Two for two

This week my husband and I got confirmation of something we have suspected:  like his older brother, our 3-year-old son Max has autism.  While not a surprise, it was still difficult to hear.  This is certainly familiar territory, but maybe more daunting as a result.  Thank goodness for Diet Coke and chocolate at times like these.

Adequately describing the emotions that have accompanied this diagnosis might be impossible -- and any attempt will be difficult, and heart-wrenching, and guilt-inducing.

There is a lot of guilt in feeling sad, because the implication is that I want my son to be something different than what he is.  Perhaps the best way to describe it is like a mourning process.  We are quite literally mourning the future we thought our son might have.  That's not to say he won't have happiness, success, contentment, and a wonderful life.  But it will be a different life than we envisioned for him, and it will be much more difficult for him than for many of his peers.  Watching your child navigate his way through the regular ups and downs of life is hard.  Knowing he will have to do so with a significant lifelong disability is heartbreaking.

So now we start trying to map out his treatment plan the way we have tried to map out his brother's.  Preschool Autism Class (PAC)?  Check.  He's enrolled, and school starts September 6, and it's a 27-hour-per-week program.  Occupational therapy?  Maybe, but probably not for now.  Speech therapy?  He needs it, because most of his communication is echolalic (repeating back what is said to him), but are there enough hours in the day?  Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) therapy?  Assessment scheduled for this week to determine how much he could benefit.  Play dates with typical peers?  A must, but let's see how the rest of his schedule shakes out first.

Managing my boys' schedules is very much a second full-time job that involves lots of scheduling, lists, coordination, and my favorite -- spreadsheets.  I think it is a blessing that I am obsessed with organization and like making all the pieces fit.  Although fewer pieces would be nice.

Hug a teacher

A few days ago, an "on this day" Facebook memory from two years ago popped up featuring this picture of Archie with his first Preschool Autism Class teacher, Jen, at the end of the summer 2014 session.

It brought back such a flood of memories.  Jen was the kind of teacher who ruins you for all other teachers -- the kind of teacher against whom all others will be measured.  We were completely clueless, scared, worried and uncertain when we met Jen and sent Archie off to her class.  Jen not only is an incredible teacher in the classroom, she went way above and beyond OUTSIDE the classroom.  She came to our house once a month to help us implement strategies at home to help Archie with everything from brushing his teeth to sitting at the table for dinner.  She was always a phone call, text, or email away, and was incredibly responsive.  Bryan and I had heard from other parents with kids on the spectrum about how difficult it was to get their kids accommodated, and our experience with Jen made us incredulous.  Little did we know, we hit the jackpot on our first attempt.  She changed Archie's life and changed our lives forever.  She taught our little boy how to talk and so many other skills.  She loved him and was genuinely invested in his success -- and in ours!  We are forever grateful that Jen was there to hold our hands during what was otherwise a very dark and difficult time in our lives.

Here's to good teachers!