On these recent summer nights, our household has been arranging itself as follows: Noel and I in the living room, watching TV, working, knitting, and/or reading; Cady Gray in Archer's room, watching Twitch, playing Steam, chatting with friends online, drawing, roleplaying; and Archer in the front room, keeping up with his various YouTube-based "camps." Every once in awhile Archer will pop up from the couch and go running into his room to tell CG something, or come into the living room to tell us something -- he's had a thought about how Ten Words of Wisdom is working out, or has just learned an amusing fact on Numberphile.
Last night he jumped up, hustled down the hallway, burst into his room and said "Hello!" Except CG wasn't in his room. She was in the living room with us, talking about Romeo And/Or Juliet. All three of us watched and listened, bemused, as he ran past and shouted "Hello!" to an empty room. Then we burst into laughter.
Archer came in and stood in the doorway, smiling uncontrollably. We were laughing at his mistake, at something he had done that turned out to be funny. But -- and here's the important thing -- he wasn't angry or frustrated with us, or even embarrassed about the mistake. He was enjoying the fact that we found it amusing, because he found it amusing too. He grinned and commented happily on the error, recognizing that his assumption had gone hilariously awry. He knew we weren't laughing at him, even though, y'know, we were laughing at what he did. He was having as much fun as we were.
I looked at that smile and thought how remarkable it was. For a boy who had to consciously practice being aware of how others saw him, putting himself in their shoes, and tailoring his actions accordingly, it represented how very far he's come.
And those YouTube camps he watches hours upon end? They're part of it. He emulates the YouTubers who play gamemaster to their subscribers, creating "object shows" where cartoon icons like Golf Ball and Cat Bed compete in Survivor-like competitions, earning points and being eliminated. These channels don't just entertain him passively; he learns from them (and from the feedback they incorporate into the ongoing game) how to manage interactions. His earliest efforts were based on popular marble-race videos made using the software physics engine Algodoo, combined with animated Wacky Races-style cartoons like Battle for Dream Island. But at the same time as his Keynote animation skills develop, so do his interactive instincts, all propelled by his simultaneous interests in designing a good game and keeping his subscribers happy.
Just look at what's going on in his most recent camp, Battle for Regal Planet (here's a video from 10 months ago, and here's one from last week after an Undertale-inspired design reboot). He's even started narrating his TWOW-homage Realm of Fifty Characters, just like his hero carykh. Listen to how smooth and expressive that narration is. He writes it all out, but it's full of dramatic twists. He's clearly aware of his listeners and pitches his presentation to their expectations, needs, and entertainment.
Years ago as we were trying to imagine our #robotboy's future, I hoped that computer interaction, with its throttled stream of cues and information, would allow him to make progress in socialization. Today I'm amazed at how that has happened, in realms I never could have foreseen.
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Shelfie
I woke up to an email from a student, asking for a list of ten or so books "that you have found essential in the formation of what we know as Donna." Having taken a few minutes to put together a briefly-annotated list, I thought I might as well share it here. Links are to the Goodreads page, so you can add whatever takes your fancy to your "to-read" shelf or click on through to buy from Amazon.
Paula Fredriksen, From Jesus to Christ -- a very readable account of the transformation of Jesus' message in the first few centuries of the common era, not just philosophically and religiously but also politically.
Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics -- an entire aesthetic and media theory in the guide of a comic book about how comic books work. Amazing.
Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms -- using records from the Inquisition, historian Ginzburg reconstructs the diversity of the intellectual enterprise from the side of both commoners and elites during the tumult of Reformation. A constant reminder that intellectual history isn't just the record of great thinkers, it's also the story of how ideas were received and transformed by the population, and how that transformation boomeranged back on the elites.
Erasmus, Enchiridion -- Erasmus is my favorite Reformation writer, and this is his great work on the life of faith. He's just such an amazing prose stylist, even in translation.
David Hume, The Natural History of Religion -- Hume demolishes the idea that religion began with pure revelation and has degraded to the conditions we see today, with wit and irony, in this brief little treatise. Essential to my understanding that every reality we encounter has an evolutionary history.
Elizabeth Moon, The Deed of Paksenarrion -- my favorite book, which I reread every couple of years, a fantasy trilogy about a soldier who becomes an instrument of the gods. You may find it very silly if fantasy isn't your thing, but it's undeniably the work of fiction that has most shaped me.
Shusako Endo, Silence -- For years Martin Scorsese has been trying to make a movie of this novel about Jesuit missionaries in 19th c. Japan. The most powerful portrayal I know of the sacrifice of Jesus.
Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, The Age of Homespun -- an examination of women's lives in colonial America through the objects they made. Reads like a detective story, uncovering something previously anonymous and subterranean.
Marilynne Robinson, Gilead -- A pastor reflects on life and faith and relationships as he nears his own death. Engages with all kinds of great thinkers, but never ceases to be an unfolding revelation of a novel.
Paul Collins, Not Even Wrong -- One of the great non-fiction writers tries to understand his autistic son by digging back into the prehistory of autism.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Trajectories
I walked to school today thinking about Archer's future.
He came home last night and told us that he'd gotten his scores on the ACT Explore test, a version of the college-entrance exam given to eighth graders. His composite was 23 out of 25. His math score was a perfect 25 out of 25.
Now, as a member of a collegiate admissions committee, I know that tests like this don't tell you nearly as much about a student's college readiness as the test companies would like to claim. But because admissions officers find it convenient to craft policies -- including scholarship policies -- that rely heavily on such tests as a shorthand for aptitude, the one thing you can say about a person who scores high is that he will receive lots of attention and lots of opportunities.
I thought about that on my two-mile walk to Cady Gray's school, then to mine. I talked about it with Cady Gray; she told me what her fifth-grade teachers were saying to their students about scholarships and college. Archer's college choices are likely to be shaped by his autism; he may not be able to leap into independence and go to school away from home. His sister won't have any such limits. I thought about the training, the challenges, the resources that will be available to students as capable and promising as they are. I walked onto my campus under a gorgeous blue sky, feeling like a wind was gathering under their wings, ready to lift them up. I imagined how they might soar.
Then I glanced at my phone while waiting for my chai latte, and saw the news of the three Muslim students killed at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.* Suddenly I was aware of the fragility of any student's promise. Hate and violence, motivated by whatever ideology makes you see difference as a threat, can strike anyone. It seems especially tragic and sad when it happens at a college, a place devoted to enlightenment, a place that draws people of all backgrounds and beliefs in a common quest for a better life, a more informed mind, skills that can build the future and solve problems. If we can't find a way to live without fear of difference there, then where?
Like all parents, I worry about the treacherous parts of college for my children: binge drinking, sexual assault, study and recreational drugs, depression, time and task management, interpersonal relationships, anonymity and isolation. I see students just as smart as my kids get derailed by one or more of these, year after year. One test, no matter how remarkable, won't inoculate them against those dangers. Even years of training and character-building are no guarantee -- for some of those pitfalls, you can do everything right and still wind up shattered and victimized. And then there's the rage, the prejudice, the deadly weapons, that sometimes strike out of a clear blue sky.
We can do better -- as college officials and administrators, as teachers, as citizens, as communicators, as neighbors -- to change the culture, to rescue those who stumble before they hit the ground, to talk back to hate loudly and consistently, to insist that the values of the education we provide -- complexity, diversity, rationality, empathy, free inquiry, solidarity -- escape the classroom and reach into every moment of our students' lives.
Only if we do better can my children, and yours, and the children of people all around us who look to the future in hope, climb on to that upward trajectory with confidence.
* Early reports don't indicate conclusively that the murderer was motivated by racial or religious hatred. I don't mean to draw that conclusion here about this particular crime, just to follow a train of thought sparked by the way I am routinely shocked by expressions of hate, division, intolerance, and violence in threat and actuality on my campus and others.
He came home last night and told us that he'd gotten his scores on the ACT Explore test, a version of the college-entrance exam given to eighth graders. His composite was 23 out of 25. His math score was a perfect 25 out of 25.
Now, as a member of a collegiate admissions committee, I know that tests like this don't tell you nearly as much about a student's college readiness as the test companies would like to claim. But because admissions officers find it convenient to craft policies -- including scholarship policies -- that rely heavily on such tests as a shorthand for aptitude, the one thing you can say about a person who scores high is that he will receive lots of attention and lots of opportunities.
I thought about that on my two-mile walk to Cady Gray's school, then to mine. I talked about it with Cady Gray; she told me what her fifth-grade teachers were saying to their students about scholarships and college. Archer's college choices are likely to be shaped by his autism; he may not be able to leap into independence and go to school away from home. His sister won't have any such limits. I thought about the training, the challenges, the resources that will be available to students as capable and promising as they are. I walked onto my campus under a gorgeous blue sky, feeling like a wind was gathering under their wings, ready to lift them up. I imagined how they might soar.
Then I glanced at my phone while waiting for my chai latte, and saw the news of the three Muslim students killed at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.* Suddenly I was aware of the fragility of any student's promise. Hate and violence, motivated by whatever ideology makes you see difference as a threat, can strike anyone. It seems especially tragic and sad when it happens at a college, a place devoted to enlightenment, a place that draws people of all backgrounds and beliefs in a common quest for a better life, a more informed mind, skills that can build the future and solve problems. If we can't find a way to live without fear of difference there, then where?
Like all parents, I worry about the treacherous parts of college for my children: binge drinking, sexual assault, study and recreational drugs, depression, time and task management, interpersonal relationships, anonymity and isolation. I see students just as smart as my kids get derailed by one or more of these, year after year. One test, no matter how remarkable, won't inoculate them against those dangers. Even years of training and character-building are no guarantee -- for some of those pitfalls, you can do everything right and still wind up shattered and victimized. And then there's the rage, the prejudice, the deadly weapons, that sometimes strike out of a clear blue sky.
We can do better -- as college officials and administrators, as teachers, as citizens, as communicators, as neighbors -- to change the culture, to rescue those who stumble before they hit the ground, to talk back to hate loudly and consistently, to insist that the values of the education we provide -- complexity, diversity, rationality, empathy, free inquiry, solidarity -- escape the classroom and reach into every moment of our students' lives.
Only if we do better can my children, and yours, and the children of people all around us who look to the future in hope, climb on to that upward trajectory with confidence.
* Early reports don't indicate conclusively that the murderer was motivated by racial or religious hatred. I don't mean to draw that conclusion here about this particular crime, just to follow a train of thought sparked by the way I am routinely shocked by expressions of hate, division, intolerance, and violence in threat and actuality on my campus and others.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Robotboy writing
Noel and I tag our tweets about Archer "#robotboy." It's an affectionate reference to his sometimes machine-like demeanor and behavior, as well as a shout-out to a favorite Guided by Voices song, "Gold Star for Robot Boy."
This past week, the kids went to Bearswrite, a writing camp at UCA. Cady Gray went last year, and this year the grade range was expanded to secondary school. We were thrilled that CG enticed her brother to attend with mention of the cool technology they use.
Over the next several entries, I'll share some of their writing from camp. Today, a couple of Archer's pieces -- one that surprised me with its reach toward some kind of life wisdom, and one that shows that although he's come so very far, he's still the same kid with the same autistic obsessions.
This first is a series of haikus -- the prompt, I gather, was to write in the voice of an older person giving advice. AA was most proud of the way he put the introduction (with its reference to "glows and grows," camp-speak for praise and suggestions), in the form of a haiku.
Advice from an Old Man
I made this myself.
Post glows and grows you may have
In the comments list.
I don't know if this is in response to a prompt. But it's so wonderfully typical.
Flash Fiction #1 :-)
This past week, the kids went to Bearswrite, a writing camp at UCA. Cady Gray went last year, and this year the grade range was expanded to secondary school. We were thrilled that CG enticed her brother to attend with mention of the cool technology they use.
Over the next several entries, I'll share some of their writing from camp. Today, a couple of Archer's pieces -- one that surprised me with its reach toward some kind of life wisdom, and one that shows that although he's come so very far, he's still the same kid with the same autistic obsessions.
This first is a series of haikus -- the prompt, I gather, was to write in the voice of an older person giving advice. AA was most proud of the way he put the introduction (with its reference to "glows and grows," camp-speak for praise and suggestions), in the form of a haiku.
Advice from an Old Man
I made this myself.
Post glows and grows you may have
In the comments list.
“I have seen long life,
The wisdom of existence
Can still be better.
The wisdom of existence
Can still be better.
“Humanity’s claim…
‘Everyone constantly learns.’
Now for what I think…
‘Everyone constantly learns.’
Now for what I think…
“‘Keep on improving.
Continue renovations.
Yearn for knowledge.’
Continue renovations.
Yearn for knowledge.’
“No-one is perfect,
But get as close as you can.
That is the spirit.
But get as close as you can.
That is the spirit.
“Some are silly, yet
Others are intelligent.
Humans are diverse.
Others are intelligent.
Humans are diverse.
“Settle with yourself.
Don’t yearn to be someone else.
Just be who you are.”
Don’t yearn to be someone else.
Just be who you are.”
I don't know if this is in response to a prompt. But it's so wonderfully typical.
Flash Fiction #1 :-)
I was just relaxing in my hotel room when I saw someone break in! The chase was on! We both proceeded to go in our cars. I had to catch the criminal before we reached his hideout, 4.7 miles from I-40 Exit 175A. We just passed Exit 148, so the chase was still far from over. He began to speed, suddenly and unexpectedly! The speed limit was 70 (65 for trucks), but he went 87 mph! I continued the chase anyway without calling the police, because I didn’t want to call while driving. 18.2 miles later, the criminal passed Exit 173—bad news for me, because I was still 0.4 miles behind him and he was only 6.7 miles away from his hideout. I sped up to 70 mph, right at the top of the speed limit! I was so close—only 315 feet away from him—when he got off on the wrong exit (Exit 175B)! I took the chance to get off on Exit 175A and travel the remaining 4.7 miles to his hideout. While he was still on the road, I called the police. They caught him for breaking in and speeding, so he had to pay a $9,999.99 fine and serve 3 months in jail. I finally returned to my hotel room afterward.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Dear lady at La Huerta
When we came into the restaurant, you were already there, a middle-aged woman in a booth across from two teenagers with their heads bent over a shared phone. We sat at a table nearby, not our usual spot, but the place was unusually crowded.
Archer was carrying on his usual lopsided conversation with his sister about videogames. I think he was talking about his plans for constructing a tournament in Mario Party 9 that we could all play together, with multiple boards over several days and a scoring system based on the ministars (or in the case of the Donkey Kong board, bananas) earned on each board.
Noel and I ordered and settled down to read the paper while Archer chattered away and Cady Gray gave the occasional response. Then you were suddenly standing by our table.
"I just wanted to tell you that your son reminds me so much of my son," you said. "My daughters noticed and were talking about it. My son is 21 and away at college."
"Just the way he's talking -- it's just like my boy," you said. I thought about mentioning the word "autism," but held back. There's no guarantee your son had a diagnosis. Maybe you just lived with his idiosyncrasies. Then you paused.
"Don't let anybody tell you ..." you said. Instantly we knew what you were trying to say. "Oh no, we would never," Noel said. "No, he's wonderful. We enjoy him so much," I said.
"Yes!" you exclaimed. "People don't understand how wonderful it can be." The waiter arrived with our food and you stepped back toward your booth. "Thank you so much," we said, and turned back to our meal.
When you left, as we were finishing up, you said "Take good care of that boy" and we all said thanks and goodbye. The waiter came to clear our table, and Noel asked for the check. "The lady at that table already paid," he said.
Lady at La Huerta, I wish I had asked about your son. One of the things we wonder about the most is what Archer might be like when he grows up. Your son must be doing well if he's away in college. I wish I knew more about him.
I know what it's like to recognize another autistic child in a public place. I sometimes want to say something, to empathize and make that connection, but I rarely do. It must have meant a lot to you, to do what you did. I wish I could tell you more about Archer, but maybe you saw everything you needed to see. You saw how his sister listens to him patiently. You saw how excited and articulate he is about what interests him. You saw how delighted he was to see something about March Madness on the TV, and to recite our March Madness motto: "Ten seconds is an eternity, dad."
Lady at La Huerta, you didn't look like you were noticeably wealthy. I'm sure $40 for our meal wasn't an insignificant expense for you. I apologize if I'm assuming too much, but I can't quite express all the ways your unprompted generosity touched me. The way you wanted to reach out, to show solidarity, to love your son by doing something nice for someone who reminded you of him -- it's so unexpected. And it seems to say everything about the experiences we probably share.
Conway is a small town. I'm sure we're not separated by six degrees; somebody I know knows somebody who knows you. Maybe this will make its way to you. I said "thank you" for your kind words when you passed by on your way out of the restaurant. If you see this, then I've got another chance: Thank you for much more, for your kind and generous actions. I hope that Archer grows up to be just like your son, and that I grow up to be just like you.
Archer was carrying on his usual lopsided conversation with his sister about videogames. I think he was talking about his plans for constructing a tournament in Mario Party 9 that we could all play together, with multiple boards over several days and a scoring system based on the ministars (or in the case of the Donkey Kong board, bananas) earned on each board.
Noel and I ordered and settled down to read the paper while Archer chattered away and Cady Gray gave the occasional response. Then you were suddenly standing by our table.
"I just wanted to tell you that your son reminds me so much of my son," you said. "My daughters noticed and were talking about it. My son is 21 and away at college."
"Just the way he's talking -- it's just like my boy," you said. I thought about mentioning the word "autism," but held back. There's no guarantee your son had a diagnosis. Maybe you just lived with his idiosyncrasies. Then you paused.
"Don't let anybody tell you ..." you said. Instantly we knew what you were trying to say. "Oh no, we would never," Noel said. "No, he's wonderful. We enjoy him so much," I said.
"Yes!" you exclaimed. "People don't understand how wonderful it can be." The waiter arrived with our food and you stepped back toward your booth. "Thank you so much," we said, and turned back to our meal.
When you left, as we were finishing up, you said "Take good care of that boy" and we all said thanks and goodbye. The waiter came to clear our table, and Noel asked for the check. "The lady at that table already paid," he said.
Lady at La Huerta, I wish I had asked about your son. One of the things we wonder about the most is what Archer might be like when he grows up. Your son must be doing well if he's away in college. I wish I knew more about him.
I know what it's like to recognize another autistic child in a public place. I sometimes want to say something, to empathize and make that connection, but I rarely do. It must have meant a lot to you, to do what you did. I wish I could tell you more about Archer, but maybe you saw everything you needed to see. You saw how his sister listens to him patiently. You saw how excited and articulate he is about what interests him. You saw how delighted he was to see something about March Madness on the TV, and to recite our March Madness motto: "Ten seconds is an eternity, dad."
Lady at La Huerta, you didn't look like you were noticeably wealthy. I'm sure $40 for our meal wasn't an insignificant expense for you. I apologize if I'm assuming too much, but I can't quite express all the ways your unprompted generosity touched me. The way you wanted to reach out, to show solidarity, to love your son by doing something nice for someone who reminded you of him -- it's so unexpected. And it seems to say everything about the experiences we probably share.
Conway is a small town. I'm sure we're not separated by six degrees; somebody I know knows somebody who knows you. Maybe this will make its way to you. I said "thank you" for your kind words when you passed by on your way out of the restaurant. If you see this, then I've got another chance: Thank you for much more, for your kind and generous actions. I hope that Archer grows up to be just like your son, and that I grow up to be just like you.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
One voice
Yesterday was our seventeenth wedding anniversary. I got Noel a new phone. He got me (in addition to some book that hasn't appeared yet, but hey, I'm not going to be the first to bring it up) a day alone with my daughter while he went along with Archer to the All-Region Choir tryouts.
I sang in choirs throughout my childhood. But I never competed for a spot in any of these mass choirs. My elementary school didn't have a choir or an orchestra, and my secondary school didn't participate in whatever organization oversees these things. So this whole world of honor choirs and orchestras and bands and cheer squads and who knows what all is completely new to me.
I do know the choir world well, though. I know the music and the rehearsals and the participants. And I was hopeful, when we chose Archer's electives for this seventh grade year, that he would get into it. He is fascinated by the technical side of music -- notation, theory, structure -- and he has perfect pitch. I didn't know if he'd like the process of learning, rehearsing, and performing. But his teacher (who also leads the music programs at our church) says that he's a classroom leader, grasping the music quickly and helping others to get it and stay on track.
Noel followed the school bus up to Clarksville on Saturday, and stayed with Archer while waiting for his group to be called and to make their way in stages back to the audition rooms. It was hard for us to imagine what Archer would do with the long, long of waiting. I'm still nervous about sending him off into unstructured situations, where there's no one around who can keep an eye on him. He almost certainly would handled it fine. Without some firsthand experience of the setup, though, there was no way for us to know that.
It's reportedly unusual for first-timers to make the grade in these auditions. When I asked Archer to rate his performance, he reported that he would give it a 98%. For the last couple of weeks, he's been telling us about the pieces they chose, what key they're in, how many vocal parts, their suggested tempo in beats per minute, the song structure. He seems positive about the whole experience. I wouldn't be at all disappointed if choir became one of his things, like it was always one of mine.
I sang in choirs throughout my childhood. But I never competed for a spot in any of these mass choirs. My elementary school didn't have a choir or an orchestra, and my secondary school didn't participate in whatever organization oversees these things. So this whole world of honor choirs and orchestras and bands and cheer squads and who knows what all is completely new to me.
I do know the choir world well, though. I know the music and the rehearsals and the participants. And I was hopeful, when we chose Archer's electives for this seventh grade year, that he would get into it. He is fascinated by the technical side of music -- notation, theory, structure -- and he has perfect pitch. I didn't know if he'd like the process of learning, rehearsing, and performing. But his teacher (who also leads the music programs at our church) says that he's a classroom leader, grasping the music quickly and helping others to get it and stay on track.
Noel followed the school bus up to Clarksville on Saturday, and stayed with Archer while waiting for his group to be called and to make their way in stages back to the audition rooms. It was hard for us to imagine what Archer would do with the long, long of waiting. I'm still nervous about sending him off into unstructured situations, where there's no one around who can keep an eye on him. He almost certainly would handled it fine. Without some firsthand experience of the setup, though, there was no way for us to know that.
It's reportedly unusual for first-timers to make the grade in these auditions. When I asked Archer to rate his performance, he reported that he would give it a 98%. For the last couple of weeks, he's been telling us about the pieces they chose, what key they're in, how many vocal parts, their suggested tempo in beats per minute, the song structure. He seems positive about the whole experience. I wouldn't be at all disappointed if choir became one of his things, like it was always one of mine.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Birdspotting
This morning after breakfast, Archer put on his coat and headed toward the front door to play outside. And by "play," I mean "wander around spinning, jumping, and talking to himself," which is what I think of as his "autism time" -- a decompressing or centering activity that allows him some relief from the effort it takes to maintain normal behavior the rest of the time.
He stopped before opening the storm door. Then he turned and came back inside. "Cady Gray," he called, "I think I see a bird in the front yard."
Cady Gray, avid birdwatcher that she is, came running. "I see it!" she exclaimed. "Look, mom!" I looked. It was a red-bellied woodpecker, a bird we occasionally see in our front yard, but always a very special visitor amongst our usual robins, jays, cardinals, mockingbirds, chickadees, wrens, and titmice.
My daughter, thrilled, thanked her brother for calling her attention to the bird. I echoed her appreciation. "When I saw that bird, I felt like I just had to report it to Cady Gray," he explained.
It always impresses me when Archer takes someone else into account. He does this with his sister all the time, but in most cases, it's when she is right in front of him and either expressing her own preferences or reminding him, by her presence, that she has them. In this case, though, he not only noticed something in his surroundings, but made the connection to his sister's interest in birds -- something he himself has never shown interest in. Then he translated that realization into action. He set aside his own agenda long enough to alert Cady Gray to something she wouldn't want to miss.
Such attention to what others might want doesn't come naturally to Archer. But when he's close enough to someone, like his sister, it becomes part of his process. I hear evidence of it when he talked about something a particular classmate likes or is good at. Slowly, slowly, his world is expanding.
He stopped before opening the storm door. Then he turned and came back inside. "Cady Gray," he called, "I think I see a bird in the front yard."
Cady Gray, avid birdwatcher that she is, came running. "I see it!" she exclaimed. "Look, mom!" I looked. It was a red-bellied woodpecker, a bird we occasionally see in our front yard, but always a very special visitor amongst our usual robins, jays, cardinals, mockingbirds, chickadees, wrens, and titmice.
My daughter, thrilled, thanked her brother for calling her attention to the bird. I echoed her appreciation. "When I saw that bird, I felt like I just had to report it to Cady Gray," he explained.
It always impresses me when Archer takes someone else into account. He does this with his sister all the time, but in most cases, it's when she is right in front of him and either expressing her own preferences or reminding him, by her presence, that she has them. In this case, though, he not only noticed something in his surroundings, but made the connection to his sister's interest in birds -- something he himself has never shown interest in. Then he translated that realization into action. He set aside his own agenda long enough to alert Cady Gray to something she wouldn't want to miss.
Such attention to what others might want doesn't come naturally to Archer. But when he's close enough to someone, like his sister, it becomes part of his process. I hear evidence of it when he talked about something a particular classmate likes or is good at. Slowly, slowly, his world is expanding.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Dazzling
When I got home this afternoon, a delighted Noel made Archer come tell me about an unexpected homework assignment. "I had to do something for my parents without being told to," he said. "So I cleaned my room without anybody asking."
Later that night I reminded him that he had a questionnaire about that assignment to fill out. He came back having written only one sentence under each of the three questions, even though there were several blank lines available. I had a little chat with him about how the space provided tells you something about the expectations, and made a deal that if he wrote enough to get down to the fifth line, he could play some more DS.
I loved what he wrote. He was a little apprehensive about the third answer, asking me "What if what I wrote just started being garbage that is off-topic?", but I thought he fulfilled my request cleverly and well. The first sentence of each answer, by the way, is the original response, before his elaboration.
"DAZZLE" YOUR PARENTS
Do something for your parents, grandparents, or someone you live with. Do something nice without being asked or told to do it (e.g. clean your room, or feed the dog without being told).
1. Write what you did to "DAZZLE."
I cleaned my room without being told. I sorted the books and instruction booklets. I did it with so much vigor, it was amazing! I could not have done it faster. It was clocked in at about 1 minute, 30 seconds.
2. Write what your parents, grandparents, or guardians did when they were "DAZZLED."
They were very proud of me! There was no special reward, but at least I got their respect. If I could rate it on a scale of 0 (worst quality ever) to 10 (best quality ever), I would rate it a 9.1.
3. Write how it made your feel to "DAZZLE."
I felt proud to myself. I got 100% of the credit. I got 100%, the entire thing, the whole enchilada, yada yada yada. Cady Gray (my 7-year-old sister) may have helped, but she decided not to.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Eleven years ago today
Eleven years ago yesterday, I had gone into first stage labor with our first child. It was exciting. Noel and I took a walk together, just like we had seen in all the childbirth videos and read about in advice books.
Eleven years ago today, right now, I was recovering from an emergency c-section. My son was put in my arms briefly after I got out of the recovery room.
So much of becoming a parent these days is trying to predict the unpredictable. We read books, we watch shows, we slurp up all the advice we can, and it's all in an effort to peer around the corner and see what's coming, so we can be prepared.
We weren't ready for what happened to Archer. He wouldn't nurse, and after his first-week checkup he was immediately hospitalized for failure to thrive. We were sick with worry. And for my part, I felt angry. I felt lied to. All the preparatory apparatus we had consumed that told us everything was almost always all right -- well, it wasn't.
Strangely enough, I didn't feel that way two and a half years later when Archer was diagnosed with autism. That news didn't come as a blow crumbling some ideal developmental expectation we had to dust. Instead, after the initial shock, it was a relief to have a framework to put around his idiosyncracies, to have some steps to take to help him integrate into a neurotypical world.
When I think back to those days of crippling uncertainty, I'm so grateful to Noel for the way he stood behind me. We had to make some tough decisions. Honey, you know what I'm talking about. You didn't hesitate. You supported me in responding the way I felt was right.
Now, years later, we look at each other on a regular basis and just shake our heads in wonder. How did we end up with these brilliant, delightful, surprising, and incandescent children? Archer makes us see the world differently. When he makes a special effort to join our world temporarily, we're so touched. His challenges are singular, but we learn along with him as he faces them. And there's nothing in the world like watching him trying to contain his happiness when it spills over his emotional reserve. His cheeks distort under the effort to control his smile, his spinning and wandering turn into an exuberant dance.
Happy birthday to my handsome, happy robotboy. Gold star for you.
Eleven years ago today, right now, I was recovering from an emergency c-section. My son was put in my arms briefly after I got out of the recovery room.
So much of becoming a parent these days is trying to predict the unpredictable. We read books, we watch shows, we slurp up all the advice we can, and it's all in an effort to peer around the corner and see what's coming, so we can be prepared.
We weren't ready for what happened to Archer. He wouldn't nurse, and after his first-week checkup he was immediately hospitalized for failure to thrive. We were sick with worry. And for my part, I felt angry. I felt lied to. All the preparatory apparatus we had consumed that told us everything was almost always all right -- well, it wasn't.
Strangely enough, I didn't feel that way two and a half years later when Archer was diagnosed with autism. That news didn't come as a blow crumbling some ideal developmental expectation we had to dust. Instead, after the initial shock, it was a relief to have a framework to put around his idiosyncracies, to have some steps to take to help him integrate into a neurotypical world.
When I think back to those days of crippling uncertainty, I'm so grateful to Noel for the way he stood behind me. We had to make some tough decisions. Honey, you know what I'm talking about. You didn't hesitate. You supported me in responding the way I felt was right.
Now, years later, we look at each other on a regular basis and just shake our heads in wonder. How did we end up with these brilliant, delightful, surprising, and incandescent children? Archer makes us see the world differently. When he makes a special effort to join our world temporarily, we're so touched. His challenges are singular, but we learn along with him as he faces them. And there's nothing in the world like watching him trying to contain his happiness when it spills over his emotional reserve. His cheeks distort under the effort to control his smile, his spinning and wandering turn into an exuberant dance.
Happy birthday to my handsome, happy robotboy. Gold star for you.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Two ends of the spectrum
Tomorrow Archer's school is going on a field trip to Wild River Country, a water park in Little Rock. Noel often goes with him on school outings, but this one is especially important. Archer's not a strong swimmer, is highly nervous and sensitive about getting splashed, and freaks out if his head goes underwater. Not only does he need help, but he needs to be protected from his peers who might goad him into dangerous situations or tease him for his lack of ability.
But our usual way of handling this -- send Noel with him for the day -- has been foiled by a couple of time-sensitive assignments. Noel has a phone interview mid-morning tomorrow, and is flying out to New York mid-afternoon. As a chaperone, he's out.
Last week when we were on our way to dinner in the car, Noel explained to Archer that he wouldn't be able to go, and we discussed the options. Archer absorbed the conversation. Then he explained to us how he felt, and he did it this way:
"There are two ends to the situation. If you don't let me go on the trip, I'll fall off the negative end. If I do get to go, I'll fall off the positive end."
That was a cryptic way to put it. My first reaction was to ask: Ends of what? "Happiness?" I guessed. Archer paused for a long time. "Maybe," he said. I hadn't quite gotten it right.
"Well, I can go with you, big man," I offered. That seemed to be the right answer. He relaxed and said "Okay," the way he does, with finality and agreement. When he says "Okay" with that inflection, it means: "That sets the world in a configuration that makes sense to me. I can work within the world that creates."
Thinking about the strange "two ends" analogy he had proffered, I finally came to an understanding of what he might have meant. I think he was saying that either outcome held dangers and anxieties for him. He wanted to go to the water park, but he didn't want to be there without one of us. In a way, unless we were there to catch him on the positive end, there was no way for him to avoid disaster.
So I'll be there. And as Archer grows and is expected by his schools and friends to be more independent, we'll have to listen carefully to find out where the ends of his spectrum are, and to make sure he feels confident he won't fall off either way.
But our usual way of handling this -- send Noel with him for the day -- has been foiled by a couple of time-sensitive assignments. Noel has a phone interview mid-morning tomorrow, and is flying out to New York mid-afternoon. As a chaperone, he's out.
Last week when we were on our way to dinner in the car, Noel explained to Archer that he wouldn't be able to go, and we discussed the options. Archer absorbed the conversation. Then he explained to us how he felt, and he did it this way:
"There are two ends to the situation. If you don't let me go on the trip, I'll fall off the negative end. If I do get to go, I'll fall off the positive end."
That was a cryptic way to put it. My first reaction was to ask: Ends of what? "Happiness?" I guessed. Archer paused for a long time. "Maybe," he said. I hadn't quite gotten it right.
"Well, I can go with you, big man," I offered. That seemed to be the right answer. He relaxed and said "Okay," the way he does, with finality and agreement. When he says "Okay" with that inflection, it means: "That sets the world in a configuration that makes sense to me. I can work within the world that creates."
Thinking about the strange "two ends" analogy he had proffered, I finally came to an understanding of what he might have meant. I think he was saying that either outcome held dangers and anxieties for him. He wanted to go to the water park, but he didn't want to be there without one of us. In a way, unless we were there to catch him on the positive end, there was no way for him to avoid disaster.
So I'll be there. And as Archer grows and is expected by his schools and friends to be more independent, we'll have to listen carefully to find out where the ends of his spectrum are, and to make sure he feels confident he won't fall off either way.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Passing the Grade 4 ACTAAP
Archer wrote a personal narrative in his fifth grade literacy class. He created an outline, did a rough draft, and then revised. For content, he needed an introduction paragraph, a beginning events paragraph, a middle events paragraph, an ending events paragraph, and a concluding paragraph; the narrative had to include character(s), setting, problem clearly stated, transition words, and solution clearly stated. The rubric for style scored him on an effective lead, specific nouns, hefty verbs, adjectives, adverbs, figurative language, descriptions appeal to the senses, dialogue, and an effective conclusion.
The following personal narrative earned full points. I think you can clearly see how Archer adapts his own obsessions, the things he's interested in (like video games -- "Spin Off" is a Wii Party game) and the filters of quantification through which he experiences them, into a more standard format of storytelling with many of the external trappings of emotion and narrative arc. It's also interesting that he's the only character, putting himself in conversation and conflict not with another person, but with a test booklet and himself.
Passing the Grade 4 ACTAAP
It was the day of the first section of the ACTAAP Benchmark Test, Grade 4. I felt like my most stressful day ever. "This will DEFINITELY be a challenging test," I thought sadly, gulping.
I was starting the Grade 4 Benchmark in Marguerite Vann Elementary on April 15, 2011, at 8:30 in the morning. First, I did a bunch of Math sections quickly, but then, there was the first writing prompt. It read, "Write about a toy that you had for a while." "What toy should I choose?" I thought, worried. After pondering that for a long time, I finally chose my mini-pinball table. I scored 19 out of 20 points.
Soon enough, I faced a 2nd writing prompt that read, "Imagine you went to a castle that appeared overnight." I already knew the idea. I told proudly to myself, "This is going to be the easiest prompt ever!" I used "Spin-Off" castle with Takumi, Tatsuaki, and Lucia as my other characters. I would do a Spin-Off Battle against them and see who could bank up the most medals. I scored only 18 out of 20 points.
Then the Benchmark ended. After 4 reading sections with topics easy to understand, there were no more Open-Responses to complete. I explained, "The rest of this test will be more like the Iowa test, which has no open-responses." To my surprise, I was finished as quick as a wink!
At the end of the Benchmark, I was all exclamatory! I was also proud of myself. Have you ever faced a difficult test?
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Pay attention
Noel made us some delicious sandwiches out of leftover delicious meatloaf for lunch. While we enjoyed them, we watched the National Geographic series Brain Games. The episode was about attention and inattention, and featured several games and illusions designed to show the viewer how focus, multitasking, and selective inattention work.
Afterwards, Archer disappeared into the front room and came back with his own versions of the demonstrations. "Mom, I want you to pay attention to the colors of the poker chips on the table," he declared. "Pay close attention!"
Then he put a poker chip on the table and ran out of the room. A second later he ran back in and put in another poker chip, and then did it again. At this point I began laughing uncontrollably, because the sight of him running in and out was so amusing and fast-paced, and also because I thought he was trying to simulate the "flicker" tests shown in the episodes -- stop-motion sequences where elements are changed while the viewer try to keep track of the changes. He kept on bringing the chips, one by one, eight, nine, ten, running in and out as fast as he could, while I howled with laughter. Directed to keep my attention on the chips, I couldn't help watching him trying to keep a straight face as he acted as the star and stagehand of his own illusion.
Several iterations in, I saw that he had something in his hand other than the poker chips, and idly I looked to see if it was still there when he came back. It wasn't. Noel, who was watching with amusement, said, "Is that one of their Pokemon DS styluses?" And that's when I understood which of the show's demonstrations he was trying to replicate -- the ones where because you are paying attention to something in particular, you miss an incongruous element like a person in a gorilla suit walking through the scene.
"Did you notice anything unusual, Mom?" Archer asked once he finally finished his shuttle run. "Were you carrying a pencil?" I asked. "It was a Tepig DS stylus," he said triumphantly. "That was a surprising thing to appear in the poker chip event. You weren't expecting it, so you might have missed it."
His recreation was so exuberant, so inventive, and so perfect as a handmade, spur-of-the-moment version of what he had seen that I was overcome with delight. Yet even better -- he grasped what the show was doing with its games for the viewer, what the point of them was, and tried to illustrate that, taking on the role of host narrating the action and director manipulating the audience. Best of all, he wanted to include all of us, and the funniest part of the activity was watching him make his "I'm trying not to smile because my role is completely serious" face as he dashed to the table and then back out of the room, time after time.
Afterwards, Archer disappeared into the front room and came back with his own versions of the demonstrations. "Mom, I want you to pay attention to the colors of the poker chips on the table," he declared. "Pay close attention!"
Then he put a poker chip on the table and ran out of the room. A second later he ran back in and put in another poker chip, and then did it again. At this point I began laughing uncontrollably, because the sight of him running in and out was so amusing and fast-paced, and also because I thought he was trying to simulate the "flicker" tests shown in the episodes -- stop-motion sequences where elements are changed while the viewer try to keep track of the changes. He kept on bringing the chips, one by one, eight, nine, ten, running in and out as fast as he could, while I howled with laughter. Directed to keep my attention on the chips, I couldn't help watching him trying to keep a straight face as he acted as the star and stagehand of his own illusion.
Several iterations in, I saw that he had something in his hand other than the poker chips, and idly I looked to see if it was still there when he came back. It wasn't. Noel, who was watching with amusement, said, "Is that one of their Pokemon DS styluses?" And that's when I understood which of the show's demonstrations he was trying to replicate -- the ones where because you are paying attention to something in particular, you miss an incongruous element like a person in a gorilla suit walking through the scene.
"Did you notice anything unusual, Mom?" Archer asked once he finally finished his shuttle run. "Were you carrying a pencil?" I asked. "It was a Tepig DS stylus," he said triumphantly. "That was a surprising thing to appear in the poker chip event. You weren't expecting it, so you might have missed it."
His recreation was so exuberant, so inventive, and so perfect as a handmade, spur-of-the-moment version of what he had seen that I was overcome with delight. Yet even better -- he grasped what the show was doing with its games for the viewer, what the point of them was, and tried to illustrate that, taking on the role of host narrating the action and director manipulating the audience. Best of all, he wanted to include all of us, and the funniest part of the activity was watching him make his "I'm trying not to smile because my role is completely serious" face as he dashed to the table and then back out of the room, time after time.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Books and bridges
Archer's GT teacher found the perfect book for him to bring home for his nightly independent reading. It's The Cardturner by the prolific Louis Sachar, best known for Holes but best-loved in Archer's room for Sideways Arithmetic from Wayside School.
The Cardturner is about a boy who plays bridge with his blind uncle and aims to compete in the national championships. The first detail about his day that Archer volunteered to me this afternoon was that Ms. Haynes gave him this book to bring home. The second detail was the book's basic premise. And the third details was that certain sections are marked with a whale.
Archer explained that the protagonist uses whales as markers because he once "zoned out" while reading a book whenever the author started giving facts about whales. (The book was Moby Dick, as I ascertained from Archer later.) So he decided to mark the passages in his book that are about how to play bridge with whales, so that readers who might zone out during those parts can easily skip them.
Naturally those parts are Archer's favorites, along with any description of a game. Just now he skipped into the room after doing his reading for the night laughing hysterically at a round of bidding by the protagonist's amateur friends -- the first bid is made out of order, and then the protagonist's partner responds to his bid of 1 heart with 6 spades. It's enough to make Archer helpless with amusement.
I'm always on the lookout for books that I think will jibe with Archer's game-focused, school-centric, and stat-obsessed worldview. It's great to be introduced to a new one, and to know that some of his teachers can identify texts to which he's likely to respond.
The Cardturner is about a boy who plays bridge with his blind uncle and aims to compete in the national championships. The first detail about his day that Archer volunteered to me this afternoon was that Ms. Haynes gave him this book to bring home. The second detail was the book's basic premise. And the third details was that certain sections are marked with a whale.
Archer explained that the protagonist uses whales as markers because he once "zoned out" while reading a book whenever the author started giving facts about whales. (The book was Moby Dick, as I ascertained from Archer later.) So he decided to mark the passages in his book that are about how to play bridge with whales, so that readers who might zone out during those parts can easily skip them.
Naturally those parts are Archer's favorites, along with any description of a game. Just now he skipped into the room after doing his reading for the night laughing hysterically at a round of bidding by the protagonist's amateur friends -- the first bid is made out of order, and then the protagonist's partner responds to his bid of 1 heart with 6 spades. It's enough to make Archer helpless with amusement.
I'm always on the lookout for books that I think will jibe with Archer's game-focused, school-centric, and stat-obsessed worldview. It's great to be introduced to a new one, and to know that some of his teachers can identify texts to which he's likely to respond.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Trumps
Archer has recently shown a keen interest in the game of bridge. He has read the basics in books about card games that he studies, and he frequently asks to see the bridge column in the daily paper. So for his birthday, I suggested to his grandparents that they get him a book on bridge.
When his schoolwork started coming home with bridge layouts and bidding sequences drawn on the back, I knew he was reading the book and absorbing some of the intricacies of the game. The grandparents' visit this week turns out to be a good chance for him to play for the first time, since there would be three other people around with some experience and knowledge.
I'm a rank amateur when it comes to bridge; I enjoy the game, but it frightens me because of the ever-present potential for letting someone else down. When we dealt out the first hands, with me partnering Archer at his suggestion, I wondered if we'd end up in situations I didn't understand or couldn't cope with.
Turns out we had three very interesting hands, with Archer acting as declarer twice (and therefore playing both his and my hands) and us defending once. I coached Archer through each hand with suggestions on what suit and rank to lead when, and reminders to keep count of the trumps. As he executed a perfect back-and-forth from his hand to the dummy in order to mesh high cards in both hands, I could see the light bulbs going off in his head and the excitement of the elegant pattern and rhythm in his demeanor. When he overtrumped a trick his grandparents were counting on, he was jumping out of his seat with the thrill. The hands he played were not slam dunks by any means, but we accumulated overtricks on both of them, and we set our opponents on the only hand where we played defense. I could tell that he felt most challenged when it wasn't clear how to lead when we were out of guaranteed tricks, but heck, that's when I'm most at sea, too.
I think he'll be good at the game, and really enjoy it as well. When the pattern is evident and the cards are flowing from one side of the table to the other, when you can see several moves ahead and your opponents' hands contain few surprises, it's highly satisfying. And when you can pull out some surprises of your own and find tricks where none seem to be hiding, it can be a thrill. Archer should be able to hold a lot of the detail that bidding and play reveal in his head as the hands unfold. If he can find some people to practice with, he might have found another gaming obsession.
When his schoolwork started coming home with bridge layouts and bidding sequences drawn on the back, I knew he was reading the book and absorbing some of the intricacies of the game. The grandparents' visit this week turns out to be a good chance for him to play for the first time, since there would be three other people around with some experience and knowledge.
I'm a rank amateur when it comes to bridge; I enjoy the game, but it frightens me because of the ever-present potential for letting someone else down. When we dealt out the first hands, with me partnering Archer at his suggestion, I wondered if we'd end up in situations I didn't understand or couldn't cope with.
Turns out we had three very interesting hands, with Archer acting as declarer twice (and therefore playing both his and my hands) and us defending once. I coached Archer through each hand with suggestions on what suit and rank to lead when, and reminders to keep count of the trumps. As he executed a perfect back-and-forth from his hand to the dummy in order to mesh high cards in both hands, I could see the light bulbs going off in his head and the excitement of the elegant pattern and rhythm in his demeanor. When he overtrumped a trick his grandparents were counting on, he was jumping out of his seat with the thrill. The hands he played were not slam dunks by any means, but we accumulated overtricks on both of them, and we set our opponents on the only hand where we played defense. I could tell that he felt most challenged when it wasn't clear how to lead when we were out of guaranteed tricks, but heck, that's when I'm most at sea, too.
I think he'll be good at the game, and really enjoy it as well. When the pattern is evident and the cards are flowing from one side of the table to the other, when you can see several moves ahead and your opponents' hands contain few surprises, it's highly satisfying. And when you can pull out some surprises of your own and find tricks where none seem to be hiding, it can be a thrill. Archer should be able to hold a lot of the detail that bidding and play reveal in his head as the hands unfold. If he can find some people to practice with, he might have found another gaming obsession.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Total fun
I have pictures to share from the birthday party, but I can't resist posting this amazing comic that Archer brought home from school today. Click to see a bigger version on Flickr.
This is his account of the trip we took to Magic Springs in July. Just look at all the detail he recollects and includes. In the first panel (after the title), we're traveling on highway 65, there's a sign that says "Magic Springs 17 mi," and Archer is saying "Are we there yet?" The top right panel shows us parking, with Archer shouting "Yay!!" and a sign noting that it costs $10 to park (true fact).
In the middle row, we see Archer floating in a Wave Pool and saying "Woot!" The depth markings for the wave pool are indicated on the lefthand side -- 2 through 6 ft. The line through the middle is 4 ft and has a sign: "Non Swimmers STAY OFF THIS LINE." In the second panel, Archer is entering a wonderland of tall grids with a machine asking for "PASSWORD 776_". "Coooool!!" he exclaims. This represents the rows of lockers where we stashed our stuff for the day, whose automated locking system and endless numbers were a source of obvious delight.
Moving on to the only carnival game we played, BALL TOSS wasn't a success. Archer is throwing at a pyramid of milk bottles but doesn't get them knocked down. "Aww!" he exclaims, and his sister kindly empathizes: "Sorry!" In the last panel of the middle row, Archer is riding "Pirate Run -- Moderate Thrill" in the middle car and yelling "EEEE!!!!" (He's numbered the cars since we had many discussions about the relative merits of front and back positions.)
That's the setup for the big climax of this comic: The Arkansas Twister, whose sign is portrayed in the bottom left panel. "Warning: High Thrill" and "MUST BE 48 in", the sign proclaims, and in addition to fancy lettering on the ride's name, there's a drawing of a tornado. In the next panel Archer is going down a big hill with a speedometer reading of 54 mph and shouting "Weee!" And to close out the story, we ride back home on Interstate 30, leaving the exit for Magic Springs behind, and hear a voice from the car exclaiming, "That was FUN!"
I have to agree with Archer's teacher that this comic is AWESOME.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Double digits
Archer turns ten years old today. What a journey he's taken us on during the last decade. We have learned so much from him and about him. It's no exaggeration to say that we would not be the same people, or the same parents, if Archer had not been our first-born. And I think we're better people and parents -- more compassionate, more patient, more excited by the wonder of our children and the possibilities for the future -- because of him.
For a boy who often doesn't seem to care whether he gets any affection or not, he has earned the love of so many people. The teachers and administrators at his previous school went out of their way to give him opportunities and encouragement. His sister adores him, and we're constantly surprised by what a celebrity he is among his peers.
I think all parents are just waiting for things to go south. We have been conditioned to believe that childhood is a golden age from which the fall is inevitable, and happens sometime around the time "teen" gets appended to their age. That may be; time will tell. But so far, Archer just gets more incredible.
Just now he popped into the room and volunteered, "I've got an idea for the party tomorrow. Maybe the guests could play Wii with us." We (who had already planned this, but hadn't told Archer about it) agreed with him that it was a wonderful idea. "OK!" he enthused, spinning and jumping as he does when really excited. And as he left to go back to his room, he paused halfway into the hall. "I'm glad you accepted my idea," he said.
When every instance of purposeful communication -- initiative, thinking about audience, expressing emotion, responding spontaneously -- is something special, you have the opportunity to be delighted by your child every day. That's life with Archer, and it's beyond our wildest dreams. Happy birthday, sweet boy.
For a boy who often doesn't seem to care whether he gets any affection or not, he has earned the love of so many people. The teachers and administrators at his previous school went out of their way to give him opportunities and encouragement. His sister adores him, and we're constantly surprised by what a celebrity he is among his peers.
I think all parents are just waiting for things to go south. We have been conditioned to believe that childhood is a golden age from which the fall is inevitable, and happens sometime around the time "teen" gets appended to their age. That may be; time will tell. But so far, Archer just gets more incredible.
Just now he popped into the room and volunteered, "I've got an idea for the party tomorrow. Maybe the guests could play Wii with us." We (who had already planned this, but hadn't told Archer about it) agreed with him that it was a wonderful idea. "OK!" he enthused, spinning and jumping as he does when really excited. And as he left to go back to his room, he paused halfway into the hall. "I'm glad you accepted my idea," he said.
When every instance of purposeful communication -- initiative, thinking about audience, expressing emotion, responding spontaneously -- is something special, you have the opportunity to be delighted by your child every day. That's life with Archer, and it's beyond our wildest dreams. Happy birthday, sweet boy.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Leaving childhood behind
A few weeks ago Archer had a scrape on his side that required a bandaid. It's not easy getting him to accept one; some early experiences where they hurt coming off have made him leery. But we got it on him.
After a bath a few days later, we asked whether he still had the bandaid on or whether it had come off. "I took it off," he informed us, and then immediately made sure we heard an important point of clarification. "Oh, and I have something to tell you," he said, using his standard conversation-starting formula. "You gave me a Spider-Man bandaid. I think I'm big enough to use regular bandaids now."
It was the first time I can remember him expressing awareness of growing out of some plaything or theme. Especially striking was the way he put it -- very much in the vein of "I'm too old for that baby stuff," just as any kid at a sufficiently advanced stage of development might say.
Archer will be in fifth grade this coming school year. Yesterday we had a long and fruitful conversation with the GT specialist at his new intermediate school. Afterward we felt much better that he would be able to adapt to the strange environment. It will take time, and there may be bumps. But some of his traits and tendencies will be helpful, like his obsession with schedules, frameworks, instructions, and step-by-step processes.
What remains to be seen is how he will adapt to the increasingly complex social world of the tweener years. Rare occurrences like Archer's sensitivity to appropriate bandaid designs make me think that he's finally begun to take some notice of distinctions that are key to these years' intense identity formation imperatives. I know he'll have a long way to go; my only hope is that other kids allow him the space to get there at his own pace.
After a bath a few days later, we asked whether he still had the bandaid on or whether it had come off. "I took it off," he informed us, and then immediately made sure we heard an important point of clarification. "Oh, and I have something to tell you," he said, using his standard conversation-starting formula. "You gave me a Spider-Man bandaid. I think I'm big enough to use regular bandaids now."
It was the first time I can remember him expressing awareness of growing out of some plaything or theme. Especially striking was the way he put it -- very much in the vein of "I'm too old for that baby stuff," just as any kid at a sufficiently advanced stage of development might say.
Archer will be in fifth grade this coming school year. Yesterday we had a long and fruitful conversation with the GT specialist at his new intermediate school. Afterward we felt much better that he would be able to adapt to the strange environment. It will take time, and there may be bumps. But some of his traits and tendencies will be helpful, like his obsession with schedules, frameworks, instructions, and step-by-step processes.
What remains to be seen is how he will adapt to the increasingly complex social world of the tweener years. Rare occurrences like Archer's sensitivity to appropriate bandaid designs make me think that he's finally begun to take some notice of distinctions that are key to these years' intense identity formation imperatives. I know he'll have a long way to go; my only hope is that other kids allow him the space to get there at his own pace.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
How heat turns into fire
Archer's SLUFY homebase class is "Burning Issues," which is about fire. (They've got kids pegged, don't they? Classes about ice cream and fire.) Today was the last regular day (tomorrow is closing ceremonies), and the kids brought some of their work home.
I read with great interest a folktale Archer wrote and decorated. They apparently read "How Coyote Stole Fire" and talked about how folktales are structured and what morals they are intended to teach. Then they wrote their own. Here's what Archer wrote (click pics to embiggen):
Once upon a time ...
There was a cactus and a jar that is 155 degrees F. The cactus said, "Ka-ZAAM!!!" and hoped the jar would turn to fire. But nothing happened. The cactus did a magic trick, pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Then it said, "Abbraaahhhh!!!!!"
BAM!!! It fell flat on its spikes! And still there was no fire.
An evil genie appeared and cooled the jar. He said, "Ha, Ha, HAAAA!!"
The cactus fired its spikes and killed the genie. Suddenly, a match appeared! It lit the matched, placed it on the jar, and there was the first Great Fire.
Moral: you don't need magic to accomplish something.
I read with great interest a folktale Archer wrote and decorated. They apparently read "How Coyote Stole Fire" and talked about how folktales are structured and what morals they are intended to teach. Then they wrote their own. Here's what Archer wrote (click pics to embiggen):
How Heat Came To Fire
A Written Folktale by Archer Murray
There was a cactus and a jar that is 155 degrees F. The cactus said, "Ka-ZAAM!!!" and hoped the jar would turn to fire. But nothing happened. The cactus did a magic trick, pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Then it said, "Abbraaahhhh!!!!!"
BAM!!! It fell flat on its spikes! And still there was no fire.
An evil genie appeared and cooled the jar. He said, "Ha, Ha, HAAAA!!"
The cactus fired its spikes and killed the genie. Suddenly, a match appeared! It lit the matched, placed it on the jar, and there was the first Great Fire.
Moral: you don't need magic to accomplish something.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Classic
Archer's never been a movie fan. Long narratives that require an understanding about why people are acting as they are and what they are feeling -- not exactly his thing. But we took him to see Cars 2 earlier this summer in the hopes that there would be enough racing to keep him from getting board while the rest of us enjoyed the story. And based on his enjoyment of the trailer for Disney's new Winnie the Pooh traditional-animation feature (which had a meta-textual element using the book pages and words), as well as the movie's short running time (69 minutes), we decided to go see it as a family, too, and hope that Archer could find something to engage him.
Did he ever. The animated book illustrations and playful interaction with the text tickled him pink. And during the rapid-fire verbal farce about whether Piglet could tie knots (Piglet: "I cannot"; Owl: "So you can knot"), he was in hysterics, confiding to me afterwards, "I was laughing so hard I almost threw up."
Of course Cady Gray loved it all, as did her parents; the movie has a handmade feel that combines the gentleness of the books, the classic imaginative touches of the original Disney Pooh featurettes, and a dash of contemporary zip. But every time some comic misunderstanding or bit of narration-related fourth-wall-breaking happened, I glanced at Archer and saw a huge grin on his face. With the right sense of humor and self-awareness about its formal qualities -- whether cinematic or literary -- a story can hook him, and keep him enthralled.
Did he ever. The animated book illustrations and playful interaction with the text tickled him pink. And during the rapid-fire verbal farce about whether Piglet could tie knots (Piglet: "I cannot"; Owl: "So you can knot"), he was in hysterics, confiding to me afterwards, "I was laughing so hard I almost threw up."
Of course Cady Gray loved it all, as did her parents; the movie has a handmade feel that combines the gentleness of the books, the classic imaginative touches of the original Disney Pooh featurettes, and a dash of contemporary zip. But every time some comic misunderstanding or bit of narration-related fourth-wall-breaking happened, I glanced at Archer and saw a huge grin on his face. With the right sense of humor and self-awareness about its formal qualities -- whether cinematic or literary -- a story can hook him, and keep him enthralled.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Security
July 31, 2009
I walked into Archer's room yesterday and found Cady Gray holding a battered blue Magna Doodle. "Remember this, Mom?" she asked, holding it up. "Archer used to take this everywhere."
He sure did. And not just because he liked it -- because he needed it. Not that long ago, the most frequent sound heard in Archer's presence was the zip-thunk of the eraser bar being pulled back and forth. Archer kept track of things on that Magna Doodle. We didn't always know what he was keeping track of, but he had to do it. He scrawled scoreboards and charts and announcements and informational signs and highway numbers and who knows what all on there. Scribble, scribble -- ten or fifteen seconds -- zip-thunk, erase and do it again. All day long.
Magna Doodles don't last forever. The eraser bar gets hard to pull. The magnetic particles inside lose their potency somehow. The screen gets gray and accumulates dead pixels. And sometimes a boy accidentally leaves it in a restaurant somewhere, or can't locate it in his room. Such occasions were dire emergencies at our house. Archer would break down in tears and beg us to make it right. We usually had a spare one stashed somewhere, either a new one or an old discarded one. In extreme cases, these would not do; only the current Magna Doodle was acceptable. When it was time to buy a new one, we had to prep Archer that it was coming and why it was necessary, and he was usually fine with it. An ad hoc substitution -- "here, we have this new one to replace the one you can't find!" -- often led to howls of rejection and an escalation of the emergency.
"This is how you erase it," Cady Gray continued, demonstrating the technique. "Archer doesn't use this anymore." "I guess he doesn't need it," I told her.
"Hey Archer," I asked, as he entered the room. "Remember when you used to carry this MagnaDoodle all the time? You don't do that anymore, do you?"
He paused for a moment in the midst of getting whatever he had come for. "Yeah, I don't need it. I can just keep track of the points in my head now."
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