Woulda Coulda Shoulda

So in the midst of everything else, we thought it would be a supergreat and totally not at all crazy idea to change Monkey’s schooling YET AGAIN. Because what Aspies love more than anything else is CHANGE! Yes. Except no. And lord knows things have just been SO BORING ’round here.

(The alternate version of this story is that Hippie School—lovingly dubbed thus two years ago when it was still mostly a joke—is undergoing some changes and growing pains, and after careful consideration, we feel the program which has so nurtured him for the past two years is just not going to meet his needs anymore, moving forward. I like the first version better, though.)

Today was Monkey’s last day, and so we swung by the store on the way home to buy some Pokemon cards to ease the sting. Next year we’ll continue homeschooling, and then… well, we have a lot of decisions to make about what he’ll be doing for high school. We’ll see.

In the meantime, if you are one of those I-could-never-homeschool types, I feel you. My latest post over at Alphamom is all about how I never could’ve, either, but then I did, and it’s been kind of awesome.

One of my least favorite things to hear about kids on the autism spectrum is that they tend to lack an understanding of humor, and nearly everything “official” says they don’t understand sarcasm. And really, as much as I would love to believe that my own particular little snowflakes are just that much more special than the world, no, really, I know a LOT of Aspies who get sarcasm just fine.

Monkey has been… well… a little off, lately. If you ask him something you’re likely to get a snippy, snarky reply. With an extra helping of sarcasm. I don’t know what’s up. I suspect it may be puberty. Puberty is known for kind of being a bitch, y’know? And he appears to have the beginnings of a BAD case of it. Poor kid. You’d think they’d have a vaccine by now, or something.

Anyway, the other day he seemed kind of down, so I asked him if he was okay, and he kind of shrugged, so I told him that if there was anything he wanted to talk about—then, or some other time, either way—that I am a pretty good listener. He nodded, so I asked him if he wanted to talk right then, and he said yes.

Then he put a hand on my knee, and speaking quietly to his lap, said, “Mom, it’s just that…” (I leaned in, ready understand and try to help) “it’s…” (he looked up with a mournful expression) “it’s my time of the month,” he concluded, barely able to hang on to his guffaw until he reached the end, throwing his head back and collapsing in laughter.

Yeeeeahhhh. My poor Aspie, what with his lack of a sense of humor and understanding of nuance.

Hippie School is working on some sort of family history/family tree/civil rights mashup project right now—at least, I think they are. Monkey tends to be a little obtuse when it comes to telling me about what’s actually happening at school. Somewhere in his brain, the fact that I oversee his HOME homeschool days gives him carte blanche to tell me only select snippets about what happens when he’s over at Hippie School. As a result, if I am to believe his version of events, on a regular day at Hippie School all that happens is: He plays D&D with a couple of his buddies, someone does something wrong which Monkey then feels the need to correct (and he either does so with self-righteous gusto OR he proudly restrains himself but has to vent to me about how hard that was), he forgets to eat his lunch, and someone builds something fantastic out of found objects. So, uh, I always assume I’m missing some pieces of the story.

[Sidebar: I do not mind the whole "What did you do today?" "Nothing much," interaction, actually. It's so developmentally appropriate! Hooray! And I do have my ways of finding out what's actually happening there, and I feel confident it's not all Lord of the Flies and they really are doing work, so whatever.]

In general, Hippie School doesn’t include homework. But this past week, it did. And I could’ve told you ahead of time that this was going to be entertaining. (more…)

We’ve been arguing about it for months. MONTHS! Every time you said, “I’m going to be a TEENAGER soon,” I replied with a swift verbal smackdown:

“No. NO YOU’RE NOT. I won’t allow it. You can’t!”

You laughed, every time. The joke never grows old. (Then again, when has a joke ever grown old with you? Exactly. Wait, let me guess: You’re Batman? I thought so!)

About a week ago, you told me you had the solution. “Mom. Mom! Since you don’t want me to be a teenager, I’ve decided I’ll just turn THIRT. No teen, see?” I agreed that this was an excellent solution. “Maybe when you stop freaking out then I can add the ‘teen’ part back.” I assured you that that would never happen.

You don’t understand why I’m taking this so hard, why I simply cannot wrap my brain around the idea that there’s no denying you’re on your way to adulthood. I wasn’t like this with your sister. (more…)

Today’s post over at Feel More Better is dedicated to Monkey, the child I never could’ve imagined, before he came into my life, but who has patiently taught me to be a better human being. Both of my kids have done this for me, of course, but Monkey brought Hippie School into our lives, and the lessons there ripple outward and touch our entire family.

So today, it’s for him, for me, for every non-round peg who ever tried to be something else. Square pegs are awesome. Other shapes, too. I only wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure it out. (I’m a slow learner… thank goodness my kid is patient with me.)

I don’t know that I’ve really stopped to give proper thanks and praise when it comes to pretty much the ONE thing in our lives that hasn’t been worrisome or catastrophic this year. In the midst of the various Sturm und Drang, we have one shining beacon of progress: Monkey. You remember Monkey, right? Short goofy kid with the dimples that’ll melt your heart? I don’t know if you know this, but he’s kind of awesome.

We were warned that autistic kids often come in to a whole new set of hurdles as they enter adolescence, but I have to say that—so far, at least (knocking on wood…)—balancing-on-the-precipice-of-puberty Monkey is delightful. He is calmer, more flexible, and happier than he’s been in a long time. I honestly expected months of issues following Chickie’s move, so bereft was he over her departure. Instead, for the first time in many months, there is space for him to just… unfurl, and be himself. He lights up when his sister calls, and I know he really misses her, but he’s really exceeding any expectation we had of how this time would go.

Hippie School remains not just a wonderful experience for him, but such a great experience for all of us, really. Merry always emails to let me know when Monkey’s done something funny or fabulous or if she thinks he’s struggling, and lately the emails have been overwhelmingly positive. Even the one that came a couple of days ago started out with good news. (more…)

One of the things I love most about Hippie School is that it exists just about a step and a half to the left of flat-out Lord of the Flies when the kids are playing outside. (And of course they play outside for hours each day, unlike those good ol’ fifteen-minute-long recesses at public school; and come to think of it, as a middle schooler, there’s no recess at all, of course.) The kids have gardens and forts and sometimes they go fishing and for a while they were big into catching turtles and building habitats for them. (I confess I found this slightly confusing. “Weren’t they ALREADY in a habitat? Like, where they lived?” I am such a killjoy.)

Part of my delight here is doubtless because—prior to Hippie School—Monkey was not so much an outdoorsy kid. When you have a host of sensory issues and poor coordination, it turns out that the notion of just running around outside is maybe not so appealing. So we all watched with great delight, last year, as Monkey inched along in progressing from “It’s too hot/the bugs are bothering me/everyone is too loud/I hate this” all the way to “Can we go outside now? I have things to do.” It was an awesome transformation to witness on a philosophical level, but also on a physical one—he’s now stronger and more coordinated. (Take THAT, years of occupational therapy!)

Of course, none of us knew this would launch Monkey’s career in diplomacy. (more…)

I am a youngest child. I grew up forever feeling persecuted that my brother got to… stay up later/go places I wasn’t allowed/watch movies that were forbidden/fill in the blank with any other life-or-death-desirable activity in a kid’s mind. I never saw him with more responsibilities than I had—therefore earning those special privileges—though that, too, is probably a perception heavily shaped by its passage through tween/teen Not-Fair-Colored glasses.

Of course, there were also rules in our family that were shaped by “because he’s a boy” or “because you’re a girl.” Different time, different place. There are no such gender rules for my kids, but I am sensitive to the siren song of But He/She Doesn’t Have To (or Gets To) And That’s Not Fair, so I try REALLY REALLY HARD to explain any such apparent unfairness in a way that will make the complainant understand that maybe it’s not as awful as they think.

For all his rigidity, Monkey is actually a pretty easy sell on the “here’s why she gets to and you don’t” party train. He protests, I explain, he either backs down or sort of harumphs his way out of the conversation, saying that he SUPPOSES I know best. No, it’s Chickadee who is the frequent recipient of the Let Me Tell You With Very Many Words Why You Are Being A Spoiled Brat Right Now lecture. (more…)