No Description Necessary

Ingrid is two, and she is acting like it. (See earlier post regarding her temper.) Oh, I believe mother and daughter are going to have it out at times in her growing up period.

Some of my favorite things

1. Sharpees
2. Post it notes
3. Bloody mary mix
4. Coffee
5. books
6. text messages
7. felt tipped markers
8. Uniball pens
9. music
10. eyeglasses

Sensory Needs, 4-09

I have been teaching my seventh grade students propaganda techniques. We focus on advertisements and commercials in 7th grade, and this week, while watching real and student-created commercials, I did my own public service propaganda campaign. It started off with, "Guys, April is Autism Awareness Month, and I want to talk to you about this because in the last 3 years I have learned a lot more about autism. My son, Jack, (pass around picture of Jack) has autism..." This was the first time I have shared this information with my students because until now it has been too raw. One of the unspoken rules of teaching is to never cry in front of your students. Before now I know I would have cried, but now I know this whole autism thing is what it is, and, honestly, the Busby Family is better because of it.

I told my students that Jack sometimes does things that are weird, especially since he looks like a normal kid, and that probably people who see us out sometimes wonder why we don't beat him more often. (The students smiled but did not laugh.) I tell them that Jack is different and learning to do things that might come naturally to them, like use language and make eye contact. I told them that Jack has helped me become a better teacher because I realize that all of them have worked hard to come this far, and that every single student I have has many people who think he or she is wonderful (and I am included in that number). One of my students asked me how I felt when I found out Jack had autism. I told him that I cried because most parents expect to have a typical child and it was hard to hear he would not be typical. I also mentioned that as a middle school teacher, I knew that students could be cruel, and I didn't want Jack to be bullied. (My students solemnly nodded.)

Jack processes things differently from neurotypicals. He flicks, flaps, says, "Ta Dadda Dadada!" when he is excited. He grinds his teeth and pops his jaw. He needs constant deep pressure, movement, input to his system. Joe and I work to help him discover things that he can do that help him learn, focus, and fit in. I just hope as he is working to fit into the neurotypical world, the neurotypicals will widen their sensory acceptance a little bit.

Ingrid's First Egg Hunt

While Jack was having ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) this afternoon, Ingrid and I drove over to a neighborhood church for their egg hunt. Ingrid liked the basket (it was very much like a purse), but really saw no need to hunt eggs when a playground was much more appealing. The eggs were more like multi-colored obstacles to her end goal--the slide and swings.

One boy helped her, after forceful prodding from his mom, and he threw a couple of eggs in her basket. She sat down and looked at them, but really, the playground was calling to her. I got one picture before she dove onto the closest step. In the second picture the basket handle, hooked onto the bottom of her cast, hangs precariously as she deftly snakes her way to that first step. I love that wild, wild girl.

"What's Your Favorite Color?"

As a freshman at Ole Miss, I would walk past the back of the music building almost every morning. In the back of the music building, there was a daycare for professors' tiny children. Most of the time during this hour, the tiny children would be zooming around on their little tricycles in the parking lot and playing on their gated-in play equipment. One day a little kid was standing at the fence yelling in a sing-song chant, "What's your favorite color? What's your favorite color?" to all of the passing college kids. I could hear a lot of sweet answers of "Pink" or "Yellow. What's your favorite color?", etc. And then there was the guy in front of me on the sidewalk that snapped, "Black." It was very funny, but no one laughed.

My favorite color is brown. My bridesmaids, the best group of women ever, wore chocolate brown dresses, and looked fabulous. I think brown is such a calming color, so warm and rich. I love it. Before brown was my favorite color these were my favorites:

1st grade (first time I remember answering that question): aqua
5th grade: red
7th grade: purple
8th grade: gray
college: brown

One of the things we must work with Jack on is answering questions like what is your favorite color, food,... We have some time since I do know favorites change.

Glass Bones

I had a lovely childhood. I am an only child and grew up in a home with a mom and a dad who loved me very much. I had Friday afternoon parties once a week with my mom, my dad and I would go out for Saturday morning breakfast or play basketball in the backyard. I had a charmed childhood filled with stories read aloud, homemade cookies, and sit down dinners with minimal amounts of television. Life was good, and I hope one day my children will be able to look back on their growing-up years with as much happiness.

All that said so that I might be allowed to tell my favorite Monroe family story. My mom cringes when I tell this story, and now she shames me into keeping quiet, but I think it is fantastic and want the world to know. Where my mom sees danger and stupidity, I see frugality, a spirit of adventure and friends (yes, my parents are my friends) finding humor in something we knew, even then, was ridiculous.

And this is the story, my FAVORITE story, of my childhood

My mom made an amazing casserole. It was spicy and rich, meaty, with noodles and crunchy water chestnuts--really delicious. She didn't make it often because it was an all day event to prepare the casserole for baking. But when she did make it, Dad and I would think about it all day at our places of work and school, and we couldn't wait to get home. Dinner would begin early and end late--all three of us stuffing ourselves silly.

Well, the day began like any other Best Casserole Day. Dad and I walked out of the house drooling, very much looking forward to the dinner of the day. Mom got to cooking. Apparently, the recipe calls for the cook to put some of the heated ingredients to the side until one can mix all of the ingredients together before baking. Mom was at that step--putting the heated ingredients to the side when something bad happened. She used a glass bowl to hold her heated ingredients. Well, apparently, these ingredients were mighty hot and the bowl was not, so the bowl shattered. Meat, noodles, glass shards all over the counters and wood floor. And I ask you, What Would You Do? I remind you that this was the Best Casserole Evah.

So, Mom did the only thing she could do. She picked up the meat and noodles, picked out as much of the glass as she could see and continued baking.

Skip on to dinner. Now, Mom explained what happened to Dad and me. She was a little concerned about eating it at this point. We weren't. Are you kidding me? Please. We've eaten a whole catfish before. It would be just like that. And it was. We dug right in--slowly this time--very slowly, actually. Especially after we discovered some crazy long glass shards, but it was such a fun meal. We laughed the entire time, and the casserole was just as good. We felt just like a Saturday Night Live sketch.

We didn't finish the casserole that night since it was a serving for 12, but we did finish it eventually. No one died. No food was wasted. We appreciated every bite of that casserole. And I have never had a better meal.

One Box at a Time

I started this in graduate school. I was such an awful grad student--namely the fact that I didn't have enough self confidence to say anything in class discussions. I would sit there thinking of what I would like to say but would only dumbly nod and smile. I would follow a couple of my professors out of the room telling them what I would have said had someone not jumped in right before I was planning on FINALLY saying something or maybe I would email my comments to the teacher even later. I am such a dork.

Looking back, class meetings should have been pleasant, but for me, they were always a difficult three hours. In the beginning of each class I would draw three blocks. After the first hour I could color in the first block. The second block I would split in half and allow myself the pleasure of coloring in two blocks--one every half hour. I would split the last block into twelve even sections. Every five minutes = another tiny, tiny square to pattern in--I brought no box of Crayolas.

So, since then I see unpleasant times as merely blocks to pattern. The time goes by faster, rhythmically, and the memory of it is a little more elegant, orderly and artistic. Like a fixator on Ingrid's leg--