Joining In (also a review of Froodle, by Antoinette Portis)

 My daughter's autism diagnosis process involved piles of paperwork, doctor visits, and a visit to a central observation office where we did more paperwork and hours of observation. The day before that visit I was nervous. I had spent a year wondering and waffling, and I felt extremely anxious about labeling her, about how that would impact her for the long term, about whether everyone would just say I'm crazy and making it all up. So that day, and really the whole year, I dealt with this stress by searching the internet for information so that I could diagnose myself, so I could walk into these offices fully confident. And I always doubted and wondered, until that day I found a video of a child with autism laughing.

https://youtu.be/O-0kk4ujHFc

I think it was this one, but I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I watched it over and over and I was very sure that my daughter was on the spectrum. Because this was her same explosion of silliness, her delight in being ridiculous.

Ever since, it's the fun side, not the delays and frustrations, that make me know not only that the autism diagnosis is certain but also that it's helpful. It's the modified, autism-friendly library story times that are miraculously better for us, or the movies that are "sensory friendly" with the lights on.

Antoinette Portis' Froodle is about delight in being ridiculous. It's about play, variation, and how what doesn't seem normal can be the way we deepen our friendships. It's about birds who want to say silly words and not just "chirp" and "peep" anymore, and the crow who first tries to straighten them out and then learns reluctantly how to have fun. It is by far my daughter's favorite book.

The random outbursts of silly words in Froodle remind me of those moments when my daughter is having so much fun and bursts out with quotes from a tv show--like The Octonauts or Paw Patrol. Other kids and adults find this disconcerting, but it's her way of saying that she's happy to see you or loving what you are doing together. She loves these two shows, both of which focus on a set of friends who work together and joke together. In real life that kind of social interaction is really hard for her. So when she quotes these shows to you, it means you've really connected.

I had been getting frustrated in the past six months with the fact that we barely watch anything other than Octonauts. I can't suggest a new tv show, pick a movie, or even listen to or watch something myself without frightening my daughter or making her anxious because of the noise and my distraction. I love narrative, so not being able to watch anything new is very frustrating. I was trying to be patient and understanding about how overwhelming a new show is, but then I ran into Amethyst's "Ask an Autistic" series on youtube, and this video on scripting:

https://youtu.be/vtbbmeyh5rk

Her joy here is so clear, and instead of just being tolerant I'm trying to find ways to be part of that joy with my daughter. This morning, the first thing she said when she woke up was that Peso (her imaginary friend but also a character on The Octonauts) was a baby but was growing bigger. And Captain (Barnacles) remembers being a (polar bear) cub. And I replied "oh, like when he was little and played with his sister Bianca." And she smiled this sweet, joyful smile, tucking her body deep in the couch, and replied "I know it, with his sister Bianca." "Then they get their badges, right? What kind of badge? I don't remember" I wondered. She didn't remember the name of the badge either, so we turned on that episode.

We're together in this and it's so much fun. The moments when I join her in her passions, when I know about Captain and his sister Bianca and show her that I'm really paying attention, that I too care about these characters and love them, those moments are beautiful. She sees so much value in my words in those moments and listens, looks, pays attention and feels safe.

Froodle skerpoodle!

Can you die from baby screaming?

 Or at least feel assaulted. When it seems like there is no reason and you will never be able to move on your own, or do any movement other than holding and bouncing. Sometimes I lay on the floor and just set the baby on my stomach, because my arms can't do anymore. Or just rock in the rocking chair because rocking is more what I need than even what baby needs. I hold him and the screaming is ringing in my ears afterward for hours.

Of course there are reasons--spit up, vomit, just tired again. And I remember from my first eventually patterns set in, you get better at guessing and their own bodies just get more comfortable. This week has been hard because I thought that those patterns were settling a bit, and now they are all off again and I keep thinking I might do something, then the baby screams.

Yet, despite the past few days, we still manage. Yesterday my arms were writhing from holding the baby all day. Soon as dad got home I handed him off and was ready to take off on a walk. But my toddler starts yelling no, and I realize she hasn't had any time with me all day and really she hasn't complained. She did watch videos all day except for a short stint outside. So I invite her along, with the firm promise to walk the whole way because I cannot carry her. And then we have fun. We sing--skid-a-mar-ink-a-dink-a-dink and Baby Beluga--skip, run, race, pick flowers, play hide-and-seek, play tag at the park. Which ends in a meltdown because another kid at the park joined in and tagged me. And even after all that fun, in that first moment of meltdown my first reaction is, why can't I have a kid who will just play? Why is a small amount of the unpredictable--just another kid playing too--a disaster? When I feel that way I know it's my own stress, not her, and that stress stayed incredibly high all night and through this morning despite the fun of the walk.

And then, magically, the baby stays happy for a half hour then stays asleep for an hour. And then I'm helping her with a new app to breed birds, helping her figure out the numbers and instructions which ends up being fun for both of us. Then we are doing stickers, drawing "instructions" for our next project: mixing rice and food coloring and glue and seeing what happens. And I'm even cleaning up a bit and cooking! And the baby is cozy and relatively calm. And then we're rough-housing and baby is smiling and watching in wonder as we tickle and tumble.

A homeschooling friend just posted a schedule of her day. It's funny coming at homeschooling somewhat backward, starting with unschooling, never intending to do school at all. It looks so pointless, honestly, and miserable on both ends. Everything scheduled down to the minutes, projects assigned, singing timed. After the emotional misery of the last few days it looks utterly miserable. I can't imagine having the energy to instruct and order. I know that ritual and patterns can be comforting for some kids. But when the baby is finally asleep and my daughter and I are giggling about some pretend fish, when she decides on her own to turn that off and walk over to pick Mr. Wuffles from the bookshelf so we can giggle about aliens and cats, then we're doing art projects and then she pulls out the yoga mat and starts doing her own versions of yoga, and now back to a video which gives me a minute to write. . .then I can't imagine it any other way.

Continual Surprise (Reflections on Deschooling)

 My daughter and husband are out in the forest, going on a "hike" which these days means talking with her about all the cool sticks and rocks and leaves she finds for about a half mile. I just received a text that she was pretending to be Beaver Boy (from Peep and the Big Wide World) and chop down all the trees, saying "nyah nyah nyah nyah," which she finds hilarious. This warms my heart for multiple reasons, number one because I'm continually enchanted by her ability to create imaginary worlds and act in them. Number two because she attaches herself to a particular character type in many of her shows: goofy masculine sidekicks (Beaver Boy, T-bone in Clifford, Tiger in Kipper), something that I find intriguing and I wonder where it will lead. But of course, this is the opposite of the kind of zen, tree-sitting, nature appreciation that I envision for myself and for her. I've been seeking out nature-education activities, but in these moments I have to wonder how much those are for me, not for her. And whether, if they are mostly for me, they are worth driving significant distances to reach. She loves being outside in nature, and I think that's a near-universal truth for children, but I wonder if it would really help her blossom to be instructed about nature. As she gets more into her twos, and gets goofier and goofier, delighting in entertaining us and making all sorts of faces and accents and sounds, I wonder if clown-school might be more her style. Not that, of course, she needs school at all, but I am beginning to feel the pressure, and the usefulness, of having some regularly-scheduled activity with the same large-ish group of kids so that she can negotiate different relationships and find good friends.

Trusting my daughter, and what kinds of learning she finds fun, often takes me somewhere very different then I've planned. We went to the library last week and I was determined to find some good Halloween book to introduce the concept of Halloween, so she could enjoy dressing up when the time comes. I picked out two Halloween books; she let me read one of them one time, and refused them entirely after that. Instead, she fell in love with Happy Valentine's Day, Mouse! and Chick and Chickie Play All Day. Being a logical adult, with the first I just shook my head, thinking, "It's the wrong time." But she loves mouse. Not only that, but if I'm so worried about her longterm process of making good friends, what better model could there be? Mouse makes valentines that reflect his friends' unique qualities, and in the end they all bring him cookies.

The second book I'm more ambivalent about, but it continues to exemplify this process of trusting her to learn. In the second half of Chick and Chickie, they emotionally torment a letter A, getting it to say all manner of "Ah" sounds. Like several children's tv shows (such as Peg and Cat, where they count 100 chickens on a farm by tossing them into too-small cages, launching them in rockets, and basically objectifying them in any way possible), this book walks a thin line between humanizing and objectifying, using the facial expressions and legs and arms drawn on the letter A to make learning interesting while using fear, intimidation, and bribery to get the letter A to do what it is supposed to do, make "Ah" sounds. But she loves that book, and so far our discussion of objectification involves me asking, "does the letter A look scared?" Still, what she loves more about the book is the beginning, when Chick and Chickie each make masks that are so frightening they scare each other. Then they take the masks off and laugh, and my daughter laughs and laughs. And when she does, I realize she is learning about dressing up for Halloween, more than any pedantic book explaining Halloween could ever teach her. Because of course she'll need to know not only what her own costume does, but also what all those monster masks on the street mean too.

So as I fret about her social skills, exposure to the outdoors, and understanding of holidays everyone will expect her to participate in, my daughter finds the materials and the play and the learning and the knowledge that she needs. And I write about it, because as a parent exploring unschooling, I'm looking back to watch how I step along and sometimes step over this line between providing a rich environment and instructing.