head over to the Pacific Science Center, or downstairs to the Children's Museum.
Big deal, you are saying, right? Show me a mother who does not look back fondly on the time when her child was sweet and innocent. Show me someone who does not miss their lost youth, you say.
But, for me, there is more to it than that. Yes, I admit that as my hair re-grows, each lost hair seems to be coming in gray. I am not happy about it, but I try to accept it.
What I really miss is that time before we really suspected that something was "wrong" with Origami. O's infancy was, simply put, a brutal time in our lives -- but it passed. Once Origami learned to walk, he was able to take on the world around him, and he did so with great energy and enthusiasm. We had nearly two years during which most days were full of -- exhausting -- fun as we helped our little bundle of energy suck in as much information as he possibly could acquire. We still were tired, but we were tired in a good way.
So, I guess what I am saying is, I miss the simplicity of that time, even though packing for a day around town involved multiple changes of clothes for both of us, towels, an endless supply of toddler snacks, and a sore back (for me). I miss being able to simply enjoy an activity, without always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I miss the time when I did not need to be always on the alert for an impending explosion or implosion; I miss not having to worry about what other people thought of my child and of me as a parent.
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