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Diagnosis Day: 8 Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me

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Do you ever look back on a particular day in your life and wish things had gone differently? If only you’d said this thing, or if only you’d done that thing. We all know, of course, that those “if only” scenarios don’t do us one whit of good in terms of the outcome, but that doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to think of them. Sometimes we can use those lessons in the future, and sometimes we can help other people going through similar things.

One of the most pivotal days in the life of an autism parent is the day of their child’s diagnosis. When I look back on that day, I remember shock, tears, and a sense that a giant constrictor had wrapped itself around me and was squeezing me so tightly around the chest that I could barely breathe.

Realistically, there’s no way to completely cushion a blow like this. But maybe – just maybe – there are some things that would make it easier to bear. Here are the things I wish I had known when I got the diagnosis.

1. The doctor does not have a crystal ball. Any dire predictions that he makes for your child’s future are not set in concrete.

2. If you Google too much too soon, you can drown under the weight of the information overload.

3. Your child is first and foremost a child. Don’t let your child become the diagnosis, the whole diagnosis and nothing but the diagnosis.

4. You may feel as if your reality has shattered, but all that’s happened is that your reality has changed. You have to give yourself the space and time to get used to your new view.

5. Now more than ever, you need to nurture your relationship with your partner.

6. Apply for all the funding and services you can, even if you think odds are stacked against you. There’s always the chance that something will stick.

7. Don’t be afraid to cry. Even if it’s in front of the kids. It’s OK for them to know that you’re human.

8. Know that you can do the whole special needs parenting thing. You may not feel that way in the beginning, but you will. You don’t have to know all the answers – because let’s face it, none of us ever does – just know that you will be the parent your child needs you to be.

 

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Health Activist Writers Month Challenge

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Happy April Fools Day! This day means two things. First, we all get to play pranks on our families and co-workers. And second, it is the first day of the Health Activist Writers Month Challenge. This is a fancy way of saying that for the month of April, you will be seeing one blog post from me every day, as I try to raise awareness for the causes that matter to me. I participated in this challenge last year – miraculously, without missing a single day, and I had such a lot of fun with it that signing up again this year was not even a question.

Why am I doing this? With everything that I already have on my plate – full-time job, commute from hell, finances for the husband’s business, school, running, parenting, and a million other things – how can I commit to writing a blog post every single day? I mean, that’s a lot of effort.

I do it because I love it, and because I am passionate about the causes I write about. I have a genuine desire to make a difference through the stories I tell. I want parents whose kids have just been diagnosed with autism to know that everything will be OK. Sure, the definition of “OK” might change, but there is always hope. I want people to know that the kid they saw having a meltdown in Wal-Mart wasn’t being a spoiled brat. He was simply having immense difficulty processing all of the sensory inputs that were going on. I want other moms in my position – moms who are juggling a lot of stuff including bouts of mental illness – that it can be done, and that they should take some time out to take care of themselves.

Sometimes I simply want people to celebrate my kids’ accomplishments with me, or I want them to share my outrage at something, well, outrageous, or I just want them to have a bit of a laugh.

Yes, it’s a time commitment, but it’s one that I am more than happy to make. Because sharing a little slice of my life through this blog is my passion.

I am excited to be taking part in this challenge, and I am excited to read the awesome posts that my fellow health activists will put up.

You too can sign up for this challenge. Just visit info.wegohealth.com/hawmc and fill in your information!

What are the health concerns you care about the most?

 

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2012: My Year In A Nutshell

2012 was an eventful year for me. It featured some highlights, and some definite lowlights.

January… I receive a new training plan from my friend Phaedra, who I have enlisted as my coach for the coming year. My training does not start well, though: on the day I am supposed to do my first run in the schedule, I come down with the mother of all stomach bugs.

February… I receive a devastating phone call: my beloved aunt Ann has died in a freak accident. I fly to South Africa to lend support to my mom and say my farewells to Ann. It is intensely emotional. I cannot believe that someone who has been such a big part of my life since I was born is no more.

March… I am back from South Africa, and my training can finally get underway properly. I feel like I am back on track, and ready for my first race of the season.

April… I run two races and make personal best times in both of them. On the same day as the Toronto Yonge Street 10K, another person dear to my heart passes away. Margaret, who was a phenomenal actress – a far better Shirley Valentine than the original Shirley Valentine -  has succumbed to cancer.

May… I survive a major organizational restructuring at work. I am shuffled to a new manager, but in an environment where people I know well and work closely with are being let go, I manage to keep my job.

June… I am admitted to the Professional Writers Association of Canada (PWAC). This is a big, big deal for me. I want to get into the freelance writing business, and this affiliation will help me enormously.

July… The kids are done with school. James has finished Grade 1 and George has completed Grade 3. We find a rare gem: a reliable and dedicated respite worker. The boys take to her quickly. They respond well to her kindness and natural intuition with kids.

August… I run the Midsummer Nights Run 15K on a course that has been my personal nemesis. Instead of crashing and burning like I have in every other race along the Leslie Street spit, I find that thing known to runners as The Zone. I run a great race and beat my previous best time by 14 minutes.

September… The kids go back to school, and although I worry about the transition for both of them, they adjust well to being back. At work, I manage my first implementation since being assigned as Implementation Lead for my project. There are some glitches but it goes well. It counts as a big virtual checkmark against my career. George turns nine. Where has the time gone?

October… This is an eventful month. I run my fourth annual autism run, raising a personal record amount for the Geneva Centre for Autism and running a personal best half-marathon time. The following weekend, I attend my first Blissdom conference and make many, many new writer friends. And the week after that, I attend the Geneva Centre for Autism symposium, and learn a ton of new things.

November… I meet with both of the boys’ teachers. George is progressing as well as he can at school, considering that he is a child with autism adjusting to a completely new school environment. James is struggling with his reading, and a plan is put in place to help him.

December… I celebrate completing my 43rd orbit around the sun on the same day we throw a birthday party for James. I run my final race of the season – the Tannenbaum 10K – and have a great deal of fun. I get all teary-eyed as I watch live-streaming of my friend Margie’s graduation that she worked so hard to accomplish. The world fails to end. James turns seven. Where has the time gone?

Some big things are in store for 2013. I have some lofty goals and I am quite excited to get started on them. I was going to make them a part of this post, but decided that 2013 deserves a post all of its own.

Watch this space to see what’s afoot for the New Year…

(Photo credit: Carlos Van Vegas. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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How A Different Mindset May Save Lives

Everyone, it seems, has an opinion on what is or is not to blame for the Sandy Hook shooting.

I have seen arguments and statistics on both sides of the gun control debate. While I am not personally a fan of every man and his dog having a gun, I have to remind those pushing for gun control that this year we had two shooting sprees within a month of each other. In Toronto. Where there is gun control. On the other hand, countries with gun control do have fewer mass shootings than countries without it.

Then there’s the religion argument. Apparently, “keeping God in the schools” would solve the problem. I don’t mean to sound cynical – not much, anyway – but do proponents of this view really believe that saying the Lord’s Prayer before class every day would have stopped the perpetrator from doing this? Let’s also consider the fact that shootings of this nature rarely happen in secular countries where there is strong separation of church and state.

The shooter “may have” had autism and OCD. Really? Well, the shooter “may have” had hayfever. Does this mean we have to start perpetuating discrimination against people who have hayfever? Yes, the whole idea of autism being to blame is that ridiculous.

We need better access to mental health care. With that one, I think we’re getting closer to the root – or at least one possible root – of the problem. There are some people who are just inherently evil, and nothing we do short of incarcerating them or killing them will stop them from committing unspeakable acts. But there are people who are genuinely sick, who do not get the help they need, and who end up doing things like this. I am in no position to say whether the Sandy Hook shooter fell into this category – I am just making the point that mental illness, when left unchecked, can have terrible, tragic consequences.

Mental illness is like just about every other illness or condition on the face of the planet. The earlier it is detected and treated, the better. We could talk all day about how mental health facilities need to be more easily available to those who need them. Few would argue the validity of helping people who need to be helped.

But the challenge begins before the mentally ill person even gets to the point of discovering that the help they need may be hard to come by.

We live in a society that, say what you like, is not very accepting of mental illness. I mean that in a very literal sense: there is a deep-seated reluctance in many people to acknowledge that there is such a thing as mental illness. I have a list of mental health issues, including no less than four different kinds of depression. When I have tried to enlist the support of those around me like the websites say you should, I have been hit with stuff like this:

* “You’re depressed because you’re dwelling on the past.”

* “All you need to do is change your attitude.”

* “You need to have more consideration for your family.”

* “You need to choose to be happy.”

And my personal favourite:

* “You need to snap out of it.”

When people with mental illnesses are bombarded with messages like this, what are the chances of them actually being motivated to seek professional help? If someone has depression, anxiety, PTSD or any other mental illness, the last thing they need is for a doctor to tell them they are imagining it, or that they are somehow to blame. Many people in that position do not seek help because that is exactly the response they fear.

The truth is that mental illness is very real, and very frightening to those who experience it. It is not something that can be fixed through a simple change of attitude. You cannot just “snap out of it”. People who commit suicide are not, as many believe, “just thinking of themselves”. They have simply reached a point where they cannot see a way forward.

Just over a decade ago, when I was a new arrival in Canada, Toronto news was full of a terrible story about a woman who had leaped into the path of an oncoming subway train while holding her six-month-old baby. The baby died instantly, but the mother hung on in hospital for a while before succumbing to her injuries. The public was outraged. How could this woman have deprived her child of life? What kind of monster was she?

The story unfolded to reveal a woman who was so desperate that she didn’t know what to do. Following the birth of her child, she was caught in the grip of post-partum depression. She did not receive the help that she needed in spite of having told her nearest and dearest that she was depressed and frightened. They just didn’t understand the depths of the problem, and in all likelihood, she was too ashamed to go to a professional.

Do I condone what that mother did? No, of course not. I never think it is OK for someone to kill their child or anyone else. But having gone through post-partum depression (which, by the way, was untreated for over a year because I felt too ashamed to seek help), I can appreciate just how scared and depressed and absolutely hopeless she probably felt.

People with mental illnesses need to be encouraged to seek help for their conditions. In order to accomplish that, we need to change the way we think about mental illness. People who have mental health problems need to stop being told that it is “all in their head” or that they have the power to change things under their own steam. They need to be given the message that help is available to them and that there is no shame in seeking it out.

Reducing the stigma surrounding mental illness would not fix everything that is wrong with the world. It would not eliminate all tragedies. But there is a very good chance that it would save some lives.

(Photo credit: Steven de Polo. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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Too Much Information?

Today’s prompt in the National Health Blog Post Month challenge invites participants to talk about disclosure. How do we decide what to share and what not to share in our posts?

This is a question I grapple with from time to time, as all bloggers should. As soon as you put any aspect of your life onto the Internet, you can say goodbye to privacy. Sometimes that really doesn’t matter. There’s no danger in me posting my race times and less-than-flattering photographs of myself in motion. Any Joe on the street can go online and look up my race times anyway. Since that information is publicly available, I may as well post it in my blog where I can brag about it a little.

I am equally open about my son’s autism and the challenges it presents to my family. This is where the question of disclosure becomes a little tricky, because I am being open about people other than myself. There are certain things that I will not discuss on the Internet, but in general I talk quite freely about the lives of my kids, and to a lesser extent, my husband. It is one thing for me to talk about myself, but my right to make that decision on behalf of my children is a bit of a gray area.

My blog serves multiple purposes. It’s a form of expression for my socially anxious, bad-at-verbal-conversation self. Writers as a breed tend to be a little neurotic and introverted, and I am no exception. This is how we communicate. Writing gives us a voice that we wouldn’t otherwise have.

Apart from fulfilling my own need for self-expression, my blog gives hope to other parents of special needs children who might be feeling a little lost and alone. From time to time, I get emails from readers telling me how my writing has made them feel less overwhelmed, and more able to cope. Those emails make everything truly worthwhile, because at the end of the day, what I want is to do my small part to make the world a better place for our kids, for the parents and siblings, for everybody.

At the same time, I hope to smash the stigmas surrounding autism, and the way I see it, the best way to do that is to be frank about it all. People are afraid of what they don’t understand, and in talking about autism, I hope to give it a human face, to give people the message that although there are little kids with autism, they are first and foremost little kids.

There are aspects of my kids’ lives that I will never talk about on my blog. My basic rule is this: if I cannot talk about it in public, I cannot talk about it on my blog. I agonize over many of my posts, weighing the benefits of sharing information against the risk of anyone getting hurt. I have written entire posts and then deleted them without publishing them.

It’s a delicate balancing act sometimes, and I find that as long as I listen to my gut instinct, it’s OK.

How do you decide what information to share on your blog? Have you ever shared something and later regretted it?

(Photo credit: John “Pathfinder” Lester. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-Marathon: 2012 Run For Autism

It is raining and I am starting to get cold. I have already surrendered my jacket to the baggage check tent, so I am standing in this foul weather with shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt. There is no shelter and the only thing keeping the rain off my face is the peak of my hat. This is good. I cannot abide water on my face. The line-up for the Porta-potties – a standard feature of the starting area of every race – inches forward too slowly.

Soon I will be toeing the start line of my fourth Run for Autism, and I feel more than a little emotional as I think about the reason I am running this race. Every mile is dedicated to a child with autism, but really, this run is for all kids with autism everywhere.

I wrap my arms around myself and shiver, both from cold and anticipation.

It is starting to rain harder.

The morning of the race was a little chaotic, made worse by the rain. We had circled around city blocks for about forty minutes in search of somewhere affordable to park. As a result, my designated warm-up time was taken up by the Porta-potty line, and when I had done what I needed to do there, I warmed up by jogging from the Porta-potties to my place in the start line. The massive scale of this event meant that this was a reasonable jog – enough for me to satisfy myself that my tight left leg and niggling back pain wouldn’t hinder me during the race. At some point right before the race started, I noticed that the rain had let up, and the conditions were now perfect for a run.

A fair distance ahead of me, I heard the starting siren go off, signalling the release of the runners in the first corral. My friend and coach Phaedra was somewhere in that group, and I silently sent good wishes to her through the ether. I knew that by the time I crossed the start line, Phaedra would have done at least two kilometres, possibly closer to three.

The siren went off again, and the second wave of runners was off. My corral was next, and I shuffled forward with the crowd. Just as the anticipation was building up to an unbearable level, the announcer counted down to the start, the siren went, and we were off.

The course was different this year. In prior years, half-marathoners ran down to the Lakeshore and stayed there for most of the out-and-back route. This time round, the route took us around more of the city streets before turning onto Lakeshore. I like some variety in my routes, and I really enjoyed the changes.

For the first few kilometres, I comfortably stayed ahead of my target pace. I restrained myself from going out too hard, and I felt good. I had initially pondered the idea of running with a pace bunny, but I quickly dismissed that idea. I always worry that if I run with a bunny I will be running their race, when I really should be running my race. This season in particular, I have become a lot better at running smarter as well as faster, so I really didn’t need to pace myself against another runner.

Which is why I am somewhat baffled that when I unexpectedly found myself alongside the 2:10 bunny just before the halfway mark, I decided to stay with him. I was so caught up in the excitement of the day, and at that point I was feeling strong, and those two factors together probably sent any sense of logic out the window. As good as I was feeling, I had never intended to run this race at a 2:10 pace.

It worked for about 3K, but then I started to fade. I drifted to the other side of the road and let the bunny go, and for the next 5K or so, I was able to maintain my original pace.

The bad news is that the damage had been done. My efforts to stay with the pace bunny had made my tight left leg flare up, and the nagging little pain in the small of my back started to extend down my left buttock, where it intersected with the pain in my leg.

The good news is that by this point I only had 2K to go. My body was screaming at me to stop. I felt as if my leg was on fire, but the thought of all of those kids with autism, including my own child, kept me going. I was going to stop at nothing to finish this race.

The final kilometre can only be described as agony. My left leg was actually twitching and I was running at a limp. The finish line kick that I usually pride myself on was replaced with a series of stops and starts, but I did still manage to run across the finish line.

If victories are made sweeter by how hard you work for them, then this one was the sweetest of them all. Of all the half-marathons I have done, this one was definitely the hardest.

In spite of how tough those last kilometres had been, I still ran a personal best, crossing the finish line in a time of 2:17:31. I actually cried as the finisher’s medal was placed around my neck.

Tears of pain. Tears of joy. And most of all, tears of love for my son who is my inspiration.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

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What Autism Parents Have Patched Together, Let No Media Man Put Asunder

I am angry.

I’m not talking about mild aggravation here. I am scream-in-frustration spit-in-someone’s-eye angry. I would like to take the object of my anger, lock him into a room with me, and give him a stern what-the-bleep-are-you-thinking talking to.

Deep breath… soothing thoughts…

Allow me to explain.

As an autism parent, I spend the better part of my life fighting for stuff. Six years ago, I fought for the assessment that led to George’s diagnosis. Then I fought for services. Every year I fight for funding to pay for respite workers. I fight for educational accommodations and opportunities for my son.

I fight for awareness.

Most of all, because I want my son to have the opportunity to live a happy, healthy, productive life, I fight for acceptance. I try to encourage people to look past the more challenging aspects of autism to see my child for who he is: a beautiful human being, full of love and bursting with potential.

From time to time I see baby steps of progress. Someone might leave a comment on my blog saying that they have a greater understanding because of my writing. Or I might see comprehension dawn in someone’s eyes when I offer an explanation for a grocery store meltdown. Those moments of progress are so gratifying, because they give me hope for my son’s future.

And then, along comes MSNBC host Joe Scarborough, stating that the man responsible for the Colorado movie theatre shooting was “probably on the autism scale.”

Thanks, Joe. Way to promote acceptance for people with autism. Telling the world that a kid with autism could potentially grow up to be a mass murderer really helps our cause.

What astounds me is that Joe Scarborough is the father of a child with Aspergers. Having parented a child on the spectrum, hasn’t he had to have the same fights as other autism parents? Has he not had to beg for funding, or services, or the rewording of a point in an IEP? Has he not dealt with the stares of unsympathetic strangers or the ostracism of his child?

Has he not worried about whether his son will be accepted by the society in which he has to live?

Joe Scarborough’s statement about the Aurora shooter is not based on anything but dangerous speculation. It is my hope that most people will have the sense to dismiss what he said as groundless nonsense. It is my fear that he has planted new seeds of baseless stereotyping that will serve to further isolate the kids we are trying so hard to integrate.

People really need to think before they speak. Especially people with any kind of public voice.

(Photo credit: Fifth World Art. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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Accidental F Bombs

The first time my younger son James, who had just turned four, dropped an F-bomb, he was out with my husband buying me a new laptop to replace the one that had gone kaput. According to eyewitness accounts (i.e. my husband), the conversation went something like this:

James (sitting in the back with my husband driving): Daddy, can I have a donut?
Husband: OK! Look out for a donut shop and tell me if you see one!
James (ten minutes later): Where’s the f*cking donut shop?

My husband tried to be stern about it, but he had a hard time keeping a straight face. It was one of times where you find something funny but you cannot let on that you find it funny.

Two a bit years later, the word has fallen out of favour with James. He doesn’t understand what it means (at least, I hope he doesn’t), but he does know that certain words are “bad words”. When he hears me slip up and utter a curse word, he tells on me, running to his dad and calling out, “Mommy said a bad word!”

A recent slip-up on my part has created F-bomb issues, not with James, but with my older son George.

Some time ago, George started messing around with the timer on the oven. This in itself is understandable for a boy with autism who likes to have everything just so. If you tell him that something will happen twenty minutes from now, he takes it very literally and makes sure he knows just when twenty minutes will be up. So he goes off and sets the timer on the oven.

This is a problem from a safety point of view. Not only does it mean that he is leaning over burners that may or may not be turned on, but the timer is controlled by the same buttons that are used to actually turn the oven on. There have been a couple of instances where George has accidentally set the oven temperature instead of the timer.

It is a fire hazard, and also a great inconvenience if I happen to have something in the oven and the temperature is suddenly not what  it should be.

We have been dealing with the timer-setting habit with as much sternness as you can employ with a kid with autism. Our “punishment” involves leading him to his room, and making him sit on his bed for a few minutes during which we completely ignore him. Negative reinforcement doesn’t really have an impact on him. It just makes him giggle. No reinforcement at all, however, makes him somewhat disconcerted and uncomfortable.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, my husband called out to me, “George set the timer!”

Without thinking, I replied, “Oh, f*ck.”

Yes, the children were within earshot. It was not my finest parenting moment.

We dealt with the situation as we usually do, and life went on.

Until this week, when George had one of his frequent bouts of echolalia.

For the uninitiated, echolalia is when a child with autism repeats something that he or she has heard, without regard for the context. It can be immediate, where the child repeats what has just been said moments ago, or delayed, where the words are repeated hours or days later.

This was a case of very delayed echolalia. About a month after my F-bomb, George suddenly said, “George set the timer! Oh, f*ck!”

And then giggled as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

And then said it again. And again, and again, and again.

As parents, of course, our instinct is to reprimand the child for saying such a word. And with typical kids, that’s fine. But for kids with autism, it’s a little more complicated. You can tell George until the cows come home, and he still won’t be able to distinguish the bad words from the normal words.

Since we make a big deal of any speech George comes up with in order to encourage him, our best defense is to simply ignore him when he says that word. But it’s so hard, and goes against the grain of what we believe to be “good” parenting.

In the meantime, we are getting George his very own timer – one that has proven very effective in the autism community. Hopefully, it will keep him away from the oven. It’s called a Time Timer, and it looks like this:

How do you deal with your kid coming out with swear words? Special needs parents: what are your strategies? I need them!

(Photo credit of “See, hear, speak no evil”: John Snape. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

(Photo credit of Time Timer: Spectrum Nasco)

 

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Band-Aids and Autism: How my Son Saved the Day

Several nights ago, right after lecturing my younger son James about keeping fingers away from sharp objects, I sliced my thumb open on the lid of a freshly opened can of tuna.

I made a run for the bathroom and held my profusely-bleeding hand over the sink while James trailed in saying, “Mommy, you really should learn to be more careful.”

I really should, indeed. I’m not at all sure how this even happened. What I do know is that the amount of blood was startling. It was a deep cut, right across the soft padded part of my thumb. I wasn’t really sure what to do about it. I had a full box of Band-Aids, but I didn’t think they would do a great job of stemming the flow. I was out of gauze pads, and George had surreptitiously used up all of my surgical tape to stick bits of paper to other bits of paper.

As I stood at the bathroom sink stupidly watching my blood go down the drain, George – eight years old and autistic – came in with the box of Band-Aids, that he had gotten out of the cupboard without anyone asking him to. He started unwrapping Band-Aids and wrapping them around my thumb. They were instantly getting soaked, but George kept at it, adding Band-Aids down the entire length of my thumb. Eventually, my thumb was trussed up in about twenty Band-Aids. It looked absolutely ridiculous, but the bleeding was contained.

George then added an extra-special touch: he took my hand, and lightly kissed my Band-Aided thumb.

It’s hard to say what aspect of this whole incident is most significant.

George, autism and all, responded immediately and appropriately to what he saw as an emergency. This child, who gets totally freaked out at the sight of blood, showed no more than a little bit of mild distress. He managed to stay completely calm as he bandaged me up. He quietly took charge of the situation in a way that astounded me. The kiss demonstrated tenderness and empathy – just the kind of bedside manner that someone with a fresh injury needs.

It makes me think that I should start teaching him First Aid. If this incident is anything to go by, George seems to have that instinct of calmly wanting to help when someone gets hurt. It could serve us well to empower him to help in situations like this, starting on a small scale, of course. I wouldn’t expect my eight-year-old to perform CPR, but if he had the tools to handle minor First Aid emergencies, that could be good not only for his potential patients, but for himself.

Do you think George’s response to this situation might be evidence of some instinct that he naturally has? What opportunities do you think might arise from this?

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/honan/3779689068/)

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The Mathematics Of Brotherhood

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I am fortunate enough to have two children who travel well, at least by car. We have not yet experimented with air travel, but I have a feeling that once we got past the airport chaos and onto the plane, they would be fine. We are not quite ready for that, so for now we are sticking to the road trips.

Last weekend, we drove to Elkhart, Indiana. It’s a journey of about eight hours, which does not include time spent on the border crossing and any pit stops. We planned as well as we could, given that we only had a day in which to plan. I packed up stuff for an en route picnic, and made sure the boys had their favourite toys in the car with them. I even had my laptop handy in case I had to calm them down by playing DVD’s for them.

The drive down could not have gone better. The guy at the border cheerfully welcomed us into the United States, despite my six-year-old informing him that “Daddy always be’s crazy.” Shortly after crossing the border, we stopped for our picnic. Everyone had fun, and there were no complaints as we piled the kids back into the car for the remainder of the drive.

The drive home was a different story altogether. I wouldn’t say it was disastrous, exactly, but it was a little fraught with stress. It started with lost Lego. I wrote recently about George’s Lego, and how it can never, ever be lost.

Right before leaving the Elkhart city limits, we stopped for a leisurely dinner. We ate our food, paid and left. When we had been driving for about an hour, George suddenly started asking for his Lego. This surprised us, since we had assumed he had it with him. We pulled over and couldn’t find the Lego anywhere in the car. A phonecall to the restaurant confirmed that George had left it on the table.

There was no way we were going to force our child with autism to do without the object that is a big source of comfort to him – I mean, he sleeps with his Lego – so we drove back to Elkhart and got it. Disaster was averted and peace reigned once again.

But only for a little while.

By the time we embarked on our return journey, the kids were tired, cranky and overstimulated from a packed weekend. It is understandable that they didn’t feel like spending eight hours stuck in the car. I didn’t feel like spending eight hours stuck in the car.

With about five hours of the drive left to go, George started saying, “I want to go home. I want to be home in ten minutes.”

Well, in the absence of rocket launchers on the car, that wasn’t going to happen. We tried to talk George through his increasing anxiety. Even James, in his sweet way, was trying to comfort his brother.

“Don’t worry, George. We’ll be home tonight.”

Instead of calming down, George was getting more and more anxious, so we did what we always do when he needs to be distracted: we started throwing out math questions at him.

George loves numbers. He’s been able to count to 100 in a variety of increments since he was three, and he was doing multiplication in his head long before anyone taught it to him at school. When he’s asked a math question, he cannot resist answering it. It’s a marvellous way to reduce his stress.

James started playing along and pretty much took over. He was asking George one math question after another. What’s 8 plus 8? What’s 32 minus 7? What’s 5 times 5?

The math questions eventually morphed into nonsense questions. What’s cow plus water? What’s house plus airplane? What’s paper plus shoes?

Every time James asked one of these questions, he provided an equally nonsense answer. By the time this had been going on for a while, the kids were in fits of giggles. Come to think of it, me and my husband were too. It was hilarious.

Then James asked the following question: What’s James plus George?

We all looked at James, waiting for the answer. When it came, it brought tears to my eyes.

James plus George equals love.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)