The challenging week

This past week has been a perplexing week as I’ve watched Sam’s behavior morph for reasons unknown to us.

At almost precisely 2 PM each day Sam has gotten very upset at school resulting in a period of anger and aggression. Each day we have 23 ½ hours of Dr. Jekyll and 30 minutes with Mr. Hyde. Whenever this happens we look for clues. Any clues that might explain.

Could it be the new medication he is on for his recently diagnosed epilepsy? Does he have a stomachache or heartburn? Has the thought of getting on the bus for an hour thrown him into turmoil? If so, why now after months and months on the same bus?

Each night I ask him about his day. He looks up with a sweet remorseful smile and says, “Sam pushed Aaron. Aaron is nice. Sorry Aaron.”

The following morning I send him off to school ready and prepped for a good day, hopeful whatever troubles him has passed. I am saddened when I get the call that Mr. Hyde has emerged once more.

Anytime Sam slides backwards behaviorally we are concerned. Teasing out the problem and rectifying becomes the focus of our existence. It is easy to become consumed by those 30 minutes of challenging behavior.

Today I read an Italian proverb:

"Count your nights by stars, not shadows; count your
life with smiles, not tears."

This reminds me of something important. We must address this current problem, yes. But it isn’t whole story. There is more good than bad; right now there are 23 ½ hours of good behavior for each 30 minutes of difficulty. I know Sam’s desire to succeed is strong. I know Sam can string together months and months of good behavior. I am remembering to count the stars and smiles.

We have been through difficult weeks before and made it though and back. As I look at Sam’s eager smile, I know it will happen again. 


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The stress of the holidays

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."

Of course it isn’t OK, but I take a small comfort knowing he understands, if just for the moment. We can build on that.


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