Thursday, April 24, 2008

Beautiful Boy

What a strange and beautiful son I have...

Last night Stephen fell asleep clinging to the foot of his bed. I went in to rotate him around to the head-on-pillow position, but first I had to remove the stuffed animal menagerie piled up in the center of his bed (leaving him a one foot space in which to fall asleep). As I moved the twenty-five or so assorted animals to their basket, I noticed that he had also placed some Thomas trains, plastic and wooden, in the mix...as well as about 30 pieces of wooden track. I moved those to their respective boxes, along with two plastic Slinky's, a Bob the Builder ball, a golf ball, and, inexplicably, an extra pillowcase.

I paused to look at the (finally) still, quiet form of my little boy, his face relaxed and peaceful. He looks so normal when he's asleep - there's no hint of a problem or a disorder. Just a handsome, healthy-looking child, lost in dreams and slumber.

And my gaze wandered to the pile of objects on his table...why a golf ball and Slinky's? The pillowcase? You can imagine that any child might like to snuggle with stuffed animals at bedtime, and Stephen is no different in that respect. But the other stuff...this odd, quirky collection of items that he obviously finds important...what's that about?

In my mind's eye I see him, realizing that he's getting tired, moving around his room to gather up the things that hold meaning for him - his choices aren't clear to me, but they are to him. He is a real little person, with likes and (STRONG) dislikes, and I find myself feeling glad that he is comfortable and has a place to just be Stephen. Isn't that a lesson we all need to remember? Sure, it may look a little weird sometimes, but laugh and enjoy and be who you are, every day. Stephen knows this, and practices it with great style.

Sometimes, though, this strange and lovely son of ours throws us a curve ball.

Much to our dismay, last Friday was haircut day. To give a bit of history: I've mentioned before how bad haircuts have been for the last 6 years or so. We're talking serious levels of trauma for everyone involved. We used to have a friend of the family cut his hair in a regular little-boy-style scissor cut. I would hold him in my lap and she would cut here and there, as best she could, while I fought with him. He would scream and cry and sweat and struggle...it was difficult in an epic way. After the cut I would literally be unable to lift my arms to write a check to pay for it. As Stephen grew, David got involved, holding his arms and head while I held the rest of him.

People would oh so helpfully tell us just to "shave his head." Well, I just couldn't stomach the idea of my precious baby-faced boy looking like a convict (that was my unfortunate mental picture). I didn't want to force that on him and make him look funny. So we persevered.

About a year or more ago, David was at the barbershop and saw two young boys getting "clipper cuts" with slightly longer bangs left at the front. He assured me that it looked really cute, and, even more importantly, it was FAST! So we decided to give it a try and took Stephen there. It was still monumentally difficult, mind you...still a struggle and a fight, and we all felt like wrung-out dishcloths by the end. But the end came more quickly, so we decided that this was the way to go. Plus, the kid looked damned cute, to boot.

Fast-forward to last Friday...I had worked up what's called a "social story" about going to the barbershop. I used a simple narrative: "Stephen's going to get a haircut today..." and so forth, and inserted photographs of Stephen, a typical barbershop interior, a barber chair, clippers ("that make a BUZZZZZZZing noise, but they won't hurt Stephen"), then a bathtub, and finally, the
pièce de résistance, a picture of McDonalds. I didn't have a whole lot of faith that this story would work, but Stephen's come so far in communicating that I thought it was worth a try.

So as we got him ready to leave home, as he always does when we make preparations to GO someplace, he immediately
started asking for "fries/burger." This gave me an opening to start showing him the story. "First haircut, then McDonalds." I repeated this over and over and over, and began flipping the pages of his book, and mimicking the feel and sound of the clippers on his head. He giggled and parroted back, "Bah-bah-shop. Kip-pers." But I wasn't buying it...

We got in the car, and I continued to read him the story while David drove and Kerry sat in the front seat reading. We drove to the town I grew up in (where the wonderful lady who helps us with this has her shop) and Stephen was SO loving and happy that I knew he hadn't absorbed my story. With a sinking feeling I accepted his kisses and hugs, the whole time knowing what a 180° turn we were going to experience when we arrived.

We got to the shop, and Stephen began to whine a little. "Come on, buddy. Time for haircut."

"No."

"We have to..." and we haul him out of the car.

"NO."

We got into the shop and I pulled out his book. "See, buddy? Barbershop. We get haircut here."

David went and sat in the chair, as usual, and I led Stephen over. I could immediately sense a difference. He was walking calmly, without pulling back on my hand. I helped him climb into his daddy's lap, and we wrapped a sheet around him. Ms. Tommie showed him the clippers, and turned them on, away from his head. He looked carefully at them. As she took the first pass through his hair, my little boy looked at me with his moss-green eyes, and said, very quietly, "Buzzzzz?"

My eyes were already misting over as I said, "Yes, baby. Buzzzz!"

From that moment on, other than typical "oooh, that tickles" flinching, Stephen sat calmly in his dad's lap, letting his hair be cut. Throughout the whole haircut, the three adults kept exchanging glances...we were afraid to breathe lest he fall apart. But he didn't...h
e watched himself in the mirror, he talked about Thomas and Gordon and Duck...and he never fought, never struggled, never shed a tear.

His dad and I, on the other hand, shed quite a few. I don't know that I've ever smiled so much...and been so overwhelmed by thankfulness. Instead of the trauma we'd been expecting, (both David and I were nauseous all day dreading the afternoon) we were rejoicing. We were absolutely thrilled with him, and with the amazing knowledge that he had definitely understood all the pre-emptive planning and explaining. He obviously didn't WANT to get it cut (hence the strong "No's") but he sat through it as any boy would've.

Miracle? I don't know. A triumph? Most certainly. For perhaps the first time, Stephen understood what was going to happen because he could follow the story visually beforehand. Even though I didn't realize it, he took in what I said, and was able to mentally prepare himself. Did he really have sensory issues with haircuts, as we'd previously assumed, or was it just unfamiliar and frightening because he didn't GET what was about to happen?

Either way, it was a eureka! moment, a red-letter day, the first observance of "Stephen Got a Haircut and Nobody Got Injured Day" - and we look forward to celebrating it again in 4 months or so. Hopefully. :-)

Here's our little prince...

Oh, and he got extra french fries that day.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Building a mystery

It's 9:05 a.m. and I am exhausted. I feel like I have run a marathon while simultaneously being beaten by a stick and juggling Ginsu knives.

Stephen woke up in a decent mood. "Time to get dressed for school!" I chirruped in what must be an annoyingly cheerful tone.

"No." A good solid answer. Not the one I was hoping for, but I can work with this.

"Yes, buddy! Time for school!" (he's not buying this)

"No!" And so the fight ensues. "Thomas and James compuuuuuu."

"No, time for school," still with a smile.

"Juggle Book...watch."

"Time for school," delivered through slightly clenched teeth.

We got him dressed, and he ran off to his room. David went in to try to cheer him up while I got his shoes. He let us get his shoes on deceptively easily...only to pull one off as soon as I got the velcro fastened.

Argh.

How can he do SO well most days and be a disagreeable grump on days like today? Well...I guess everybody has bad days, but Stephen's are so unpredictable, and he can't say, "I wish I could just stay home today," like Kerry occasionally says.

So, Stephen refused to put on his backpack, refused to walk down the hall without prodding, and then flatly refused to go out the door. He laid on the floor and began pounding his heels. David got him up and out the door. Usually by this point, if he's cranky, he accepts his fate and will sometimes almost magically transform into happy Stephen, having gotten through the transition trauma.

Not today.

I had to drag him down the stairs and into the car. By the time I got his seat belt on, he had both shoes off. Socks were next. He screamed and cried till the car felt like it was going to explode. (Mostly) unscathed I drove determinedly out to the street and started on our way. At the first intersection he grabbed handfuls of my shirt and pulled for all he was worth. When that didn't stop me from driving, he moved to my hair (which is just past my shoulders) and pulled. Hard. It brought tears to my eyes - tears of pain and of pure frustration. So he pulled, I drove, trying to get him untangled without having a wreck. I kept asking, "Stephen, WHAT do you WANT?" He would echo it back in between screams.

Finally I pulled off the road and, for a moment, wanted to keep driving at full speed and ram my car into the building I parked beside. I turned around, and bellowed, "WHAT is WRONG with you?"

["Gee, mom. Maybe I have some sort of bewildering and maddening developmental disorder. Try living inside my head for a day."]

There he sat, red faced and snotty, hair much too long and disheveled, crying. He got my hand and had me push on his chest, which he likes, and then his chin. I just looked at him. Part of me wanted to just turn around and go home. But I can't do that. Ultimately he will benefit so much more from being taken to school...so we pressed on.

We got to school, and fresh tears began flowing. I got his socks and shoes back on, and he didn't want to get out of the car. I summoned up some brute strength and got him out, but he wasn't happy. His aide (bless her) who usually runs the carpool system saw me struggling, handed off her stop sign to someone else and came over to help. She calmly talked to him and he took a few steps. We got him to his room and he signed in as usual. He hugged me and sat down at the computer. He looked at me and said, "Good-bye."

Rather anticlimactic, don't you think?

I don't know why mornings like this happen. Sometimes (MOST times) he is a delight - but when he isn't? God. It's just awful. It's heartwrenching and frustrating and fury-inducing. Not fury directed at a helpless child, but at that THING that lives in his head and takes over his personality at times.

I'm still waiting to hear from his aide. She's supposed to call me and let me know how he's doing. He'll probably be fine, and so we'll keep going, fighting our way through the dark forest, never knowing what mystery lies around the bend.