i've got a henry

Every parent faces the force of their kid's incredible will. Children's ability to scream, whimper, refuse to move, and fall to the floor like a Birmingham protester is shocking, especially as these moments are prompted by seemingly insignificant desires. Can going home now instead of 5 minutes from now really elicit a 9.7 on the tantrum Richter scale? Yes. Can running out of pretzels usher in the a meltdown so seismic that readers of the Scofield Reference Bible will think the end has come? Yes.

Martin has fits and tantrums and meltdowns like any other kid. But autism changes the dynamics. It affects the way things bother him and his ability to handle being bothered. It also affects how we must react. As Martin has developed verbally, it's easier for him to talk about what upsets him and we have a better time comforting him. But we still have moments where everything comes unhinged and there is no comfort to be had. He just doesn't understand why tonight's walk only goes around the block when last night's walk ended at a park. He is undone when going to the zoo last Saturday does not mean we're going to the zoo this Saturday. Sometimes we can explain it and he seems to get it. Other times, like on tonight's walk, it provokes only sadness, then insistence on his way, then yelling, and then the protest that includes laying flat on the ground and screaming against the universe's injustice.

Two years ago, even one year ago, I always knew that - in moments like these - Martin just didn't know what was going on. He was frustrated and confused. But now, I'm pretty sure Martin understands, he just doesn't like the reality he has apprehended. And because I've only ever been his parent, I can't tell if he does this at a rate that's fairly normal or if we have a boy with a great talent for non-violent resistance on our hands. If it's the latter, I'm happy to send him out to protest the world's evils in their many formats. But really, I'm not up to it when it comes to humdrum things like what's for dinner.

My life feels like that Far Side cartoon where the young Patrick Henry sits at the dinner table and says, "Give me peas or give me death." I thought that was funny. I don't think I noticed Patrick's frowning mother sitting next to him.

evaluation

When kids have language delays, they often qualify for special education services. Whether the child is school-age or younger, these services usually are coordinated by the public schools. Parents of special-needs kids go to long meetings. The kids go through even longer evaluations. In the end, the district and the family come up with an IEP, the individualized education plan. With an agreed-upon plan, teachers and service providers work with the child to get them to age-appropriate language.

When I first went through this process with Martin, I was completely bewildered. There was terminology I didn't understand. They referenced therapies I had never heard of. But most strange to me were the "measures." IEPs include measures for evaluating a child's progress. We can't know if a kid is getting better unless we propose a goal and figure out if they achieve it. In Martin's case, one of the early goals was for him to answer questions, the simple yes or no variety. The IEP also had a measure for this goal. "Martin will answer yes or no questions 60% of the time without a prompt and 80% of the time when prompted." That was the goal: a child who would still be silent 40% of the time. And we had to measure it. I found it very painful. For me it became not a measure of progress, but a constant reminder of my kid's abnormality.

Later, after months of work, a new goal was conversational turn-taking, or the ability to go back and forth in a conversation. The goal was for Martin to be in conversations with 2 or 3 turns. A 2-turn conversation might be "Martin, would you like some milk?" "Yes." A 3-turn conversation might be "Mama, what are you doing?" "I'm sewing." "Sewing what?" The goal was for Martin to do 2-turns conversations 60% of the time and 3-turns 40%. Again, that was the goal. Hitting our mark still meant endless conversations in which Martin could not take a turn, moments when there was no way of knowing what he wanted or how he was feeling.

Things have really changed for Martin. He still has an IEP, but the goals are different. Conversational turn-taking is off the plan because Martin does so well at it. Most of the time, he responds to questions. He still has moments where it's clear that he's confused, but nothing like two years ago. I've also stopped looking so much at the goals and the measures. They always made me feel negative. This makes me wonder how my students feel about the grades and paper comments I give them?

who?

This morning Martin asked me if I was Harry S. Truman. There are other presidents I'd prefer to be compared to, so I wanted to figure out why Martin asked me about Truman in particular. "Because you're wearing glasses," he told me. I realized that Martin knows which presidents needed glasses, sported beards, and dared to wear mustaches.

At the same time he's showing this new level of detailed interest in the presidents, he's also keen on sign language. I find him sitting in a room by himself, quietly singing and signing songs such as "Love in any language" and "I've got peace like a river." He seems to find the motions very soothing. I'm wondering if we could use more signs around the house to help him understand complex instructions or woo him into trying new things.

Most important, I think these new interests signal that Martin is not strung out anymore. The stresses of losing one tutor, getting new ones, starting school, and almost getting kicked out of school just might be behind us. And since they are, Martin has the freedom to let his mind wander, to find new things to do. He can apply his mind to greater knowledge of the things that fascinate him: presidents and signs. Because he has the space to do this, I find him a little more willing to take chances with us. Today, he helped me bake cookies and didn't freak out when I messed them up and they didn't taste good. He thought it would be fun to eat them even if they were a little crusty and difficult to get off the sheet.

A Truman Doctrine approach to autism won't get us anywhere. If it's our world against his (Truman's democracy versus Soviet communism), we're bound for a fight. So no, Martin, I am not Harry S. Truman.

rewards

As a reward for an entire week of good behavior at school, I took Martin out for cookies and milk Friday afternoon. We went to the bakery downtown. Martin ordered a chocolate chip cookie for himself and for me. He thanked the cashier when she arrived with our snacks. As we left the bakery, he shouted goodbye to everyone in the store. We headed out into a chilly, rainy afternoon. I was planning to go straight home.

But Martin tugged on my sleeve and said, "Let's go to Barack H. Obama's White House." By that, he meant the Wayne County Court House that stood just a block away. Since we had no plans for the afternoon, so we walked over. "Do you think it's full of presidents?" Martin asked. Not sure how to explain that most of the presidents are dead and that none of them live in Wooster, I replied that we could look for them.

We entered the building, stepped through the metal detector, and saw three men talking together. One of them had signs of male pattern baldness. "Hello, Gerald R. Ford," Martin called out. We walked down the hallway to find a huge oil painting of General Wayne, the man our county is named after. "Oh," Martin sighed, "It's a president." Which one?" I asked. "Andrew Johnson, of course." I had to admit that Wayne looked more like Johnson than any other president I could think of.

We continued through the building. Martin gave me a guided tour. "There's George Washington's office," he said as we passed by the judge's chambers. "There's George W. Bush," he said as we walked by a middle-age white man. We walked by a woman and Martin wasn't sure what to say. I tried to tell him about Geraldine Ferraro and Hillary, but he didn't seem interested in those who didn't win the elections. As we walked out the door, Martin called out to the guards, "Thank you for looking at the White House." They seemed mystified, but smiled and waved.

My husband and I are always devising rewards for Martin. Prizes for good behavior, trying new things, or using the toilet. But I struggle when I realize that our reliance on rewards means that we are constantly pressing him to do things that are not comfortable for him. And if we relax a bit, if we let him lead us, he will take us places and give us little White House tours. It's like a reward he gives us for chilling out and letting him be.

dr. vlasits

When days at school are good, it's easier to reflect on parenthood's lovelier moments. Today, I came in from a run just as Martin and his tutor were finishing their work. Martin rushed over to me and asked what I had been doing. "I was running," I said. "Are you OK?" he asked. "Yes," I replied, "but my legs are sore and I need to stretch them a bit." I walked to another room and sat down to stretch. Martin followed. "Mama," he asked, "are your legs hurt?" "Well," I answered, "they hurt a little." "I'll just give them a kiss," Martin said as he gave me a kiss on each knee. "I think you just need to lay down," he said, as he grabbed my hand and led me toward his room. He pulled back the covers and motioned for me to get into bed. After I laid down, he covered me up, turned off the light, told me that I would feel better soon, and walked out the door. He left me, staring at the ceiling, wondering why any of us ever think that something is wrong with him.

If only all our doctors and nurses showed us such tenderness and concern. If only the rest of us showed such regard for autistics and their particular ways of interacting with the world.

strength

I'm not really suffering from schadenfreude, that cruel pleasure one gets at another person's hardship. Rather, I'm just proud of my kid. Today, Martin was the ONLY well-behaved kid in his classroom. Every other child was loud, inattentive, disobedient. According to the tutor, it was a rough day in the classroom, but not for Martin. He was a peach.

Martin's ability to have a good day while everyone else went nuts is a little contradictory. If any change in routine can throw this kid for a loop, why not a classroom full of riotous children? It would make sense, right? But when he wants to, Martin can clue out everything else. Today, he just did his own thing while everyone else was a little crazed. On other occasions, Martin has simply watched out the window for the entire 6-hour car trip to Virginia, a journey that drives other children to tears and their parents to unplanned purchases of portable DVD players. He can concentrate while his sister cries at deafening levels. While she wails, he continues his tasks of lining up cards and acting out little dramas.

Of course, Martin's ability to concentrate, his capacity to shut out the rest of us, has its pros and cons. Unfortunately, most days it feels like the world can only see the cons. But today, just for today, Martin was the good little guy in his class. His autism was his strength. His peculiar brain, made like it is for unknown reasons, served him well.

advantage graber

Here's how the presidents rule our lives:

1) I found Martin on my bed this morning, reciting from memory the 7-minute online tour of the White House exterior. The monologue included scripted movements that mirrored the camera panning to various angles around the building. I also got a complete version of the credits, accompanied by swooping hand gestures to signify the words moving upward.

2) Martin asked me if he could have a bottle of wine this evening. "You have to be 21-years-old to have wine," I replied. "Like Chester A. Arthur," he said. (For anyone who skipped that particularly boring moment in high school U.S. history, Arthur was the 21st president.) Martin sometimes mixes up the presidents' numbers with their age. Tonight he asked me if I was George H. W. Bush. Trying not to be offended by a steep overestimate of my age, I replied that I am Lyndon Johnson. In an effort to make me the age of a president he likes better (or maybe he's in tune with Americans' desire to be younger), he then told me I should be John F. Kennedy instead. He's only 35.

3) I found a 50-cent piece by Martin's bed. He likes to sleep with it, because it has Kennedy's image.

4) Some Caldecott-medal-winning children's author decided to monkey with the ubiquitous pattern of presidential layout (starting with 1 and going to 44), choosing instead to group together presidents named William or James or John. I'm sitting in my living room, minding my own business, only to hear a terrified scream, "Where is Zachary Taylor?" No explanations for the unorthodox groupings satisfied Martin. He has no more patience for that book.

5) I had to explain slavery to Martin, who was reading another book about Millard Fillmore and James Buchanan's unfortunate support for human servitude. Martin didn't exactly get it.

I'm ready to start using this obsession to my advantage. Here's my plan. When Martin refuses to touch the delicious main dish I have made for our family, I will simply comment that James K. Polk - even more than his desire for more Northwest territory - loved pepper and rice casserole. In the nightly battle over teethbrushing, I will dwell on Lincoln's fabulous oral hygiene. Am I wrong to do this?