Dear Abby: I'm Afraid My Child Will Kill Me

IMPORTANT NOTE: I do not believe autism (nor any neurological condition) correlates with violence or crime of any sort. Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg eloquently covered this implausibility back in July: Despicable: Joe Scarborough's Words on Autism and Mass Murder. Here's your takeaway: "There has never been any evidence what-so-fucking-ever that autism is associated with criminal violence." 

The stories posted here are absolutely true, but I altered some potentially identifying details  - including my own - for obvious reasons. 

I know this kid with the sweetest smile. He's gentle, friendly and mostly a "mama's boy."

Like many of us, he really hates being left out. Unfortunately, since he has a number of neurological challenges, this happens to him more frequently and overtly than other kids his age (let's say 9). So when he wants to play with a peer, but the peer avoids or ignores him...well, this little angel lashes out. Just last week, a play date ended abruptly when his peer had to proceed to the ER to have a telling, Frankenstein-ian gash stitched up. (This from a kid who can't even throw a ball to First.)

The mortified mom of the perpetrator - really, a lovely woman - relayed this story to me in tears, horrified and embarrassed. Remarkably, the victim's parent, a mutual friend, could not be more gracious and understanding, but the mom certainly isn't holding her breath for an invitation to the family's annual Halloween party. 

Since this wasn't the first incident, we've had this talk before. She's conscientious and smart, and already has been down the path of behavioral interventions and medications targeting mood, ADHD and impulsiveness. So the conversation moved to the next level.

Was he sorry?

"Well, he was crying, and said: 'I'm sorry, Mommy.'"

So you think that he regrets hurting his friend?

"I made him apologize, and write a card to the kid. I know he's sorry he broke a rule and is being punished. But, honestly, I'm really not sure if he actually feels bad about hurting the kid."

I started to compare this to my own son's aggressive behaviors. Similarly, they emerge only when he is "provoked" - like when he is over- or under-stimulated to begin with, and then misunderstood or denied something he really wants.

This other child (sort of) premeditated his move - targeting his prey. In contrast, my son lashes out at whomever or whatever is in reach. So while he might hit me or pull my hair, he also might instead overturn a table full of paint or even bite his own arm. Once the incident passes, he seems genuinely upset and confused about what happened.

Now another child I know appears to deliberately choose to lash out sometimes, because, theoretically, she "enjoys" the attention. (Probably that's better described as the sequence of events she initiated. Behavioral consultants have taught me that the best response is to not reward a child with any reaction, but YOU try that when a child has just tackled you with an uppercut.)

Still, I believe both of these children understand the human consequence of their actions. Sure, impulse control, sensory needs and all sort of other factors are in play here, but they are aware and concerned - at least after the fact - that someone has been hurt.

However, when we speculate if my friend's kid - the gasher - feels similar regret...I'm not so sure. Though I wonder, does it even matter if they regret the action or not if they can't control it in the heat of the moment?

Either way, we have some semi-violent kids on hand, and the honest truth is that it scares the hell out of us. I don't see them carrying out elaborate, premeditated murder plots, but - as they grow older and stronger - are they capable of losing control and knocking us in the head with a candlestick from Colonel Mustard's library? I don't doubt it for a second.

I've heard some shocking, first-hand stories of older kids - when in full meltdown mode - destroying TVs, breaking windows, and throwing rocks at people. The behaviors, while horrifying, always seem to have an "understandable" explanation and trigger (relevant to that child's condition and situation).

Consider TV's brilliant, serial killer character, Dexter, who claims to have a moral code guiding his murderous behaviors. Our children are different. Their behaviors are more rooted in "fight or flight" impulses; somehow, much less controlled. Still, my experience is with kids under 10. What happens when they turn into teenagers?

The truth is, I'm terrified. These children have loving families, wonderful teachers and therapists, and well-monitored medications and interventions. Like other children, they snuggle with us at night and bombard us with butterfly kisses.

Still, during that millisecond when my son's pupils narrow, and he giggles or bellows maniacally, morphing into a violent, little stranger, I feel helpless sorrow; perhaps some shame; but most shocking of all, the unsettling realization that my own child could kill me one day.

I've already forgiven him.

The A Word

Over two years ago, I wrote something I never let anyone see. I was embarrassed that I felt that way and hurting in a way none of my friends with "typical" kids could understand. I'm not proud of how I felt, but I FELT it. And I was ashamed of feeling that way. I am proud, however, that I don't feel that way any more, but I would like to think that hearing how I felt back then might make someone else feel less ashamed and more understood now. And I also like to think that hearing I feel differently now might give them hope.

I called it The "A" Word

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There's this word. It might mean everything. Mostly it means nothing.

It's like the "just not right" of our generation of parents. Which is obviously a dumb phrase that's pretty much useless.

You think to yourself, that dreaded word doesn't mean OUR stuff -- I mean, we've got some stuff going on, don't get me wrong -- but that word isn't for OUR STUFF. Then you can't find any other words to describe your own specific bag of issues, problems, sensitivities, activity choices. So you try the word on for size.

The word feels like crap. AUTISM. It's a really lousy word.

However, it would seem it's the only word some of us get. There are some other labels that get you some of the way there: "on the spectrum," sensory processing, sensory integration, ADHD, shy. Gosh, those other labels sure feel a lot less itchy and ill-fitting. They work for a lot of other people and I sure hoped they would work for us.

Unfortunately, as the process (of survival, of diagnosis, of picking words and phrases to call things) continues, these words lack the oomph and the ability to convey the depth of the, ah...., the....um, situation.

There's this word: Autism. Sometimes I have to use it. But that doesn't mean I don't still hold back tears.

Uncertainty

This morning as I dropped my kids off at school I went into the classroom of J, my child with autism, to try to figure out the mystery of yesterday’s “missing” homework packet. His teacher was in the process of writing the daily schedule on the white board, and as I tried to find the homework in my limited time, J was completely transfixed by the process of the schedule being produced.

I looked in his desk, nothing. I looked in some folders there, nothing. I tried to get his attention to ask him. “J. Where did you put your homework? J. Look at me. Where is your homework?”

I know I’m not supposed to say “look at me,” and when the words came out of my mouth I immediately felt regret, but I needed his attention and that gave it to me, for about a nanosecond. He didn’t know where his homework was. I gave up the search. We walked over to his teacher to report the bad news (I had been emailing with his teacher about it yesterday so he was prepared for this) and his teacher asks him, too: “J. Where is yesterday’s homework?” J responds with “We have library on Wednesdays.”

At that moment J cared about nothing except the daily schedule. We were pushing him too much, I knew that. He needed time to absorb the schedule before he could focus on his homework, but the bell was about to ring and we didn’t have the time. We all stood there, and other kids stood there watching, as J managed to say “I don’t know where it is.” And that was the end of the discussion.

I left the room and, walking to my car, I encountered my other child, J’s brother, who is younger and NT. He was in a group of boys playing with some paper airplane and they were running and chasing it and laughing. He didn’t even notice me.

I walked away with a heavy heart. J is an amazing kid, and despite all the progress he’s made over the years, he is very much autistic. He will always be very much autistic. He will always be different, he will always be unusual, he will always stand out, in some way. As much as I try to prepare him for the world I know that I won’t be able to do that completely. He will inevitably face heartache and heart break and whatever other kind of pain the world is waiting with.

I want to grab him up and run home with him so I can keep him safe from what’s out there, just like when he was a baby. I want to put my arms around him and keep everybody else out; keep them from hurting him. I want him to be happy, and the uncertainty of it all sometimes is too much for me to handle. Am I doing enough for him? Am I doing the right things? I don’t know; I have no way of knowing. I can only hope that he will be able to make his way and that I will have given him enough tools to be equipped for the task.

I feel physical pain in my chest just writing these words. I don’t even care where his homework is.