When Does He Learn About Stuffing a Sock in His Pants?

My kid who's never been embarrassed in his life: "It's a little hard to change in front of everyone [for gym]." I'm so excited by this authentic junior high experience! Then he added, "Actually, no one's looking."

Tantrum: A Time-Out From My Stinkin' Positivity

Every time there's some version of the meme "If only my life were like I make it look on Facebook," I laugh with a knowing nod -- and a little bit of a lump in my throat. I've always had a bit of a Pollyanna image (read: annoying bubbly person), so it's no surprise that I post positive things on Facebook. And I do and have a lot of amazing shit, so I'm not making up the stuff I say that makes my life look rockin' (and it is). The 7 days of positives excercise was cake...I could have written 1,000 more. As an aside, it's been a pleasure to read the ones from others who are, well, not always so positive.

So why the lump? Maybe because I know that when it comes to Theo, I paint a one-sided picture on Facebook. I talk about his beautiful mind, the sweet way he sees the world, his happiness to see his sister in the morning, his soothing voice and gorgeous face. I show not just Theo in the most positive light, but autism, because I want people to see that he's doing great and so am I. They don't need to feel sorry for us.

The reality is, no one nominated Theo to be the face of autism for my friends and family. I have so appreciated his support system on Facebook. Everyone loves an underdog, so when I post stuff about his small triumphs, he gets an outpour of love. And it's genuine -- everyone genuinely loves this kid, and should.

But then there's the shit I don't post. The stuff that wakes me up in the middle of the night (when I'm writing right now).

Last night was Theo's middle school orientation, and what did I post to Facebook? A photo of the incredible view from his school in LIC.

I didn't post how painful it is when we're in a room full of kids his age and the differences are so in-your-face. Look, comparing kids sucks. We shouldn't do it, but we do. I'm not proud that when I meet kids with disabilities a whole lot more severe than Theo's, I am grateful. "It could be worse" is a frequent commentary running through my brain, or spoken aloud with my husband.

But it could also be better, something I try not to think or feel or say. Most of the time, when his differences are not so glaring, I'm fine. It's just those damn occasions when he's in a room of his peers (so yeah, any time I've ever visited him in school, ever).

So here's what I didn't post to Facebook about middle school orientation. I watched the incoming 6th graders get their new schedules, check to see if they have friends in their classes, wondering who's in homeroom with them, hoping they got the teacher they wanted. What team will they try out for, what club will they join? Some kids were excited to be there, some nervous, some clearly unhappy summer was ending, but regardless of their emotions, they showed true understanding of what was occurring -- this new junior high journey they were starting.

Theo's big takeaway was that there are 8 periods in his new school instead of 7 (I never even knew there were 7 periods in elementary, but of course he did). This is not to say he is unaware of what's happening. He is nervous about middle school, and excited. He's glad he's taking the schoolbus because he's not ready to take a train himself, he says with a self-assuredness that's so wonderful to see. In general, I've been pleased with his age appropriate level of anxiety about starting a new school.

But as we sat there eating potluck dinner, I sighed as Joe had to constantly beg Theo to wipe his face and hands as he ate his meal like an animal, chicken grease all over him, everywhere. All I could think about was him sitting at lunch on a typical day and all the kids watching him eat this way, with no one to tell him to eat like a human being.

He gets therapy for so many things, so why can't anyone teach my kid to fucking eat? If you'd seen the looks I've gotten in IEP meetings when I've brought this up... as if to say, Your kid is way behind on reading and you want us to show him table manners?

After the teachers introduced themselves to the crowd, we had the chance to meet them individually. Like a nutty overbearing mom, I marched him over to the math teacher to gush about how he loves math, and the teacher was met with a few forced nods. Then I proudly told the music teacher about the theater Theo's done and how much he loves it. Excited, she asked what he likes best -- the singing, the dancing... He stood there bored and unresponsive, so she teased, "Or is it just something your mom sticks you in?" I was mad at him for making me look like an idiot, but really I knew I was pushing it and it was a bad time to be meeting teachers. He was tired and overwhelmed.

Sometimes I can't sleep, and like every mom, I think of everything I'm doing wrong. How does Joe take it all in stride? Why doesn't this stuff bother him? His response to all kinds of concerns is a simple "He's Theo, babe." And he's not being aloof -- I believe that he truly doesn't need Theo to be like anyone else.

You see it all the time on the autism blogs. "My child is special, and I wouldn't change him for anything." Well, on days like these when I'm mid-tantrum, damn straight I would change him. Damn straight I would want him to be the forbidden N-word -- normal. So there, I said it. I admit it. Sometimes it just gets so hard. This parenting business in general is hard. Pollyanna confesses she doesn't know what the hell she's doing.

Today we'll head to the Poconos and I'll have my usual smile on my face, and Theo will be happy because he lives for trips like these, and I will enjoy his pleasure. I will relish seeing him in his element, in the lake and the cabin and the woods getting good and dirty and smores-y like kids should in summer. Next week, I will post pictures of Theo in his new school uniform looking handsome as hell.

Theo is a happy kid. Maybe the happiest I've known. The things that bother me don't bother him, which makes me a jerk. Maybe I shouldn't have put all this in writing. Maybe I shouldn't share it with anyone. But for some reason, all of a sudden I couldn't stand that I was putting up a front on Facebook. Stupid, probably. Probably middle-of-the-night delirium. But here it is: the dark side.

It was the best of ages, it was the worst of ages

Five was an all-encompassing age.

It was learning to read slowly, then click, devouring words. 

It was opinions.

Her Big Five

It was pure gratitude, it was not knowing it was possible for a child to be so delighted. It was unsolicited thank yous.  

It was abysmal ingratitude, going to bed wailing an hour after getting a special present or not getting her way.

It was words like "unfortunately."  It was "calepittar" still going strong.


It was begging for high heels and grown-up make-up. It was scraped knees and dirty fingernails. 

It was freckles on her face, and I wanted to kiss them all.

It was wearing these yard sale boots every. single. day.

 It was the dubious question every day of whether she looked particularly big or particularly small. 

It was conversations with her friends. Real conversations. 

It was goofball, it was grace.

It was daily outfit wars, it was can I let my belly show, can I get my hair cut short like Nera’s.

It was begging to sleep up in Theo's bunk. It was nights of them reading to each other to sleep cuddling, and nights of hysterics and someone ending up in my bed.

It was Kindergarten. It was center of the cliques in the front yard in the morning, it was tears when someone didn’t like her shoes. 

It was frustration learning a language she didn’t understand, it was breaking into random Spanish phrases at home. “No se!”

It was treating me like a celebrity when I picked her up from school.

It was, "Does it hurt when you put your eye-tacts in?"

It was being "such a girl" but a knack as "one of the boys."

It was co-ed sleepovers.

It was refusal to eat breakfast, it was that special request for cherries and plums.

It was startling manners here, astonishing disrespect there.

 

It was the year she finally started singing because Frozen swept the Little Girl Nation.

It was I’m not your friend anymore, it was a new sister in all her family portraits. 

It was switching from gorgeous, elaborate artistic swirls to hurried stick figures to tell a story.

It was piano lessons with Grandma.

It was good grades and mutual fondness with her teachers. It was behavior disciplinary charts and her teacher having "talks"with me.

It was "This is for you, mom. Make sure you don't lose it." with every rock and flower found on the street. It was "But this is special to me" with a cry when asked to share with friends.

It was a new love -- and talent -- for improv. It was dancing wherever and whenever she could. 

It was chess, ballet, hip hop, tap.

It was hours playing Wii with Theo, and being good at it, too. 

It was asking for help with spelling on some words, and the hilarity of the words she assumed she knew. 

It was comforting a sad or bruised friend, it was laying down the dramatics for bruises of her own.

It was spontaneous love letters to her family.

It was sounding like Bart Simpson when she laughs.

It was monthly packets of drawings and books and how-tos she wrote that she brought home from school that had us in stitches.

It was carrying the cat around for hours, and it was tears of pure betrayal if she was scratched.

It was training wheels coming off.

It was charm, it was a nickel in the jar whenever she said "penis." 

It was taking care of me when I was sick. 

It was cooking with me, it was ditching me mid-project.

It was "you sound like a real singer, mommy."

It was compassion, it was empathy, it was infuriating selfishness. 

It was contradiction, disobedience, testing us, testing herself.  

It was the color blue replacing "all the colors of the rainbow" as her favorite. 

It was changing mommy and daddy to "Mata and Tapa." And sticking with it.  

It was my big girl at Broadway shows. It was her face in daddy's chest during scary parts of movies.

It was playing Belle's Beast

It was never wanting to take this hair out.

It was growing close to her brother Clay.

It was these curls

It was a brief but intense stint with Monster High

It was the first lost tooth

It was the first day of K

It was Flower Girl Perfection.

It was her extreme comfort spending hours in the Dominican Republic making hats with this guy

It was performing

And more performing

It was preschool graduation

It was going to school like this

It was insisting on "side hair"

It was this face

It was over too soon. 

She's humble, too

"Everybody says I'm cute, but I don't think I am."
"What do you think you are?"
"Pretty."

Grandmas Rule

My mom had Melody this weekend and I've been hearing how her house is better. Today it was "Grandma's ice is colder."

When she gets a smooch from her brother:

"I'm wiping the slime off, but not the kiss."

Today in When your 5-year-old has been exposed to too many video games...

While helping me cook, Melody asked, "Is it a 2-player job?"

Theo is Ten

So Theo's 10. Who is Theo at 10?

He's 4'll and thin and has a face so chiseled and beautiful that sometimes I realize I've been staring.

He wakes up hugging his sister and telling her he loves her; Melody is the only one who gets his unsolicited I love yous, though he always says it back when he hears it.

Back to the Brain Doctor

Yesterday Theo and I returned to the neurologist we'd last seen Theo in 2009. In those days we visited a bunch of times in the span of two years, and those appts were always an emotional strain for me. As Theo and I sat in the office yesterday waiting for the doctor, Theo lined up legos in a pattern as he probably would have in 2009, only this time he was constructing an entire game in his head using the surrounding toys. This time he could tell me what he was imagining... I wondered what he was imagining when he was 5 and we first started seeing this doctor. The thought of it made me teary.

Then through the wall I could hear the doctor talking to parents in the office next door, and they were talking about the kid's noises, his gibberish. Parents starting out on this journey into autism. That got me going, too. The beginning is so tough. It's never easy, but when your baby is so little... man. I'm glad those days are behind us.

A few days ago, with the help of YouTube, Theo and Melody learned about autism and that Theo has it, along with some of their friends. He pointed out things in the videos that he could relate to--clothing tags bothering him, trouble communicating (I was shocked to hear him call that out), and, lol, liking video games and TV (I told him that was all kids).

Theo took the news great. Melody asked if autism was good or bad and I explained that it was neither. The conversation went as well as it could have, and I'm glad Theo understood we were going to a brain doctor to talk about autism. We needed an updated evaluation because this year, we start our apps for j...j...junior high. Phew, that was hard to get out.

The doc came in and Theo delivered a friendly but clearly jammed-into-his-brain "Hi, nice to meet you." The doc didn't remember us yet, but he read his old reports and could immediately see a big difference in Theo's attention and demeanor.

He sat and talked with Theo awhile, about how often he gets services in school, whether he's bullied, about his friends, what he did for his birthday. I was worried when Theo could not think of anything we did when we went to Mystic last weekend, a trip he enjoyed so much. But he does freeze up when he's in shy mode.

We talked at length about Theo, what my biggest concerns are... I mainly talked about his obsessive need for revenge when he's been wronged, and his desire for fairness. The doctor wrote this down and joked that his notes read like a novel tagline.

We talked about other concerns and he didn't think most problems I named were a big deal for his age. Occasional aggression at school didn't worry him since it's only occasional and we're dealing with it. We talked about stimming and how he still does it all the time but mostly during pretend play since his imagination is going all day and he's always creating games and worlds. He doesn't walk around flapping his arms anymore. The doc was thrilled. I complained that Theo is a messy eater and it doesn't bother him at all to have chocolate or something all over his face, and he chuckled that that's not autistic behavior. I agreed, it's pretty much the opposite of sensory issues, which he has none of other than disliking tags in his clothes. He's fine with loud music and noises and loves the theatre. I mom-bragged to the doc that he's great at improv and enjoys doing shows.

I gushed about Theo as the sweetest kid--an incredible brother, incredibly compliant, funny (the doc tested his understanding of sarcasm and jokes and Theo did well. There was a time he didn't understand jokes or expressions!)

During the appt Theo kept putting his legs up on the chair and I kept tapping them to indicate he put them down. I didn't realize the doc was observing me, too. More on that later.

He had Theo read a bunch of words that increased in difficulty, and occasionally asked their definitions. He declared him at an early 4th grade reading level, which sounds about right. A year behind sounds pretty good considering years ago I worried whether he'd ever read (or hold a conversation for that matter).

The doc drew some shapes for Theo to copy. I smiled when he said "good pencil grip." Years of occupational therapists working on this, and it's finally happening! But the lines were shaky and the shapes were terrible as Theo rushed through them. The next batch was better when he was asked to slow down.

Theo was asked a series of questions. "What animal gives us milk?" He said cow, and when the doc asked what else, Theo laughed thinking that was a joke. Giggle! He named some animals that lay eggs and answered a bunch of math questions correctly, including some that involved logic, which impressed the doc.

He said Theo's of average intelligence. In his old report, he'd written Theo was borderline. Wow. Not every parent is thrilled to hear "average," but this one was! He kept saying Theo was smart-; picture Forest Gump's face when Jenny tells him their son is smart, and that was me. He even wondered if Theo was aspbergery (his words) which shocked me, since I never saw him that way, and he said that time would tell. Apparently we'll know more when the hormones kick in. EEP! Puberty terrifies me!

By the way, this doctor is kind, personable, funny--and he's also blunt. He had no problem telling me years ago that he thought my GFCF attempts were pointless (he was right, thankfully) or that I was babying Theo (he didn't put it quite like that). So it took me off guard when he suddenly told me he'd been watching me, and he's delighted by everything I'm doing. He said it was just all so...proper. "I don't get a lot of mothers like you in here," he said. My throat went dry. Even now, thinking about it, I am on the brink of tears. I never feel like I'm the warrior mom my friends are and that I don't do enough for Theo. And here was an expert saying I'm getting it right. He said he wasn't just being nice (thanks to previous experience, I believed him.) He used my quietly tapping Theo's leg as an example, and said I'm calm.

Now, people tend to tell me I'm calm. It's nice to hear, but never rings true... I'm good at putting on a calm show. The only person who would never say that to me would be my husband, who's privy to watching me go off the rails with my children. But still, the doctor reinforced what I know but can't always implement...that Theo needs me to be calm and even, even when he's melting down. My frustration doesn't help him. This is true for any kid, of course.

Ultimately what I take away from this appointment are nuggets from the doc: that on the spectrum, Theo's autism is mild; that he's smart; that the difference between this time and last time is night and day. These are things I know. But it's nice to hear from not-his-mom.

Show, Not Tell

Sitting down with Theo to write an essay is tough; he's in the big leagues now.  He needs a thesis and he needs to support it. There are times he needs to give an opinion, and he asks me to help him, and I pull my hair out reminding him I can't tell him what he thinks.

He requires a good deal of prodding, but often produces something pretty special. For instance, last night his thesis was "Rain is the worst weather ever!" and as an example, he was discussing the suckiness of outside plans being canceled. He was supposed to go the beach, but then he saw it was raining. I used the lingo that's sent home and said "show, not tell." He thought about it for a minute and then smiled silly and wrote, "it looked like tears falling down from the clouds."

"Show, not tell" is one of the items on the writer's checklist Theo's sent home with. Without it, he's entirely stumped. He writes short, mundane sentences. It's interesting (and frustrating) to see how dramatically his writing improves with the checklist, that has stuff like

-strong lead
-similes and metaphors
-dialogue
-onomatopoeia
-5 senses (I write these out because he doesn't process things as well in broad concepts and needs to see specifics in front of him)
-other words for "said" (he's particularly good at this)

I'm really fascinated by this teaching method that manages to inspire creativity through rigidity. And  Theo's whole grade is learning to write this way; it's kind of satisfying that the "checklist" technique usually reserved for toddlers and special ed is applied to everyone. 

Theo doesn't have a grasp on how much is enough for each paragraph. An adult sorta knows OK, I've said everything I need to say here, so I'll move on. Theo is told 5 sentences per paragraph. It's a guideline, of course, but he takes it to heart. (Just like "read for 30 minutes" is a guideline but he watches the clock.) For now, it helps, because it forces him to write more than he normally would.

And even though he's good at implementing the stuff on the checklist, he has trouble knowing where to incorporate the various styles. That's where I come in -- "would this be a good place for dialogue?" He says oh, yeah! and then comes up with something that's usually on the mark.

I wonder how the checklist is working for the rest of the kids in his class.  It's a good method for Theo since he's such a stickler for rules. He takes the list very seriously, going through it at the end and checking everything off. I'm not sure to what extent he understands why those things made his paper interesting. Hopefully he will be so accustomed to this style of writing that it'll become ingrained.

Tea Party With My Princess

A couple weeks before Halloween, Melody's Cinderella costume came in the mail and she's barely taken it off since. And who can blame her...

I was the peasant Cinderella.

Lately, we've been having tea parties. We drink berry tea (because it's pink, of course) out of espresso cups. For our first one we had Nutella sandwiches. Now we just eat whatever's around.

Wearing my jewelry and er, make-up

They were pretty confused by this whole pinky in the air thing, but they tried. Of course, Theo used the wrong hand. Leave the dainty to the girls, eh?


 

And look who else was invited -- their students! The kids have been playing school all.the.time and they take it very seriously. She is Ms. Amy and he is Mr. Mahon, and they give their students real lessons and help them do the work. The students were allowed a break to join us for tea...of course, we didn't have enough cups, so Melody had them share.

One day recently, I overhead Melody's dolls having a conversations. One of them told the other, "I love my mom because we have tea parties and she snuggles with me." Definitely one of those rare and lovely "I'm doing something right" moments. 

One of those memories I need to glue to my brain so I don't lose it: asking my little girl to zip my dress, and her going to get a stool to reach. 

Yes, That IS a Pickle

"I have a problem," Melody told me last night. "When I grow up I want to be a mommy and a superhero, but mommies can't fly."

Slang Fail

As I headed out the door, I said to Joe, "I'm gonna bounce, see you later." You know, 'cause I'm hip like that.

Melody asked sweetly, "Where are you bouncing to?"

I've Totally Made It Now

How exciting! For the article "The Autism Advantage," The New York Times selected 3 comments to highlight, and mine was one of them. It wasn't even my main comment, which was much longer, but my response to this turd eater:

Autism: Asset?

On stage in "How To Eat Like a Child"

I always have mixed feelings when the next "big autism article" comes out. I just read Gareth Cook's "The Autism Advantage" in the NY Times.

When I started reading, I thought "Oh great, another article about an autistic kid's special superpowers that will make me feel bad that Theo doesn't appear to have any." Remember, I struggled with this topic a couple of years ago in "Theo, What Are You?"

But I'm glad I kept reading. Cook thoughtfully conveyed the spectrum of autism -- while many of those affected are suited to technical-but-tedious types of jobs, they aren't all, and nobody's running a charity (and in fact it would be a disservice to those with autism to employ them out of charity, when there is, as we are learning, a niche for many of them).

Some nights I can't sleep because I'm worrying about grown-up Theo. Other times, on glass-half-full days, I feel confident there are attributes of Theo's autism that will be assets in the workforce. While he's not robotic, he's likely to tolerate repetitive tasks as described in the article. He will be punctual, remember his duties, and adhere to rules. Incidentally, this will also make him a kickass husband.

But is there a place for him to thrive beyond rinse-and-repeat labor? When I attended a lecture by Temple Grandin, I asked her how to find that thing my son is good at. She essentially said to just keep trying everything and see what sticks.

Theo isn’t a savant; he has no knack for assembling legos or machines, nor does he play chess masterfully like the kid in the article. But he does have a beautiful (and often outrageous) imagination. We have found theatre to be a decent outlet for him; improv in particular allows him to shine. I don't know (yet) how that will translate into career skills, but at least it's something.

I almost didn't publish this post because, reading it through, I realize it sounds like I'm shortchanging Theo, and that is not my intention. There is a reason everyone is crazy about this kid. So I'll do a follow-up post on his many strengths. This post was solely based on my realistic fears about his employable skills.

It gives me chills to think of heroes of today who are impacting Theo's future; I'm pleased to see Thorkil's work showcased in the Times. His business model could open doors for those who were previously underestimated to use their skills, or mainstream the idea that people with autism have some use beyond entertaining the masses with their quirks. Gives me hope for my bug.

*If all else fails, the back-up plan is to exploit him as a model.

When Loved Ones Leave

If you zoom in, you can see the tears.

I'd just told her, in the perkiest, most no-big-deal tone I could muster, that her friend was moving to another country. They'd known each other since baldness.

"That's bad news!" she sobbed, the saddest girl on the swings.

I snapped this picture of her private moment; I wasn't sure if it would be obnoxious to send it to my friend. I didn't want her to feel guilty, but I wanted to share this evidence of our four-year-old daughters' connection. I was sad for Melody, but moved that she could love so deeply at such a young age.

That was the second time this year that her reaction to a loved one leaving surprised me. The first was on July 4th, when I told her our beautiful Aunt Don died. We were on the subway, and she cried heavily, her head burrowed in my shoulder.

The kids wearing two of the hundreds of hats Aunt Don knitted in her last years.

In both cases -- death and a friend moving -- she asked a lot of thoughtful questions. As she struggled to understand the answers, she was comforted by promises of visits, a better place, etc., but her grief at the reality of no longer spending time with these people was still the prominent emotion.

She also cried in the appropriate places in Bambi recently -- another milestone.

If it seems odd that I'm stricken by what are probably pretty normal reactions of a little girl, remember this is a kid who never used to scare easily during movies and, thanks to having a big brother, was used to incorporating killing and crushing into imaginary play. So to see this sensitivity gene develop in the past year has been heartwarming. You don't wish sadness on your kids, but you do wish empathy and love and deep connections.

P.S. Don't worry, she hasn't become a complete ball of mush. She later saw the photos of her sobbing on the swing and scolded me, "Don't ever take a picture of me crying again!" Oops, remind me to delete this post when she learns how to search blog archives.

Does Coffee Come From Chickens?

I woke up to that question this morning.

Rant of the Mommy Homework "Helper"

In Confessions of a Mommy Homework "Helper", I wondered just how much homework help is appropriate. But that's just a part of the big problem, which is, how the heck is a parent supposed to find time to help with hours of homework a day?

I work full-time and am in school myself, my husband works around the clock, and my three-year-old is desperate for attention at all times, especially when Theo's getting all of mine during homework.

Not to mention the small details of getting Theo fed and cleaned after school. A bath is considered a triumph in this house. Keeping up with laundry and housecleaning are fantasies long since forgotten.

And because I'm a ridiculous mother who insists that Theo should have some fun in his life, he's in play rehearsals after school twice a week, which means by the time he gets home at 5, homework hasn't started yet. Theo must be in bed by 8 because he's on the school bus at 6:30 a.m., so that gives us three hours to make dinner, clean up dinner (ha! sometimes), do homework, and stumble through bedtime. And bedtime often isn't quality time with fun books and cuddles like it should be.

If we do get to read, it's usually one of the boring books he's assigned, since that's the only time we can squeeze them in. There are a few Roald Dahl books I'm dying to read to the kids that keep having to wait. And my toddler gets shortchanged, because I don't have time to read to her as much as I'd like.

I used to savor weekends for family time, but as the NYC Board of Ed views the weekend as two days that serve no purpose but 48 hours of available homework time, the assignments double and triple. (Notice I'm not blaming teachers.)

I thought homework was supposed to reinforce what was learned in school. So how did I end up giving my son a 3-hour lesson on Ben Franklin? And apparently not very successfully. If I -- a mom who works with words for a living -- can't get my kid to do a writing assignment, how are the non-English speaking parents doing it? Which is 90% of the parents in Theo's class.

Google tells me that plenty of other parents of third graders are fed up at the amount of homework their kids get and the help required from the parents.

I'm lucky to at least have a little guy who likes homework and who is always compliant. He even asks to do homework Saturday so he can play all day Sunday. I know many parents in my boat have kids fighting them every step of the way.

To all of you parents in homework hell, my heart goes out to you. And so does this rant. 

Did you know it's possible to learn stuff outside of school and homework? Here's Theo with the Metrocard train he, er, engineered at the Transit Museum.

Confessions of a Mommy Homework "Helper"

How did a grown-ass woman end up writing a third-grade biography on one of our founding fathers?

It was the third weekend in a row my 8-year-old had to write a biography for homework. And of course, in order to write one, he had to read one first. I pulled the Benjamin Franklin book out of Theo's bag and practically fainted when I saw its thickness. I glanced out the window at the first snow of winter, which had Theo in little-boy ecstasy as soon as he woke up. Sorry, snow, it's gonna be a while before he can play with you.

The book was on Theo's reading level, so I asked him to read it to me. It took 20 minutes to get through the first two chapters, and as I knew we'd never get to the writing portion at that rate, I read him the rest of the book. It took about an hour.

And so we sped through Ben's life. The printing press stuff, the invention stuff, the famous sayings stuff, the Declaration of Independence and Constitution stuff.

When we were finished reading the book, I asked Theo why Ben was important. "I don't know." I asked him what he invented. "A swimming machine." Yeah, buddy, when he was a kid. What did he invent as a grown-up? "A hot-air balloon." I sighed, partly with the understanding that of course those are the things that would interest a little boy, and mostly with frustration that he'd absorbed almost none of what we read in the last 90 minutes and we still had a whole biography to write.

It was very clear who would be writing the thing.

And so we sat at the table and worked on an outline of Franklin's life, and the topics we would cover in each paragraph. Or more accurately, I worked on it, but discussed what I was writing out loud so I could at least feel like we were doing it together.

Off we went, one painful teeth-pulling paragraph at at time. It would go something like this:

What do you think we should say for the introduction?
I don't know.
How about where and when he was born?
Yeah.
So where was he born?
Philadelphia.
No, that's where he lived later. Let's check the book. I open the book to the first page and he skims it, looking for the answer. Impatient, I just point at the answer.
Boston.
Yep. Write it down.

And in paragraph 6:

Why is July 4 important?
We go to Coney Island.
Yes, because it's a holiday. Why is it a holiday?
I don't know.
Because that's when the Declaration of Independence was signed. Do you know what that is?
No.
And so I explain and hope he'll kinda sorta put it in his own words when he repeats my explanation on paper.

The result was a nicely written biography that was no real indication of Theo's skill level. Had I done nothing, the bio would've read "Ben invented a swimming machine. The End."

I squeezed as much as possible out of Theo. Tried to make the homework as authentically from him as I could. But if I'm gonna be honest, I fed him a lot of the words--OK, sentences. And while I tried to check in with him on every piece and make sure he understood what he was writing, I'm sure if you asked him about the Declaration of Independence today, he'd still say he doesn't know.

I don't know what else to do.We highlight important facts as we read them. We discuss what we've read every page or two. But he is simply not good at processing large chunks of info at at time. If we could read one chapter a day and write one paragraph at a time, Theo might actually walk away knowing something about Benjamin Franklin. If Theo can't grasp an entire movie in one sitting, no way is he going to absorb an entire book.

I don't know where Theo's autism fits into this problem except that it accentuates it.

But I bet Theo isn't the only boy who can write 3 pages on Mario Party without help, yet struggles on a subject that isn't interesting to him.

Theo is a gifted creative thinker and writer. His imagination is one of his strongest suits. He'll wake up and decide he's going to write down his dream. He makes up wild stories for Melody every night at bedtime. He randomly sits down and writes plays, complete with roles for his friends and his sister.

It surprises me that reading and absorbing content for school is such a struggle for him. But that's the reality, and it's only going to get harder. I need to figure out how to get through this. I can't go on feeding him answers and pretending he's coming to the conclusions himself because I showed him where to find them in a book. It doesn't do him any favors and I certainly don't have the time.

As a mom of a kid on the autism spectrum, I want my son to be treated like other kids, I want him to advance in school on pace with his peers, and I want him to get assignments on grade level. So how can I then complain when he gets an assignment on grade level, and it's too hard for him? This is a parenting paradox that I deal with every day.

So tell me...how much homework help is appropriate?

 

P.S. Theo did make it to the snow. His insistence on a banana mouth turned out to be a great move.