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More Than Just A Toy

It is snowing outside, but it is almost too warm in the speech therapist’s office. None of us really wants to be there. Not me, not George, not even, I suspect, the speech therapist. George – three years old and non-verbal yet defiant – has refused to remove his coat even though he must be getting toasted under all of those layers.

He sits down unwillingly, and I position myself between him and the door to prevent any escape attempts. I settle in to watch what will undoubtedly be yet another fruitless session. We’ve been coming here for almost a month now, and George has not responded to a single thing. His speech is no further along than it was to begin with, and although I like the therapist very much, a part of me is wondering what the point of all of this is.

As usual, George is making niggling whiny noises, not-quite-crying noises, little sniffles and moans that make it abundantly clear that he does not want to be here. He doesn’t care for any of the toys that the therapist is producing out of nowhere, like a magician. He doesn’t care for toys, period, but the therapist patiently insists that it’s just a question of trying until we find the one thing that will work.

As George starts to noisily rock his chair back and forth, I sigh inwardly, but following the therapist’s early instructions, I do not say anything. I am tired. I am sad. I am frustrated. I suddenly find myself having to blink back tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks.

And then… a miracle.

The speech therapist puts Mr. Potato Head down in front of George.

It is love at first sight. Instantly, the rocking stops and the whiny noises are replaced with a stunned silence. I can literally see my child’s eyes filling with wonder. It’s like witnessing a rain shower on a parched desert.

Instinctively, I hold my breath and stay completely still. I just know that something special is happening, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.

George reaches out shyly and touches Mr. Potato Head. Then his entire face – his entire soul – erupts in the biggest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

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From that moment, George started making progress at his speech therapy sessions. Thanks to Mr. Potato Head, his vocabulary started to explode. Not only that – he finally had a toy he was interested in playing with. Not staring at, not lining up according to colour, but actually playing with. When friends and family members asked what they should get him for birthdays, we had something we could tell them.

Six years have passed since that day in the speech therapist’s office, but George’s devotion to Mr. Potato Head has never wavered. He collection takes up two large Rubbermaid tubs – and those are just the Potato Heads that are not adorning his desk, his bed, and other flat surfaces at various points throughout the house. He has Mr. Potato Heads, Mrs. Potato Heads, Baby Potato Heads, Darth Tater, Indiana Jones Taters of the Lost Ark. There’s a hockey player Potato Head, a pirate Potato Head, a doctor, a fireman and a sheriff. George has an entire Potato Head community that keeps on growing.

Earlier this week, Mr. Potato Head celebrated his 61st birthday. This is one of the most iconic toys of the 20th Century, right up there with Barbie and Lego.

But to George – and to his grateful mama – Mr. Potato Head will always be more than just a toy.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

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Five Early Signs of Autism: My Family’s Experience

My boy at the Autism Centre family day

When I tell people that my son has autism, the first question many of them ask is, “How did you know there was something wrong? What made you get him assessed?” Many people asking this question are having concerns about their own children, weighing up the idea of taking them to a pediatrician.

It would be so easy to point worried parents to websites listing early childhood development checklists and signs of autism, but that would only help a small number of people. The trouble with autism is that it is so individualised. It manifests in so many different ways. You get the kids who can’t string two words together but can rebuild a computer in two minutes flat. And you get the kids who are fully verbal but never learn to look both ways before crossing the street.

Here, I share my experiences with my son. Some parents will read these and nod along knowingly, identifying with every point. Others will wear a perplexed expression and say, “My child doesn’t do that.”

So, how did I know something was wrong?

1. Lack of speech or any other meaningful communication. By the time he was two, George was not talking. He had about thirty words in his vocabulary, but he was using fewer than ten of them in the right context. They were used as single words only, always for the purposes of requesting. Juice. Milk. Chee’s (Cheerios). He also did not have any kind of repertoire of meaningful gestures. He couldn’t point, and if he wanted something he did not know the word for, he would take my hand and move it in direction of the object he wanted.

2. No desire to play with other kids. When other kids his age were starting to play collaboratively with each other, George was still in parallel play mode. He did not object to the presence of other kids as long as he had the space to sit on his own and do his own thing. He did not see other people as potential playmates, but as functional beings: if he needed help to manipulate an object or separate stubborn Lego blocks, he would seek out an adult and shove the object into their hands. That was the extent of his interaction.

3. Not using toys for their intended purpose. Unlike some parents who say that their kids “became” autistic at a certain age, or after a certain event, I had a feeling fairly early on that there was something not quite right with George. One day, when he was at the age when babies are just learning to sit unsupported, I put him in the middle of the floor and propped him up with a nursing pillow. I surrounded him with all kinds of toys, just to see if he would respond to anything. There were stuffed animals, Lego’s of various sizes, fabric books, and a variety of planes, trains and automobiles. There was all kinds of stuff. He didn’t care for any of it. His attention wasn’t caught by the brightly coloured balls, and he didn’t make any attempt to grab at or swat any of the dangly things I tried to entice him with. He pushed a big red button on a train, and then grabbed a piece of string that was caught on my shirt and spent the next half-hour staring at it from different angles.

4. Prone to sensory overload. As a toddler, George hated going to the store. He would tolerate the grocery store for short amounts of time, but by the time I was at the checkout, he was usually having a meltdown of epic proportions. In those days before the autism diagnosis entered my orbit, I couldn’t understand what he was making such a fuss about. The only way for me to stop those meltdowns was by taking him out of the store. Looking back, I now realize that he was simply overwhelmed by everything that goes on in a store: fluorescent lights, lots of people, lots of displays, lots of sounds. Wal-Mart in particular set him off. Something about the checkout area sent him into a state of absolute panic.

5. Instinct. Ahhhh, there’s nothing quite like a mother’s gut feel. I have no idea if there is any science behind it, but mothers have this uncanny ability to just know there is something wrong with their child even though all looks fine and dandy to the outside world. This is why I always tell mothers that if they have a feeling something might be amiss with their child’s developmental progress, they should park themselves in their doctor’s office and insist on a referral for an assessment. There are doctors who will tell you to wait, that the range of development is broad, that boys reach milestones later than girls. Don’t listen to that guff. Don’t take no for answer. If you have to tell your doctor that you will sit in his office gathering dust until he gives you a referral, so be it. Listen to your instinct and don’t let anyone talk you into acting against it. I made that mistake and to this day, I bitterly regret the year of early intervention that my son missed as a result.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

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Letting Go Of The Old

Yesterday afternoon, I found my living room floor. It had been missing for several years, buried beneath layers of toys that the kids have, over the years, played with and outgrown.

On several occasions, I have made efforts to organize the toys, painstakingly separating them into categories and storing like with like. But these toy organization systems that I have spent hours creating have lasted, on average, for about an hour. My older son sometimes copes with his autism meltdowns by picking up boxes of toys and dumping out the contents. Even as I wistfully watch my hours of work come to naught, I recognize that I would rather see my son throw toys around than bang his head against the wall hard enough to put holes in the drywall.

Quite apart from the side effects of autism, kids under the age of six don’t really get that the cars should go with the other cars, or that the Legos should be in the same container, or that the gazillion Mr. Potato Head parts are meant to stay together.

This weekend, me and my husband – ably assisted by our five-year-old son, took another crack at organizing the toys. But there was a difference in the way we did it this time.

A big difference.

This time, we actually got rid of stuff.

I thought getting rid of toys would be a nightmare, but once we had the buy-in of our younger son, it was actually quite easy. It was never going to be a problem where our firstborn was concerned. As long as he has his Lego, his gazillion Mr. Potato Heads, his measuring tapes, his alphabetic fridge magnets, and his math workbooks, he’s happy.

After a day of sorting, storing, and being bossed around by our five-year-old, we had reduced the volume of toys by a staggering amount. All of a sudden, we had enough toy boxes to contain all of the toys that we kept, without them spilling over onto the carpet. We rediscovered the concept of walking from one end of the living room to the other without getting Lego-shaped dents in the soles of our feet. It was an incredibly liberating experience.

There’s just one thing…

These are the toys that my kids played with when they were babies. The little teddy bears. The Winnie the Pooh ride-on toy. The blocks, the nesting cups, the First Words books. Getting rid of these remnants of my kids’ babyhood was like saying goodbye to a phase of my life, and acknowledging that my babies are no longer babies, that they are little boys.

As sentimental as I felt about the toys, what really made my breath catch in my throat was sorting through the little shoes that my kids wore as babies. It was the shoes that served as a physical reminder of how tiny they once were. As I held the shoes in my hands, the memories washed over me.

My older son’s very first pair of baby slippers, given to him by my Dad when he was just a few days old (no way am I getting rid of those).

Feeling my boy’s fingers grasp my hand with absolute trust as he tentatively walked in shoes for the first time.

My younger son’s face, alive with excitement, as he wore the shoes that were a miniature version of the ones his Dad wore.

My two boys laughing together as they splashed in rain puddles, wearing their new galoshes.

Their joyful oblivion as they tramped snow into the house in winter, leaving tiny wet footprints all over the floor.

The memories fade out and I reluctantly come back to reality, sitting there on the floor holding these tiny shoes in my hands. All but a couple of extra-special pairs must go. It is time to allow to the old to make way for the new, as my boys enter new and exciting phases of their lives.

Just because it has to be done though, that doesn’t make it easy.

It represents a letting go, and that is a bittersweet pill for any Mom to swallow.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ophilos/2564467134/ This photo has a creative commons attribution license.)

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Talking Toys

The day before yesterday, I felt like buying presents for the kids. It’s not Christmas, it’s not anyone’s birthday, it was just a day when I wanted to pull out surprises for the kids when I got home and see their faces exploding with smiles.

Getting presents for James is easy. There’s just one general guideline to follow: if it has wheels, he’ll love it. When he was younger, it was Thomas the Train. Then it was Hotwheels. And for the last year or so, it’s been Disney’s Cars. The kid has about twenty Lightning McQueens and fifteen Maters, plus a Sally, a Sheriff, a Red The Fire Truck, a Doc Hudson, and all of the other characters, and it’s still not enough. The Cars obsession showed signs of starting to flag a little, but that was before the preview for Cars 2 came out.

And now the toy stores have come out with a whole new line of Cars 2 products. And so I headed straight for the display and picked out a Lightning McQueen (yes, another one) and a Mater (yes, another one). These aren’t just any Lightning and Mater, though. Some previous iterations have had features like the ability to light up or make vroom-vroom noises. These new ones do all of that AND talk!

Buying presents for George is more of a challenge. He doesn’t play with toys in the same way that other kids do. He’s into more cerebral stuff that lets him work with words or numbers, but there are only so many alphabetic fridge magnets and alphanumeric toys that you can buy for one child. The only toy toys that he really likes are Lego blocks and Mr. Potato Head. And again, he has so much of that stuff that buying more would seem like overkill. I mean, his Mr. Potato Head collection fills three large boxes.

But still, there’s always hope that Hasbro has come up with a new Mr. Potato Head character to add to Indiana Jones Taters of the Lost Ark, Darth Tater, and all the rest of them. So I headed over to the Mr. Potato Head section, and to my utter astonishment, I struck gold.

A talking Mr. Potato Head.

This thing is super-cool. You don’t even have to press any buttons to make him talk. He’s equipped with a built-in microphone that picks up on conversation and noises in the room, and he talks back. His repertoire of things to say is surprisingly extensive. An added feature is that when the room is silent, he will say things like, “Can I get some attention around here?” And if you make a sudden loud noise like banging on the table or clapping your hands, Mr. Potato Head’s pieces come flying off.

It’s a fun, fun toy. A bit challenging to have in the room when you’re trying to watch TV because it keeps providing a running commentary, but that’s a minor detail to live with. What’s really fantastic about it is how much George loves it. Getting him a toy that he instantly engages with and has fun with is such a rare experience, and we savour it.

In the meantime, James has fallen in love with his talking Cars cars. He gets them to have conversations with each other (they too, have a decent repertoire).

So things are peaceful in my house right now, with the kids each having cool new toys to play with.

And because of the nature of the toys involved, things are very, very talkative.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kiraca/5651863946)

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James, Trains And Automobiles

From the time he was a baby, James loved trains. Loved, loved, loved them. In fact, potty-training him turned out to be quite an expensive endeavour, because his rewards were trains. Not just any trains – they had to be Thomas the Train trains. I suspect that James drew out his potty-training for long enough to collect most of the Thomas the Train characters. He even got a Sir Topham Hat (who, if I’m to be honest, creeps me out just a little – I mean, he looks like an adult baby, reminiscent of Dr. Evil in the Austin Powers movie).

Then, about two years ago, James was given a DVD of the movie Cars, and just like that, the trains became second-class citizens in his toybox. Now it was all about Lightning McQueen, Mater, Doc Hudson, and all the rest of them. No creepy human characters in this lot – the Cars cars inhabit a world consisting solely of cars, trucks, and helicopters.

The movie is actually quite cool. It has a bit of everything: action, suspense, comedy, and a moral message. It even has those essential elements: a car chase and a love interest.

Since he first saw the movie, James has built up a staggering collection of Cars stuff. He has more Lightning McQueens than I could possibly count, as well as at least one of all of the other characters. He’s got race tracks, ramps, tipping tractors (tractor-tipping is like cow-tipping – don’t even ask), and several Radiator Springs buildings. He has a Firetruck Mater, Monster Truck Mater, Bulldozer Fighter Mater, and some good old plain Maters. His toothbrush, shoes, and backpack all feature Lightning McQueen. He’s got books, puzzles, and the Mater’s Tall Tales DVD.

Our household has probably singlehandedly kept the Disney Cars industry alive.

And now a sequel to Cars is coming out soon. In this one, Lightning McQueen competes in an international Grand Prix, and Mater gets sucked into an espionage situation (to get an idea of the incongruity of this, picture Mr. Bean trying to be James Bond).

James is dead-keen to see the movie, and not on some lame-ass TV screen. He wants the real-deal, big-screen movie theatre. And that is why his very first trip to the cinema is in his very near future.

Today, some exciting news came my way. News that will make James a very happy little boy indeed. This weekend, Lightning McQueen and Mater are in Toronto. They will be setting up camp in one of the larger shopping malls, and making themselves available for their adoring fans.

It is going to be crowded. There will be hundreds of screaming kids running around like lunatics, and hundreds of sobbing parents running after them, trying to contain them. Do I really want to put myself through that kind of stress?

Damned right I do. Seeing the look of joy on my child’s face as he beholds his Cars heroes will make it all worthwhile.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/beaub/5159613205)

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Toy Story: The Autism Family Version

Last night, my younger son James bravely waded through the treacherous sea of toys in our living room. When he reached the corner he started digging in toyboxes and didn’t stop until he had unearthed this car ramp toy. You use this toy by driving your toy car into this little elevator, which you then raise up until the car is on the flat roof. You can then push the car around on the roof, or send it rolling down one of the two ramps. For a kid obsessed with Lightning McQueen and Doc Hudson (raise your hand if you recognize the references) this toy is like a slice of heaven.

James took the toy to an unoccupied space on the living room floor (i.e. a spot where he wasn’t knee-deep in other toys) and started playing with it. He was having a wonderful time. Lightning and Doc were racing down the ramps, Mater was driving backwards on the roof, and the Dinoco helicopter was flying overhead. It was all very exciting.

The peace was shattered when George came into the room and saw that the toy had been moved. George doesn’t like it when things are moved. He gets anxious, he starts shrieking and insisting that the item be put back. And so all hell broke loose.

George was grabbing at James’ toy, I was grabbing at George and telling him that James has to be allowed to move his own things around, and poor James was crying because of the sudden chaos. My husband succeeded in arm-wrestling George to a different room, where he tried to engage him in distracting activities. I stayed with James and played with him, but the sparkle had gone. James played half-heartedly while listening to George’s cries coming from a different part of the house.

James gave up on his play and said to me, “Mommy, George can put the toy back if he wants. I love him and I don’t want him to be sad.” He ran out of the room and relayed the message to his Dad. Gerard brought George back in, and George put the toy back in its place with James watching. James kept on telling me that this was what he wanted, but he wasn’t fooling me. I could see the sadness and disappointment in his eyes.

How amazing is this child? Despite my best efforts to equalize things, James does on numerous occasions get the short end of the stick because of George’s autism. And yet he is so brave, so giving and caring. He shows a maturity and wisdom that, while touching me to my very soul, makes me feel really sad. Not to mention the fact that it makes me explode with pride at the caring, sharing person my child is growing up to be.

He’s only five, but in some ways he misses out on being like a regular five-year-old. I want James to be able to play with his toys. I want him to be able to race his cars down that ramp, and I want George to be OK and anxiety-free about it.

I want both of my boys to be happy, and I find it so hard sometimes when one of them is happy at the expense of the other one.

What a tricky balancing act.