A hard topic for me; there
have been few studies on challenging behaviors in children on the autism
spectrum. While this is not a daily occurrence for us right now, it is a snapshot a more difficult night. Not all kids with autism
exhibit aggressive behaviors.
I drive home from work, ready to begin the night’s
project: baking Christmas cookies.
Sam hears my car pull into the garage and waits
expectantly, that sound a signal of dinnertime. I make a quick meal and turn my
attention to baking as Sam scrambles upstairs to play on the laptop.
The dough mixed, I begin the methodical process of rolling
small brown balls. The phone rings, briefly halting my production. I lean the
phone on my shoulder and resume my work, paying little notice as Tony arrives
home.
Tony’s entrance sparks a flurry of activity. Sam
suddenly reappears sensing an opportunity for snacks. Within seconds the
kitchen is full of noise. As I try to wrap up the phone call Sam playfully
tries to steal some chocolate chips. Ten times in as many minutes, I deny the
request, each time more firmly.
Sam quickly erupts into an aggression, catching me
off guard. It has been a few months since Sam has behaved this way.
I feel his both his hands swipe at my face from
behind. They are not hard swipes, but they are fast, numerous and seemingly endless. Sam maintains a tiny measure of control as
he hits, his purpose is attention seeking. He knocks the phone from my
hand. “Sam, please stop!” I shout firmly. In a moment he stops.
Was it the commotion or the lack of attention? The stress or unpredictability of the holidays? Were
the chocolate chips that important? Does he feel sick? Is it combination of everything?
I wish he could tell me.
Though only 90 seconds have elapsed, I am very
tired.
I hear Sam say, “Sorry Mommy” followed by “Laptop?”
knowing the consequence for bad behavior is loss of his precious laptop. I
merely say, “Go upstairs now.”
“Sorry, Mommy. Is OK. Of course is OK. Sorry,” Sam
repeats with urgency several times, adding in my usual response in hopes of reassurance. “A
kiss on your head,” he says, wanting to erase what just happened. “A kiss on
your cheeks.”
“Go to your room.” I say quietly. Sam complies.
Is it anyone’s fault? “Maybe if you weren’t on the
phone” Tony says. It is a valid statement. I have always been more tuned
into Sam's subtle clues. I see concern for
everyone’s safety in Tony’s eyes and know the stress
of the moment elicits the comment.
I head upstairs to Sam’s room to deliver the bad
news: laptop privileges are revoked. He looks so very sad. He responds
solemnly, “Hitting is bad.” Hoping to salvage laptop privileges, he quickly
adds, “Sorry, Mommy. Is OK. Of course is OK. Sorry, Mommy. Is OK. Of course
is OK.”
It he truly sorry for his behavior or just sorry he
can’t have his laptop? The hopeful side of me settles on a little of both.
Sam leans over to kiss my forehead. Both summing up
and apologizing he says, “Hitting is bad. Feel better. A kiss on your forehead.
No laptop.”
"No laptop." I confirm.
The kitchen is quiet again and I finish rolling the
cookies and bake them. I offer a freshly baked one to Tony. He deems it
good.
I head upstairs to tuck Sam to sleep. As he begins
to drifts off I hear, "Sorry Mommy. Is OK. Of course is OK."
