The most wonderful time of the year

Well, much like the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in releasing the new autism stats, Cris tried to bury my blog by posting it only a few days before Christmas.  I managed to lose my blog virginity anyway and get a few positive comments to boot.  Appreciate your feedback, thanks. 

Is it just me, or is December torture for most parents of children with autism?  The Grand Canyon size chasm between my son and typical kids is extra-painfully glaring during the holiday season.  Maybe Andrew thinks his dad is Santa (http://www.santanj.com/)  and just takes it all for granted. He doesn’t understand the religious story and is not interested in the socializing. We all went to my cousin’s house for a holiday celebration and Andrew spent the 3 hour visit on the computer, ripping plastic access pieces off the printer when he thought he should add paper, begging for food after he had already eaten more snacks than Kirstie Alley would approve of and excessively hugging and kissing his female cousin in front of her boyfriend.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful he is not violent nor debilitatingly physically ill.  The perpetual 5’7” toddler is just extra heartbreaking in the holiday atmosphere. 

Andrew’s favorite holiday activity is the same as his favorite activity the other 364 days of the year.  He would much prefer sitting at his desk at stim central with his computer and TV/DVD/VCR and visually entertain himself by repeating the You Tube videos or movie scenes back and forth for hours.  I have abandoned trying to introduce different toys and now I just get the extremely age inappropriate videos and DVDs he asks for.  An almost 15 year old can never have too many copies of The Aristocats.  My answer to family queries on “What can I get Andrew for Christmas?” rapidly changed from a real suggestion into “ebay or Amazon gift card” when one person responded to my toy recommendation with “isn’t he too old for that?”  I know.  Not a good candidate for legal guardian in case I’m dead.  Check.

Because Andrew just suddenly started being able to talk at age 11, there is a little part of me that, What? You want to hear that story?  Andrew went to the Elks Club sponsored one week of sleep away Camp Moore for the first time in July 2006.  His sweet counselor sent him a postcard about a month after he was back home.  Andrew picked it up off the dining room table mail pile and read it perfectly word for word out loud.  I know. Holy Crap.  Check. Was it the PROMPT speech therapy?, the ABA?, the DMSA or EDTA chelations?  the vitamins/minerals/supplements?, the greatest classroom teacher in the world?  (just in case she reads this),  the after school therapy hours?  The transdermal and/or IV everything except the kitchen sink we did?  Nope. Apparently the cure for speech apraxia is one week of sleep away summer camp.  You heard it here first.  I think Autism Speaks is funding a study on that very premise.  Okay, the real answer is either “I don’t know why” or “E: all of the above”, take your pick. 

So, anyway, Andrew is not conversational but perfectly understandable when he asks for “I want french fries and ten chicken nuggets please Mommy”  or “Land Before Time 14” (anyone else want to kill those people because they advertised that movie on the internet and then never created it?) and because of the Speech Miracle, there is a little part of me that thinks that Andrew will still make significant improvements.  With song lyrics like “E-I-E-I-O” and “B-I-N-G-O” continually streaming out of his room, it is always difficult to maintain that belief.  But with those powerhouse leaders over at National Autism Association kicking my ass with “Hope-ism” all the time, I can never give up.  Hey, the up side is, not much need for parental controls at my house. 

About a week ago as I went into Andrew’s room to give him his nightly supplements I was surprised to see him sitting on the floor wrapped in a blanket not fast forwarding but actually watching the good old non animated version of Wizard of Oz on his TV.  He looked up at me, pointed at the TV where poor Scarecrow was burning and distinctly said “Fire! He scared!”. 

Hope.  Just sayin.