Water Water Everywhere

Mr. Busypants has always been water-obsessed. He first started his army-crawl around 10 months and his love for water became obvious when I'd turn on the bath tub and he'd scurry towards the bathroom from the other side of the house. This was our first clue.

Our Lisle house had a great set up. Instead of facing a wall when washing the dishes, I looked into the family room through a large opening. This made washing dishes great; it gave me an excuse to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer because technically I was hard at work.

I loved this room. Doors at either entrance made it the perfect playpen for Mr. Busypants. With a Baby Einstein video playing and a toy chest in the corner, I could keep an eye on Mr. Busypants as I cleaned the kitchen. We moved from this house just as Mr. Busypants figured out that he could climb onto the family-room loveseat and climb onto the countertop to access the kitchen sink.

In our Aurora house, Mr. Busypants figured out early on that he could access the bathroom sink by dragging his little step stool into the first-floor bathroom. I balanced a safe water time/water overload ratio carefully and left plenty of towels at his feet to protect the hardwood floors--most of the time. Also toilet-obsessed, he flushed a megablock and broke a toilet within three weeks of moving in.

The temperature of the water never mattered to Mr. Busypants. Once at a neighbor's barbecue, to the horror of every guest on the deck, the little guy climbed into a tub of ice water that earlier had been used to cool soda and wine coolers. Temperature made not difference--water rules!

On a trip to Hawaii just after he turned two, Mr. Busypants launched his own version of a "terrorist attack" on Pearl Harbor. We arrived early to secure our tour tickets, but still had to wait over an hour for our turn. In the plaza area we were surrounded by fountains and flowing water with the ocean as its backdrop. Everyone reverently watched as the USS Reagan headed out to sea. Sailors stood on deck at attention; Mr. Busypants saw the ocean, and soon had the entire visiting population at his attention.

Unable to cope with being surrounded by water but not being in it, my jet-lagged opponent fell in to full autistic toddler temper-tantrum mode. Defeated, I dragged him back to the car while the rest of the family went on to the boat tour. Clearly getting on a boat with Mr. Busypants was in no one's best interest.

More recently, Mr. Busypants has chilled out around water. While he thou roughly enjoys it, it is no longer a trigger. Now each week he gets to swim twice: swim school on Saturdays and Splash-n-Play on Tuesdays.

I love Splash-n-Play. We leave as soon as Mr. Busypants gets off the bus and he and Miss Chattyshoes spend an hour in the gym's play care center. Then I transfer Mr. Busypants to the pool area, where for the next hour he is cared for and played with a volunteer at the Special Rec department.

One hour of peace--uninterrupted.

Whenever we participate in a routine event, Mr. Busypants has his tokens of fun that must come with us. BMCS (before Miss Chattyshoes) he took a yellow and black striped ball to Splash-n-Play, but lately his toy of choice has been a little plastic haystack, which he diligently obsesses over, dropping it to the bottom of the pool and forcing his "volunteer" to retrieve it. Why a haystack? It's a mystery, much like all things autistic.

Mr. Busypants was 5 weeks old when he made his first of many trips to Florida. Scott and I firmly believe in the therapeutic value of vacation. Every time we go out of town, it seems Mr. Busypants makes enormous gains. Like our three week driving tour from Niagara Falls to Boston to North Carolina. Our 3 1/2 year old Mr. Busypants had 20 words when we left. After three weeks of water play and other activities, he tripled his vocabulary.

Water is life and for a young child with autism, water awakened life in an otherwise reserved and stoic little man.

Dinosaur Book

As I've mentioned before in Author, Illustrator, Book Binder, Schedule Follower, Mr. Busypants has become quite the author. One of my favorite books is his second book about dinosaurs. Notice the bites in the tree and the dinosaur's tail. To view the book and listen to the podcast, do the following:

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A dinosaur's long neck
A dinosaur bites with long neck
A dinosaur all done
A dinsoaur goodbye
A dinosaur now is gone

See this book in a Slideshow

Paper Wars

It's 5 AM and I've been up for a couple hours; I just can't sleep. I'm catching up on some work and I decided to spend a couple minutes cleaning up my desk. I find some old phone lists and papers laid haphazardly in a pile and I think, "Where did this come from." Then I remember, it's something I filed last summer.

While Mr. Busypants is still dedicated to his book writing, he'd discovered a new method of creation: file folders. It started a few days ago when he asked if he could "borrow" one of my yellow file folders. He drew and colored a scene and wrote some text, same as usual. Just a different canvas.

Being a slave to routine, when Mr. Busypants decided he needed another couple of pages for his book, so he opened my file drawer and helped himself to the next available yellow folder. It didn't matter that it contained with my paperwork. He cast that aside in pursuit of his goal. We argued, engaged in a tug-of-war about paper. Finally, I showed him a whole box of empty legal-sized file folders (Mr. Busypants has been working with letter-size), and told him to help himself.

But he couldn't, because they were "different."

Easy solution: scissors. This appeased him, so I thought our conflict ended. Apparently not since I have a pile of de-filed papers on my desk that I vaguely recognize.

We discovered a couple days ago that now that Mr. Busypants is writing big books, he needs a new book-binding method. He decided this after I went to check on him late one evening after work and discovered him still awake. The sight of me triggered his need to bind.

I've learned over the years that there are some battles not worth fighting: like refusing to take the two minutes to run downstairs, grab some clear packing tape, and run upstairs to bind. I tried, but I was tired and he was persistant and won.

The next day while I searched for big construction paper in the basement (the new file folder), I came across a pad of post-its with basic pronouns, conjunctions and prepositions. Mr. Busypants jumped on that bandwagon. Together we read each word, then I used it in a sentence, and then he laughed at me copied it onto the file folder. Suddenly we had a story page that read "A You the to Is the AM ON IS to Like for." And somehow, it made perfect sense to him. He colored every square inch of the page blue and added what looks to be a flying turtle.

But as of this afternoon, Mr. Busypants is back on notecard writing. He stalked me mercilessly looking for his book about Rosie. I had no idea who Rosie was, what her pages looked like, or where this book could possibly be. After a brief search, I convinced him to write a new one and we decided to join the neighbors outside. With a clipboard, a stack of blank cards and a box of crayons in tow, we ventured outside. But then he put the urgent project aside to draw on the driveway with sidewalk chalk. As I watched him from across the street, I was reminded of Harold and the Purple Crayon.

After a while it got cold and close to dinnertime, so we packed up and walked past a mural of dinosaurs, towers, and roads. Blacktop is the new file folder--for now.

Say Hello Chuckie Sue

Miss Chattyshoes loves her babies. Like many little girls, she carries them around, pushes them in strollers, drops them, steps on them, throws them--you get the point. I keep threatening to call DCFS on her, but she just smiles at me with through her nuk and she hands me my cell phone.

More then her babies, Miss CS loves her Elmo. Being subjected to that annoying voice for even a little while leaves Elmo in my head well after the TV is turned off. Sometimes I hear him watching me in my sleep. There's one particular video Miss Chattyshoes likes about Birthdays and Pets and although I've come to loathe the that honky, playful music, the narrarated vingettes, and Elmo's constant need to consult with creepy Mr. Noodle, I do love the part when Elmo introduces one of the other monsters and his pet, Chuckie Sue.

One aftenoon, Mr. Busypants shackled himself to the TV, engrossed in his sister's favorite show. I couldn't get his attention, let alone tear him away for a moment. He sat there mesmorized by a story about a little kid narrarated about baking a cake. This story annoys me every time because after the kid spends all this effort baking a cake--with his father no less--he presents it to his mother, who wears the stupidest, most cross-eyed, expressionless look on her face that is topped with one fake, frozen, botox-ridden smile. I always think, show a little enthusiasm, lady. Then I walk away completely disgusted. Yes, this is what it has come to with Elmo.

But Mr. Busypants seems to like it nonetheless, so to get his attention, I say in a gruff, monster voice: "Hey Chuckie Sue. I'm talking to you." Now I know kids with autism aren't supposed to have a sense of humor, but Mr. BP certainly does, and he laughs. Now everytime the Chuckie Sue part comes on, he seeks me out to let me know about it. We often call each other Chuckie Sue, too. It's like our own little private joke.

Another thing kids with autism aren't supposed to show is empathy. Mr. Busypants again defies logic in this area. I cried once in front of him like 2 years ago, and now every time I put my head down or cover my eyes, he asks in a sweet and concerned voice, "Are you cryin' mommy." Then I wonder what he tells his teachers about me. Thank God he's not a credible source yet. Who knows how much of our family's dirty laundry would be aired?

One afternoon, my neighbor Jenny watched both kids for me. With the babies down and her daughter R fully engaged in playing Wii, Jenny took a moment to lay down on the couch. Mr. Busypants put his hand on her head and asked "You tired?" in the same concerned tone I use on him when I ask him how he's feeling.

"Yes, I'm a little tired" she tells him.

"You cold? I'm cold." Then he gets a blanket, sits down and says, "want to snuggle with me." The next thing Jenny knows, both kids have her sandwiched on the couch all warm and content.

Jenny, her husband Danny, and their kids have become great friends of our family. Danny's got a playful sense of humor; you just can't help but give him a hard time whenever you can. Like when he put his Christmas lights up the week before Thanksgiving. Or when you see him running up and down the cul-de-sac flying a Barbie kite. Or because he is freakishly obsessed with keeping his wife's car clean, even though a huge chunk of her life involves carting kids from place to place. Danny needs to be picked on.

Danny likes to give me a hard time too. Once Miss Chattyshoes left one of her dolls at the house. It wasn't one of those bald baby dolls, but one that looked like a toddler. In fact, with her crazy hair, she looks a little like Miss Chattyshoes. Danny disagrees. He thinks this doll looks like horror film villian Chucky. When I went to pick up the doll one evening, he and Jenny decided the doll should be called Charlotte in honor of Chuckie.

As I walked away laughing with "Charlotte" in tow, I thought of Elmo and his buddy's pet, and I knew from then on that this crazy-haired doll will be known by me as Chuckie Sue.

Related Links:

Monkey See, Jorie Do: The Proof is in the Pudding

Jorie Costanza: Climber, Antagonizer, Garbage Eater

Black Eyes, Diaper Changes, and Chocolate Easter Eggs

The Worlds of Missy Chattyshoes, Elmo, and Me

It's All Part of the Routine

Wow! What a morning! I woke up just before the alarm went off and watched Dancing with the Stars in bed. Mr. Busypants woke up just before the last dance and snuggled in with me. Once "my" show was over, he requested "his show": Little Einsteins.

Eventually he got out of bed; just in time to get ready for school. However, he had other plans. His creative juices were flowing and he needed to pen his latest book: Bat Book. As he ate his French toast sticks, he quickly and rigorously wrote his book. The bus showed up just as he was finishing. Luckily, Jose is early every day by about 15 min. It works out great because while he sits and reads on the bus, I have the-bus-is-here incentive to get Mr. BP moving and cooperating because like any good writer, when he's working, he does not like to be disturbed.

I had to laugh as I saw him off. I closed the door behind him and went to the dining room window, where he turned around and started asking me something. I went to the door to find out what he wanted and he stood there in a drizzle: "It's raining. I need my umbrerra."

I hastily searched for his multi-colored umbrella that he bent on one side hours after we bought it. And yes, instead of standing on the porch and out of the rain, he stood on the sidewalk IN the rain patiently waiting.

I popped the umbrella opened and he walked the 20 feet to the bus, then stood in the rain as he stood the umbrella on its handle and pushed it from the top to close.

Most people wouldn't bother, but to a six-year-old with autism, the routine is everything. Whether its eating French toast sticks for breakfast, working a project to full completion, or having an umbrella handing no matter how light the rain is, Mr. BP's routine must be respected, even if it means my sense of efficiency is disrupted.

***

P.S. Last night Mr. Busypants had a meltdown because the staples couldn't hold the book he wrote last night (Color Farm Book). First I tried stapling it into two books then binding it with a clip. After a total freak out, I tried packing tape. This satisfied him. Just another reminder that one can never have enough binding materials in the house.

Bedtime

Yesterday after school I noticed I had a slight sore throat. Over the course of the afternoon, I slowly started feeling worse, and by the time we got home from running a quick errand, I told Scott that I was going upstairs to "lie down for a little while."


I woke up around 10 PM to find my house lit up like a Christmas tree. The guest room TV where Mr. Busypants had been watching for the evening was still on but the room was vacant as was his bedroom. I went downstairs only to find Scott asleep in the lazy boy and Mr. Busypants wrapped up in his white comforter and konked out.


I discovered the next morning that Scott fell asleep and that Mr. Busypants must have made himself comfortable on the couch sometime after. It's a personal quirk of his that he be "put" to bed. Otherwise, he roams the house like a zombie until either he or one of us suggests he go to bed or he drops on the couch and hunkers down until one of us relocates him.


It got me thinking about the history of Mr. Busypants' bedtime. We've been fortunate to have a child who has always pretty much taken 10 minutes to bed. There aren't any elaborate routines or tantrums that accompany bedtime, and when he's there, he stays put.


As a newborn, falling asleep was difficult for Mr. Busypants. I constantly found myself jealous of all the other moms out there with newborns enjoying coffee while shopping around at the mall or a peaceful lunch while her little sleepyface lay snug in his car seat, undisturbed. Then there was Mr. Busypants, who never slept in public and had to be covered in his bassinet like a parakeet so that he could stop examining his surrounding enough to fall asleep for a while.


But once I got through those first couple months, I noticed that unlike all my other mom friends, I was on top of things: teaching, housework, Buffy the Vampire Slayer re-runs. My sleeping child enabled me to be caught up at all times.


Starting around seven weeks, Mr. Busypants slept through a night. We put him down one emotionally draining and frustrating, screamy-face filled evening at 7 Pm and at 7 AM I found myself reaching into is crib to confirm he was still breathing. Within another week or two he consistently slept through the night.


From then on, the kid lived by a schedule. He faithfully took every morning, afternoon and early evening nap until well after the parenting books projected they'd drop. Many nights Scott and I found ourselves completely perplexed by this child, who woke up from his third nap at 6 PM and begged us to put him back to bed at 7:15. We'd do his bidding, all the while thinking it strange that he tired so soon after his last nap. His normal bedtime reaction included grabbing his blanket, inserting his thumb in his mouth, and rolling onto his side. Minutes later, however, we'd listened to him engage in what we called "Good times" for an hour or two as he whooped and happily hollered, entertaining himself in his dark and otherwise quiet surroundings.


Mr. Busypants was 23 months old when we moved to our Aurora house. We set him up in two different rooms: the first, his "real bedroom" where we put all this clothes and toys, and the second, a nursery where we put his crib and conducted his various weekly therapies without distraction. Soon after his second birthday, in preparation for a trip to Hawaii that Scott swore he wasn't take the pack-n-play on, we purchased a small, zippered pop-tent and "practiced" sleeping in it. Sleeping in a tent was a novel idea and Mr. Busypants took right to it. For years to come, it came in handy and from then on, the pack-in-play stayed in the attic. As he got older and could unzip the tent and escape, Scott one-uped him with some handy clamps that kept him securely in his bed-time space. We'd laugh as we'd see little fingers poking through in an attempt to escape; Mr. Busypants took it all in good humor.


A few weeks after we came home from Hawaii, Scott did the unthinkable: set up a twin-sized bed in the crib room. Knowing that I would be the one dealing with his morning escapes, I was pretty annoyed by the whole thing. But it took Mr. Busypants about five weeks to even figure out that he could crawl around the bed rail and leave anytime he wanted. One night I found him fast asleep on the love seat in our bedroom.


Under normal circumstances, Mr. Busypants slept in until 7:30 or 8, so since I was unwilling to let my morning treadmill be interrupted when Scott got ready in the morning and inadvertently but inevitably woke the little booger up, I relocated him to his own bed.


The next night I found him on the floor just inside our bedroom door and I relocated him.


The next night I found him just outside the door and I relocated him.


Finally I got smart and put up a gate. I can't remember when we stopped using it, but he never did climb his way out of his room, so it was an effective solution.


Mr. Busypants' obsession with balls moved to the bedroom during the summer that he was two-years-old. Every night we'd carry dozens of balls up to bed, where he would pile them and sleep among them. I agree, it was ridiculous, but he went to bed immediately after he safely tucked in every last ball, so to argue would have been stupid. Now, when I say dozens of balls, I mean balls of all sizes: stability balls, soccer balls, footballs, basketballs all the way down to the smallest ball possible that was not considered a choking hazard. It usually took three or four trips carrying filled-up laundry baskets to his room. Every ball needed to be accounted for.


Later that summer I took him to California to visit my aunt, uncle and cousin. My uncle Ali is an avid Matchbox car collector, and was more then happy to give Mr. Busypants a "starter set" (and when I say starter set, I mean his first hundred cars). Around the age of three, Mr. Busypants abandoned his bedtime balls and replaced them with his 100+ collection of Matchbox cars, which he dutifully boxed and insisted I carry up two flights of stairs from the basement to his bed, along with all of his street mats and any other miscellaneous item he obsessed over at the time. We didn't even have to tell him it was bedtime. His internal clock would set in and in he living room Scott and I would hear the clanking of cars being loaded into a box.


Around the start of Kindergarten, Mr. Busypants weaned off the cars at bedtime. Since then his routine has become less itemed. Our routine consists of night-night diaper and jammies, a water bottle that must have at least two pieces of ice (and he shakes it to make sure), and his books. The CD player must be on as must the lights. For a while we were perplexed that he insisted on sleeping on the floor in the closet when he had a brand new bunk bed that cost just over a grand (the bottom bunk is a full-sized bed). We're also storing a twin-sized mattress in there that he slept on until the novelty wore off. After a while I figured out he liked the closet because the light was on, so I pulled the chain of his ceiling fan, giving him full access to the bedroom light, which got him back into the lower bunk.


The last few weeks he's been back on the floor, happy to sleep on piles of blankets and a giant-sized teddy bear that Scott bought me when I went away to college (because having an enormous bear is just what you need in a tiny dorm room).


He grabs hold of that tattered blanket that we once covered his bassinet with, sticks his thumb in his mouth and rolls over. Yes, the bedtime routines may have changed, but some things, for the time being, won't.

Books followup and Skipping School

Following up on my previous post, Mr. Busypants: Author, Illustrator, Book-Binder, Schedule Follower, Mr. Busypants is further developing his book habit. It started when he was watching me create the above mentioned post. As I typed the text of his books into the blog, I'd send him to go get it to ensure accuracy. I mean, I am an English teacher (college-level writing), so it would be highly hipocritical for me to plagiarize my own sons work, and to do so incorrectly.

He sat on my desk and dictated his exact spelling. Then last night, he asked me to set up my laptop at "his desk" (aka. a little table I have set up in my office that also includes a plastic, five-drawer storage bin for all his creative supplies). He spent the rest of the evening typing his books on the computer.

It's always good to back up your work.

***

This morning Mr. Busypants work up at 4 AM, calling for me. He's had one of those coughs that's there enough to be annoying, but not so much that he needs to be taken out of school, especially since it will probably linger for the next 4 weeks. So when I tell him it's time to get ready for school he tells me:

BP: "I don't wanna go to school. I sick."
Me: "Your sick? You don't look very sick."
BP: "No. I sick mom. I stay home with you."
Me: "Ok, but sick people take medicine. Do you need medicine?"
BP: "I get ready for school, Mama. No medicine."

Then he happily prepared for his school day.

For Mr. Busypants, taking medicine is a fate worse then death. Until recently, on the few occasions when we were unfortunate enough to have to give him some, we'd have to sneak up on him, hold him down, and force it down his throat. When he got strep last summer, I figured it was less cruel to give him a shot in the hiney then to have to medicate him 3x a day for 10 days. But last month while we were on Marker Island (Marco), he developed an infection on his face from licking his lips and he needed an antibiotic. Every dose too 30 min. for him to take. Sipping a mililiter at a time, then chasing it with 4 oz. of milk.

Yeah, school sounds like a good idea.