Washable Paint

There’s comes a time in every mother’s life when she must discover for herself: exactly how washable is washable paint?

Jonah’s been waking up around 6 a.m. all week. He’s doing a bang up job of sleeping through the night (most nights), but as soon as that sun rises (that’d be 5:59 a.m.) he rises with his own brand of hoppy spunk. Room darkening shades be damned!

Collectively, John and I spend a fair amount of time keeping brother Gabriel in bed, so when the J-man scooted into our room at six I blearily rose and followed him to his room. He wanted the iPad. Of course he wanted the iPad. He was hungry. We settled on him helping himself  to a yogurt and some soy milk. I okayed the iPad with the stipulation “nothing trashy.” We were good to go. I stumbled back to bed and slept intermittently—waking periodically to J’s boom boom booming down below (like I said, hoppy spunk)—until 8, when I heard him enter his room and close the door behind him with just enough resolution to concern me. Of course, not enough that I couldn’t doze off for another ten minutes.

But there were unfamiliar noises coming from his room. Nothing terribly troubling, per se, but I knew something was going on that isn’t usually going on in there. At this point I realize that part of the reason I’m so bleary-eyed is that I slept in my contacts, which I never do and I do not recommend, though in this situation, being able to (half-way) see did allow me to more quickly assess the situation.

Jonah met me at the door with a full cup (which probably equaled about 1 1/2 cups liquid proper) of blue finger paint and a drenched paintbrush. I looked down: paint on the floor. I looked at Jonah: paint on his clothes, paint on his face, paint on his legs, paint on his hands. I looked at the wall: yep, paint on the wall in, I must say, a very lovely and free sort of circle about the size of a saucer (I was nearly inclined to “Leave It Like It Is“). Paint on the full length closet mirror. Paint on the closet door. Paint on the closet floor. Paint on the bookshelf. Probably paint on the bedspread, but it’s already blue, so I chose to pretend there was no paint on the bed. O yes, and goldenrod colored pencil scribbles all over the wall surrounding the framed pictures of his his beloved cousins and grandparents.

“Jonah,” I said/sighed/questioned, “what are you doing?”

“Are you very mad?” he replied.

“But what are you doing?” I repeated, still trying to wake up, still trying to make sense of all that blue in all those places.

“I needed to paint my whole room,” he stated. “Will Dad be very mad?”

“Daddy will be upset, but probably not very mad,” I answered.

Come to find out, Rufus and Wainwright* (our very tiny, very mischievous, very invisible, imaginary dogs) told him to do it. That, combined with him watching and rewatching the Casper (the Friendly Ghost) movie, which instilled in him a very real need for his own haunted house.

And can he really be faulted all that much? We left the kid completely alone, unsupervised for two hours. He wakes up at the crack of dawn raring to go and we hand him the iPad. Inspired by Charlie and his remarkable parents Kristina and Jim (read more at We Go With Him)—who collectively walk and bike probably more than a hundred miles a week in order to satisfy Charlie’s need for exercise and movement—I have decided a walk first thing is in order. I have so directed Jonah to wake me when he wakes and we will do it in the cool of the morning when the birds are just coming out, when his jubilant energy is at its most exuberant.

When I told John of my plan, he responded, “Do you think you can do it?” I sure am going to try. We agree it’s just the thing. And maybe, eventually, I will even become a morning person. Nah.

[Postscript: By the way, this particular brand of washable paint is quite washable. All of the blue came up off the floor and the greater part came off the walls. Unfortunately, the blue had set a little too long and you can still see the outline of that lovely open circle the size of a saucer. Kudos also go to Sherwin Williams satin finish paint. It doesn't claim to be washable, but it comes darn near close.]

*Footnote: Rufus and Wainwright came into on our walks home from school. To keep Jonah on the sidewalk and in my general vicinity (this was before he could remember to look at every street corner before crossing), I tell him stories about the generally naughty exploits of R & W. His first question as we round the corner toward home has invariably become, “What happened to Rufus and Wainwright today?” I must add, in an attempt to cover my own ass, R & W are not always rascals. They have been very helpful in a pinch—like when Rufus squeezed behind our stove to retrieve the car keys Gaba tossed in a fit of wild abandon.

In lieu of physical evidence, here’s the little imp in the woods yesterday, laughing at a song I made up about Jonah Caedmon Estes being all kinds of sunshine and happiness.

About the play

“The play’s the thing,” wrote Shakespeare (via Hamlet). In context:

I’ll have grounds
More relative than this—the play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.

Hamlet’s hatched a plan to surprise the conscience of his uncle, who Hamlet believes killed his father to ultimately gain the throne. I did a little reading (nothing too thorough, just eNotes), and discovered that about ten years after the first production of Hamlet, another play was being staged by playwright Thomas Heywood. As the actors staged a gruesome murder, a woman stood up in the audience and confessed killing her own husband in like manner.

Speaking of plays (but not of murder), Jonah had his own first school production this week entitled Bugz. It’s typical elementary fare. Cute costumes, funny dances, and entertaining one-liners (delivered with consistent verve by the boy playing the Maggot). Jonah and his fellow Kindergarteners (the boys) were Army Ants. He had one line, which probably only his father and I understood: “I hope they have cheese souffle and tuna casserole.”

The play’s definitely “the thing” for Jonah, but rather than revealing the guilty conscience of a murderer, his play is usually about trying something on. It’s about the suit. “I’m going to dress up as Yoda,” he declared the other night before bed. He donned neon green Toy Store pajamas turned inside out. John found him a cane and an old southwestern flannel shirt (also turned inside out) to approximate a ragged robe. He hobbled around on Sophie’s army green dog bed (“the swamp”) and informed us he would be Yoda for sharing time (it was his turn) the next day. He followed through on that, with John’s help, but he went all quiet and lost most of his dramatic enthusiasm.

Yesterday he went all Harry Potter. Disappeared in his room and reappeared having made a two-tone lightening bolt attempt on his forehead. He tried to use a magic marker to make his hair brown, to little effect (thankfully). He cut and taped several pieces of black construction paper to his pajamas for a cape. He even made Harry Potter feet, though for some reason didn’t cut them apart and so was hopping around like he was on a pogo stick until they ripped and he abandoned them for the swing.

Then there’s this funny self-narration he’s taken to using. He’ll go into Jonahland for a spell and spiel off different voices or comments, usually playing them in a loop. Sometimes it’s something that happened at school. A phrase someone said to him at lunch. Sometimes it’s a few lines from a video. This isn’t new. What’s new is the addition of, “said Jonah.”

Example: there’s a girl in his class who’s a little on the bossy side. She drives J batty, and so we talk about her a lot. Mostly about why she makes Jonah crazy and some things Jonah might say to tell her how he feels about it. So while I was making dinner a few nights ago, I heard him say, “You’re not my boss, said Jonah.” And then, “Quit buggin’ me, said Jonah.” (Which happens to be the logo on one of his favorite t-shirts, complete with a big black beetle.)

That’s the kind of play we’re talking about around here. He was great in Bugz, by the way. He knew all the actions, he knew his line, he even sang a little. He, not surprisingly, also knew some of the great lines his classmates delivered. Like the Yellow Jacket: “Don’t forget it folks—it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that sting!” But it was the suit that he truly loved. Who wouldn’t want to wear a camouflage hat with pipe cleaner antennae?

The Gaba Logs, Part Two

I fear the end is coming. G refuses to nap. John and I take turns sitting outside his room to at least ensure an hour or so of “rest” (yeah right, as if), attempting whatever modicum of patience we are capable of that day. I must admit, as I come to expect less, I find it easier not to care what he does, leaving him to his own devices. As long as he stays in the vicinity of his bed.

Today while I was talking to John in his office (i.e. enormous desk in small hallway) after lunch, we turned around to see G at the door with a fully peeled banana, just munching away. After eating most of an entire peanut butter & jelly and half an apple, he had been excused to play until nap time/spend-time-in-his-room time. Hungry to do something on his own, he had quietly drug a chair into the kitchen and managed to peel the banana, extracting the fruit without annihilating it. He quietly showed up to show us his work.

Earlier he helped me make morning coffee. After that, while waiting for the garbage truck, he enthusiastically gathered yard rubbish—twigs, sticks, weeds I’d pulled, fallen leaves, nuts hollowed out by hungry squirrels—and placed it in the bin at the curb. I had him running an entire hour. He carried a large rock that must have weighed at least seven pounds from the front yard to John, who was working at the table on our back porch. And still, no sleep.

Did I say I’d like to take a nap? That John is probably now sleeping on the grey couch? The wind seems to have shifted since I’ve sat here this past hour. In more ways than one. And yes, we have two and half years until preschool.

Meanwhile, Gaba stomps while he counts: One! Two! Free! Four! Five! Six!

The Gaba Logs

Poor Gaba. In the dramatic annals of life-with-Jonah, G’s day-to-day triumphs, tantrums, and wonder fully typical milestones go unannounced, similar to a second child’s baby book I suppose.

Every child is different from every other, and I am averse to making too many comparisons…but really, how can it be helped? Jonah and Gabriel have progressed so distinctly along their own paths, it sometimes feels as though we are parents again for the first time. Maybe every parent feels like this. Maybe parents of autistic children feel it especially. Sometimes it seems like “boy” is the only label they share.

Trucks. Tractors. Buses. Heavy machinery. The boys love the highway for entirely different reasons. The car noise and vibration have always had a soothing effect on J. Driving naps with a hot coffee (or iced coffee) in hand got me through many a morning, and afternoon, and evening in Jonah’s infancy. For G, the highway means looking for lots full of backhoes for rent or a dump truck hauling a heavy load. He lets out a shriek and yells “Arbage guck!” [Garbage truck]. He’s even got J on the lookout for him. If G’s not along and we come upon a steam roller or crane, Jonah will demand I take a picture so G can see it later.

Then there’s the shovels, the rakes and the buckets. G will occupy himself by the hour, with nothing more than the dream of a big hole: “Gaba gig big ole ou-sie” [Gaba did big hole outside]. He likes to dig for worms. He’s figured out that the robins pecking in the wet grass are looking for worms too, and he demands to do the same. He’s stringing words together in longer sequences too. “Jo-Jo take Gaba iPad,” he cries, as John and I look at each other in disbelief. Right. Gaba’s iPad.

Just now he’s settling himself in the space at the base of a tree that is three trees, which I have named The Three Sisters. Before long he’s backing his plastic foot-powered car into the sage with a devilish look on his face. Barring injury, there’s really no stopping this boy child, this baby who’s barely a baby. He’s two-years-old and, as John likes to say, he’s already out of here.

 

Surgical Leisure

Strange the ways life can give you a break.

Take pain. I recently had minor surgery—though I’ve been told there are no “minor” surgeries, and while initially skeptical of this comment, my point of view has decidedly shifted. Pain provides its own perspective. I’ve never been so happy to be confined to my bedroom. Never have I relished the thought of staying in bed the whole day through. I read, I doze. I drink. I pee. It’s all pretty simple, and I’m loving it.

I just spent a good forty-five minutes perusing documentaries for addition to my Netflix queue. The treasures that await me! Sweetgrass—the story of a family of Montana sheepherders. Into Great Silence: a study of the Grande Chartreuse monastery. Janis—of Joplin fame. Araya—the story of three families dependent on the Venezuelan salt trade. Helvetica—yep, it’s a documentary about a font. How great is that? And here’s one for Jonah: To the Limit—two German speed rock climbers race to the top of Yosemite’s El Capitan. And let us not forget Ed Hardy: Tattoo the World. 

Of course it will take me months to make my way through this (partial) list, but it’s the possibility of the thing that opens me up. Not doing can have an expansive effect (or is it the Vicodin?). Leisure. The word is almost foreign to me, but I’m slowly reintroducing it to my psyche. The German Catholic philosopher Josef Pieper has a good deal to say about work and leisure. I especially need to consider this thought about work:

The world of work begins to become—threatens to become—our only world, to the exclusion of all else. The demands of the working world grow ever more total, grasping ever more completely the whole of human existence.
–Leisure: The Basis of Culture

Like most writers, Pieper really has one thing to say, which he says in a dozen different ways. Here he talks about leisure in his book Happiness and Contemplation:

Repose, leisure, peace, belong among the elements of happiness. If we have not escaped from harried rush, from mad pursuit, from unrest, from the necessity of care, we are not happy. And what of contemplation? Its very premise is freedom from the fetters of workaday busyness. Moreover, it itself actualizes this freedom by virtue of being intuition.

All of this contemplation is possible because my husband is taking care—of me, the kids, the house, the food, his work—for which I am most thankful. I’m hoping the fourth day of recovery is as magical as they say (things really take a turn for the better I’m told by those in the know), because the guy needs a break. But while I’ve got this space to myself, I think I’ll flip on Janis and explore my inner rocker. That woman can sing.

What it takes

Jonah and I had a date for church this morning. We’ve gotten to the point where Gabriel goes a couple times a month. There’s only so much racing and chasing we can manage, and really, we’d rather he were outside running circles than making a mad dash for the altar.

J was a little more squirrelly than usual. We’ve been out of the church proper for almost three months, meeting in the social hall while repairs were made. He was very excited to be back in “the big church.” Usually we can get a solid five minutes of ease out of him upon our arrival, but today he was squatting atop the pew with Where’s Walrus wide open, rocking from side to side and talking a kind of bookish gibberish to himself. There’s always been a Gollum-esque quality to Jonah, minus the creepy “My preciousssss” obsessive chatter. It’s in the way he moves. He has a wonderful litheness about him—creaturely in a kooky but charming sort of way.

But what it takes somedays is full body contact. At one point he was on my lap, facing me and showering me with kisses. On my nose, my eyes, my neck. Then he had a piece of my hair in his mouth, then he was sniffing me. Every few moments he would look me straight in the eye and say, “I love you mom.” Either that or, “How long until Holy Communion? Five minutes? Twenty?”

One routine that must be particularly strange to watch involves me putting my hand down the front of his shirt so that I’m touching his skin while my other hand clamps down hard over his eyes. “Tighter, tighter!” he whisper-commands. It’s hard to know how hard to push. I fear shoving his beautiful big eyeballs into his skull, and my hand can stay clamped like that for only so long before it starts to cramp.

It must be a lot to take in. Of course it is. I remember my first visits to an Orthodox Church. I would plant myself in a pew behind a large pillar so that I could watch and hide all at once. As soon as the service was over I’d break for the door. There’s still a little of that tendency in me. The icons, the chanting, the incense, the bright stained glass. Priests and altar boys in robes moving about. The periodic Paschal shout of “Christ is Risen!” answered by a hundred voices shouting back, “Indeed He is Risen!” Of course he needs someone to clamp down hard on his eyes. Sometimes it’s just too much. Turning all of his attention on me seems to have the same calming effect. Sniffing my hair brings him down to a more familiar, less stimulating place.

On the spectrum of sensory input, Jonah’s a seeker (to the often extreme), so I can forget that even he can be overwhelmed. I’m starting to think it happens more than we know or have in the past discerned because he’s almost always smiling. He’s game and he’s goofy. His goofiness is probably the biggest sign that he’s got more than he knows what to do with. When he starts slapping his head three-stooges-style and falling to the ground, you know it’s time to bail. Get to some heavy work or a swing. Whatever it takes…which is how I tend to approach Church these days. I try to ignore the looks that come our way. Some are real, some imagined. I have to admit that there’s part of me saying, “Screw ‘em.” (I know. Nice sentiment to be having in church.) But if there’s one thing Jonah’s given me, it’s perspective.

It’s so easy to judge. It’s so easy to be unkind and think you know best. Jonah has taught us how to be his parents. Through his cries and his caresses, through his climbing and running and spinning he shows us what he needs—which is sometimes to be left alone, but more often to be helped along. To be calmed down so he can be with us better. So we can be better with him.

Not even a duck

Jonah’s really into Super Why!. The characters all have alternate superhero-ish identities (“They’re secret agents mom!”), and the arc of each episode centers around solving a problem for a character in a fairy tale. I like the reading bit. I like the way Whyatt’s (the main character) computer always directs them to a book. But their storytelling isn’t always exactly accurate, which is fine if a child already knows the story. Not so fine if it’s being presented for the first time.

Take a kid like Jonah. Whatever rendition of a thing he first gets into his brain, there it is. There it sticks. There it stays. This applies across the board: movies, books, the rules of writing. One Super Why! episode revolves around the story of The Ugly Duckling. I suggested getting the book from the library. J was all for it. But as we read the book before bed, I watched and heard his wheels turning. I’m not sure what story the television show told, but it was markedly different than the original tale.

“You mean, he’s not even a duck?!” The look on J’s face was sheer astonishment. He couldn’t get over it. He saw the difference between the duck who wasn’t a duck and the baby ducks. He had to know what happened. Where’d the egg come from? Why did the duck who wasn’t a duck leave the pond, leave the farm? Who took care of him? Why did he get so big? Why did he change? How did he become the most beautiful of all?

“You mean, he’s not even a duck?!” He repeated this question ten times.

Of course, my initial reaction to his reaction wasn’t accurate. I couldn’t help but think/want to believe that he felt the duck who wasn’t a duck’s difference. That he thought it was extremely cool when the duck who wasn’t a duck discovered he was something different entirely—a swan. Not only a swan, but a swan with swan friends and a swan way. A swan with a place in the world. Something big and mysterious and beautiful.

And who knows what he takes in, what he’s processing or how. Where I saw a chance to talk about his autism, he simply saw a story that surprised him. He saw a mystery being solved (he’s also really into Scooby-Doo and the gang’s Mystery Machine). He didn’t apply this to himself, and I got the sense that now’s not the time to go there. We don’t hide J’s autism from him. We use the word; we don’t talk around it. But we’ve also not had a sit-down chat. I just don’t think he has a framework to process it.

But saying that, you can never know what he’s taking in, and I don’t want to make assumptions. On some level, he knows he’s different. John once asked him, with a touch of exasperation, “Why can’t you be normal?” Jonah’s response: “I’m not normal! I’m funny!” Maybe not even being a duck will be the image that helps him understand. For now, I’m just glad he’s got the story straight. Because it’s a good story, and I wouldn’t trade my duck who isn’t a duck for anything.

The hard thing to sort out is when, and how hard, to push him to learn and practice being a duck (insert the word neurotypical here). Because it’s a pretty ducky world out there, and he needs to know how it works, even if he doesn’t always understand why it works that way. Do you make the kid use lowercase letters when he prefers to write his name, “JoNaH”? (Even getting him to add “Estes” causes a kerfuffle.) His OT, dad and I all have slightly differing opinions. When a six-year-old impervious to cold tells you he doesn’t need a coat, do you let him deal with the consequences of a stiff north wind or stuff a hoodie in his backpack?

These are questions for another day. Questions every parent wrestles with, with every sort of child. Where’s that Mystery Machine when you need it?

© Sarah B. Smith

What it feels like

Here’s an interesting one:

Jonah, G and I took a hike after school yesterday. John’s presenting at a conference Michigan, and my motto, when he’s gone, is “Work ‘em hard, Wear ‘em out!” Doesn’t always work, but in the last two nights I’ve only been woken up twice, so I’ll stick with the game plan.

The trail we take is pretty simple. It runs in a series of loops—some larger, some smaller, with names like Coniferous and Deciduous—so you can gauge how far to go. I was surprised how much physical energy both the boys had, so we took the slightly longer Coniferous loop.

Jonah especially loves the woods. It’s the adventure, yes, but it’s the woods themselves. He and his babysitter, Tessa, would take tree-hugging walks around our neighborhood in Miss-our-i. He was probably two. Being an avid tree hugger myself (I mean this quite literally), people assumed I had coached J. Nope. He comes by it honestly. Trees calm him.

As we walked, Jonah narrated each place along the trail where something of consequence had happened on previous hikes, down to the identification of a very small hole (he’s currently a little obsessed with holes): “That’s the hole I tripped on last time and hurt my head!” J talks and talks. We have the best conversation. Not just about things that happened in his day, but about what’s going on inside of him. He will be talking and then stop and say, “Did you understand my words?” He wants me to know. He needs me to understand.

Pain, death, dying, and emergency situations are still some of J’s favorite topics. He fell off our backyard climber a few days ago. It’s about a four foot drop, but he landed on his hip and couldn’t shake it off like he usually does (we have to be careful assessing his injuries because his pain tolerance is so high). He was offering quite a monologue about the experience. But here’s the line that really got me:

“I really felt it in my brain.”

Which leads me to wonder about the connect, or maybe the disconnect, between what’s happening in his body and brain. It seems to take an incredibly intense experience (which would include intense pain) for his brain to fully register what’s going on in his body. That makes a whole lot of sense, especially when I see him sometimes searching almost desperately (in his Dr. Goofenshmirtz kind of way) for sensory input. The rolling, the head-slapping, the high swinging jump-and-land-with-a-thud thing he’s been doing of late. Even feeling that pain must do something for him. Does it make him feel more connected in his body? As a human being?

The tricky thing is, this intensity borders on a loss of control. Is it truly helpful for him? I don’t want to be constantly telling him to reign in his body. He needs ways to physically express himself, but as his pediatrician reiterated at his last check-up (granted, he was standing/hopping on top of the exam table before I could stop him—even a mom’s anticipatory skills aren’t always operating on the highest frequency): “Safe choices Jonah. We need to make safe choices.”

Self-awareness comes slow. But it is coming. His classroom aide wrote me a few days ago with a wonderful development:

I have to tell you I saw him recognize his body today. We were trying to finish his journal and I could tell he was ready to go exercise. However, out of the blue he said Mrs. Cynthia I need to sit back for a minute. He did just that……he took a few deep breaths and then scooted forward.  It was pretty exciting!

Jonah having the wherewithal to stop himself and breathe deserves celebration. There’ve been times I thought the day would never come. Well, he showed me.

Puppy Love

Our dogs have this endearing/slightly gross thing they do. Sophie sprawls on her side (on the wood floor if she’s hot, on the dog bed if she’s not) and Lucy commences to lick out her ear. Lucy is thorough. She will spend maybe ten minutes cleaning and licking, and it reminds me of the way monkeys pick bugs off of each other, or of a mother rubbing her child’s back in slow, soothing circles. The gross part is the sound when Lucy’s being particularly fervant: sllrrrrrrp, sllrrrrrrp, sllrrrrrrp.

The analogy carries to this funny little ritual Gabriel and Jonah have fallen into. Overcome by love of his brother, Gabriel will grab Jonah by the neck (it usually happens when they’re sitting next to each other at the table) and bring him down, as you will see in Figure 1.

Figure 1

Directly following, he will sometimes play with Jonah’s hair or pick at Jonah’s ear. When he’s doing the ear picking I’ve several times told G to stop, to which J responds, “No Mom! I Like it!” The initial takedown is often followed by a period of chillin’:

Figure 2

As you can see from the picture, G’s right hand is still in motion as he plays with J’s ear. Jonah would stay in this position for a very long time, but Gabriel has moved on to the manic love phase, in which he pulls Jonah’s head up and gives him a proper (if strangulatory) neck hug:

Figure 3

Look at Jonah’s face. This may be the mellowest I ever see him. He’s moved (or been brought) down from Tigger land and is firmly inhabiting Pooh (this is an analogy his PT and OT use to help him recognize his emotions and general body commotion). When I see a picture like this, I can’t help but fast forward a bit in the boys’ futures. Gabriel is the big brother in this picture. Despite being four years younger than J, he may always be.

The lovefest continues as Jonah lets Gabriel gnaw on his chewy necklace. [Note the abiding Pooh-like countenance, and also the striking resemblance to his father.]:

Figure 4

We are seeing that day they said would always come. It’s nearly here. We glimpse it through the kitchen window looking out to our backyard. Jonah and Gabriel are becoming friends. Send them outside, and the odds are good they’ll play, together. They regard each other with a surprising degree of respect, even admiration. It’s all a phase, I know, but some of it will stick. I’ve never had a brother, but I know a little bit about sisters, and in the echelons of human relationships, mine occupy a place unto themselves.

[As I prepare to hit the Publish button, all hell's breaking loose in J's room. Trouble at the window box. Better head...]

Emotional Intelligence

Honestly, I don’t know nearly enough about this topic, but I’m going to give it a stab all the same.

Emotional intelligence. According to a paper published in Psychological Inquiry (Vol. 15, No. 3, 2004), emotional intelligence is defined as:

the capacity to reason about emotions, and of emotions to enhance thinking. It includes the abilities to accurately perceive emotions, to access and generate emotions so as to assist thought, to understand emotions and emotional knowledge, and to reflectively regulate emotions so as to promote emotional and intellectual growth (Mayer & Salovey, 1997).

Persons with autism are said to lack a highly developed sense of emotional intelligence, especially in regard to social interaction and communication. Like everything related to autism, it’s a very wide spectrum. One of the reasons (besides simple denial) we were so hesitant to have Jonah evaluated for autism was his sometime-ability to empathize. Our picture of autism didn’t match J’s brand of autism.

He is also quite capable of perceiving emotions, though his range is somewhat limited. His common questions include: Are you happy? Are you mad? Are you irritated? Sad doesn’t enter the picture very often. I introduced “irritated” as a gradient of mad. Any kind of negative feelings cause J to passionately proclaim “I’m having a BAD day!” even if the rest of his day has been peachy. So that’s where his difficulty regulating emotion comes in, not unlike his difficulty modulating sensory experiences.

When it comes to generating emotions, well, you should watch the kid in front of a mirror. Or a video camera (especially Skype). Give him a little time and the right frame of mind, and you’ll see tears. Real tears, manufactured while you wait! He’ll contort his face, stick out his lower lip and work himself up into a bona fide tizzy.

What brought this all to mind was an incident a couple of nights ago. The boys were bathed and pajamaed, newly diapered and mouth clean. So I pull G up on my lap to read a final book before bed, and the little stinker had, in the five minutes since his father had dressed him, completely filled his pants. “Whew-ee!” I exclaimed. “Where’d that poop come from?” [It's a little game G and I play. He almost always answers "Jo-Jo!", followed by "Daddy!"]

Jonah and John overheard us, and John came out to tell me that Jonah had just informed him that it’s his [John's] fault that Gabriel pooped. I can only infer, sheepishly, that Jonah has heard me (more than once) thoughtlessly blame John for things completely outside of his control. Yeah, it happens. But the connection Jonah made in that moment kind of astounded me. He was imitating my bad behavior. More than that, he had emotionally reasoned that if something goes wrong—if something is less than ideal—it’s Daddy’s fault. To say the least, I was humbled. Mortified is probably more accurate. I firmly resolved, in that moment and in many moments since, to wholeheartedly pursue unflappability. A little more tranquility and a lot less flusterability. I know, it’s not a word. But it should be.

Which leads me to consider: what’s workable? What’s not? Maybe for Jonah, the most important skill we can help him develop is the ability to recognize what he can get better at and what he can’t—and to seek accommodations (whether they be emotional, intellectual, or physical) for the areas that are, let’s face it, beyond his control.