Get Out of My Face with Your "Quiet Hands"

In case you're out of the loop, we have two amazing kiddos staying with us through kinship care right now. That's right -- two bonus boys: Alpha, 8, and Bravo, 5 (almost 6).

Anyway, I had to take Bravo into the school today to meet with the school psychologist for some cognitive testing, as his IEP review is due before his birthday next month. I haven't worked with this psychologist before, and he seems like a nice enough guy, but I'm pretty sure he hates me now, because... you know... I can never seem to hold my firetrucking tongue when it comes to the treatment and education of the kiddos in my care.

So, I'm filling out the ABAS-3 (Adaptive Behavior Assessment System, Third Edition) while Mr. Psychologist gets out some puzzle pieces to begin testing. He's working in tandem with the SLP (Speech & Language Pathologist), and they're tag-teaming... Mr. Psychologist performs one part of his test, and then Ms. SLP performs one part of hers, and so on.

Everything is going fine -- I'm working on one side of the table on the ABAS, Mr. Psychologist, Bravo, and Ms. SLP are working on the other side. Mr. Psychologist has killed the fan in the room because the noise is distracting to me, and it's all good, until I hear it: Bravo, "quiet hands," please.

They were in the middle of testing, and Mr. Psychologist had asked me not to intervene with the testing process, so I lifted my head, gave the psych a look (he was too engrossed in the testing to notice), and went back to the ABAS.

When he finished the test portion, I butted in before Ms. SLP could begin her portion.

"Is this a stopping point?" I asked.

"Sort of," he said.

"May I speak, frankly?" I asked.

"Errrr... of course..." he ventured.

"Okay. So, we're a house full of neurodiversity and neurodivergence. We don't subscribe to ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy, its tactics, its goals, or its dictionary. We don't use phrases like, 'quiet hands.' We believe physical stimming is healthy and productive, and we don't force children to refrain from it, hide it, or minimize it."

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, and Mr. Psychologist cleared his throat. "I understand that. That's great. I actually didn't even know that 'quiet hands' was an ABA thing."

Like, this guy wanted me to believe that he pursued an education in psychology -- presumably, with an emphasis on child development, at some point? -- to the point of receiving a degree, but had NEVER HEARD THE PHRASE "QUIET HANDS," IN THE CONTEXT OF ABA? I gave him the benefit of the doubt, in any event.

"Gentle redirection to return focus to the task at hand is fine," I said, "but I don't endorse attempts to restrict physical stims."

I let it go at that, but I wanted to scream, "BUT IT SERVES THE SAME PURPOSE, DOESN'T IT?! Does it even MATTER where you heard it, when what you want the child to do is stop his physical stimming?!""

Let me explain.

Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) is compliance-based "therapy" popular with parents of autistic children, which includes goals such as "reducing inappropriate behavior," "increasing socially acceptable behaviors," and "increasing appropriate and effective communication." Its primary goal? To "fix" autistic children, "correcting" their behaviors, so they appear more neurotypical ("less autistic"), drawing less attention to themselves and their caregivers, so those caregivers and society at large can feel more comfortable around them.

If you're not grasping why ABA is harmful to autistics, try reading "Quiet Hands," by Julia Bascom.

Is that too artsy for you? Try this one from Amy Sequenzia, of the Autistic Women's Network.

Want to see what this compliance-based indoctrination looks like as it carries into adulthood? Read this post from Neurodivergent K.

Anyway, so I was trying to explain to Mr. Wright that the new school psychologist hates me, now, and I started telling him the story, and when I got to the part about hearing "quiet hands," he fell out of his chair, laughing.

Not because he thinks ABA is funny, but because he's been in IEP meetings with me, before.

He said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh, hell... QUIET HANDS? Did you lose your ever loving shit? Were you standing on your toes? Were you doing that? I can just see you, standing on your toes! You do that, you know!"

Well, no. I was sitting down, actually. Mostly, anyway. I may have been slightly out of my seat. Reaching across the table. With my hands ready to snap the guy's neck.

But mostly, I was sitting. Technically. Pretty much, anyway.

Mr. Wright asked what I hoped to gain from the exchange, and suggested that I simply wanted the guy to acknowledge that I am right about this issue. I thought about it, and replied, "No. I want people to earnestly consider the weight and implications of the ideals they hold dear, and I want them to come to the conclusion on their own that what they've learned or been taught may be wrong. I want them to realize they've got it all wrong, when it comes to the autistic community."

"In other words," he said, chuckling, "you want to be right?"

Well, yes. And, also, no.

See, I didn't come to enlightenment by nature. Nooooooo... I actually thought the "professionals" who were overseeing medical care for my children had all the knowledge, and I didn't really question their advice, until I hit a roadblock. ABA was one of many therapies suggested for Curlytop when she was diagnosed, and it wasn't available in our area for her. At first, I was devastated. Like, I didn't have the benefit of any type of interventions when I was growing up, so I wanted to make sure she had EVERYTHING that could possibly help her to succeed, so I went on a wild crusade to find an ABA provider, and did a ton of research to help find one.

It was that research that led to my enlightenment. I talked to actual autistics who had been subjected to ABA therapies as children, and learned that some of them had PTSD as a result of their experiences.

I thought about my own experiences, and my own struggles, and how difficult extended eye contact was -- and is -- for me, and how I always got poor grades in speech class because I couldn't look at my audience, and how I deal with that now (by simply saying to people, "Eye contact is really difficult for me. Please don't think I'm not listening to you if I'm not looking at you. I can actually listen better by NOT looking at you."), and how I'm actually existing pretty successfully in the world. I realized that if Curlytop doesn't get forced to initiate eye contact she doesn't feel comfortable with, it's going to be okay. She will be okay. She'll be better than okay... she'll feel safe, and comfortable, and accepted.

I thought about how I was always getting in trouble for having "fidgets" in class (my old-school favorite fidget was a retractable ballpoint pen with a button on top which I would click until my Spanish teacher took it away and gave me detention), and how we've come a long way in recognizing that fidget objects can be healthy devices which can help people concentrate.

I thought about how my fourth grade teacher called me out in front of the whole class for scrunching my nose like a rabbit, repeatedly, while I was silently reading, and how humiliated I was, and I was proud that my daughter felt safe enough to engage in her verbal "squawking" during times of stress and excitement, because we've never shamed her or tried to restrict it. It's just a really sweet, cute part of who she is.

And, just like that, ABA therapy was off the table for us, and for our children. We'd rather spend our time helping others to understand, accept, and embrace neurodiversity than spend it trying to mask the neurology and personalities of our children, who are amazing and perfect, as they are.

So, it's not so much that I want to be right about ABA as it is that I want others to consider that they may have it all wrong, when it comes to educating and serving autistic children. What if there's a better way? What if -- rather than trying to force them to be "less autistic" -- the best way to help them is to educate everyone else around them about neurodiversity? What if promoting autism ACCEPTANCE is superior to downplaying autism "SYMPTOMS/BEHAVIORS?"

Anywayyyyyyyyyy... I have to go back at 11am with Bravo tomorrow.

What do you want to bet that Mr. Psychologist will be all too keenly and freshly aware of my own personal hand-stimming (specifically, "clicking" my fingernails by placing my thumbnail under one fingernail, then pushing up and down, creating a satisfying series of  "clicks" as the nails pass over one another)?

Say "quiet hands" to me ONE firetrucking TIME... I dare you.



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Get the "F" Outta Here!

That's right... You know what word I'm talking about.

It's that four-letter word that makes you feel dirty; makes you feel like running and hiding, lest anyone see how uncomfortable it makes you. C'mon, now, spell it with me...

F - E - A - R!

Confession: I am terrified to read in public. I mean, part of the reason I write is so I don't have to talk to people. Don't get me wrong - I love people. I like to think I'm as much a "people person" as the next guy, and with Mr. Wright being "the next guy," I try to be a tough act to follow. That is, when I'm not actually doing an "act."

If you know me in real life, you know I'll talk your ear off. You know how tough it is to have a conversation with me, because I just won't. stop. talking. Maybe you've seen my theatrical efforts, watched me onstage playing a spinster (Crimes of the Heart), a courtesan (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum), or an ad executive (Twelve Angry Jurors; an adaptation of Twelve Angry Men). Maybe you've witnessed the spectacle that is my belly dancing effort (if so, my most sincere apologies).

The thing is, none of those compare to reading my work in public. I can have a one-on-one conversation with someone, even if it's more of my "one" than my companion's. I can put on a costume and become someone else. I can even comically shake my money maker with minimal humiliation, but doing literary readings makes my lunch wanna get up and dance... right up my esophagus and out my mouth.

It's just so... personal. Baring my soul to (what I hope will be) crowds of strangers adoring fans is a little -- well, soul-baring.

Do you have any tips on how to overcome stage fright? Or a secret fear of your own?

Let's get the "F" out of our lives, together!

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nettsu/4583111188/

Ugly American: The Gonzo Mama in Japan

A light dusting of snow covered us as we made the five-minute walk from Tokyo Station to our hotel. At the entrance, I stooped down to put something in the small trash bin near the door. The debris fell out of my hand and I crouched low, picking it up. I didn’t crouch alone.

The doorman was down there with me, helping me stand and intent on relieving me of my luggage. “Really, I can stand on my own,” I wanted to protest, but he was so earnest I let him help me up.

As we approached the front desk, a uniformed woman made her way into our path, bowing and offering us each a clean, dry washcloth. At the front desk, I whispered to Mr. Wright, “What do we do with the washcloth?” He shrugged. The front desk guy spoke English well enough to get us checked in, so I went for broke.

“Can you help me?” I asked. He nodded vigorously in response. “What should I be doing with this washcloth? I mean, should I be wiping off my wet shoes, or drying my face, or what?” Apparently, his English training didn’t include answering basic etiquette questions from ignorant Americans, because he smiled and nodded some more.

I discovered what to use the washcloths for fifteen minutes later when Mr. Wright made my dinner in our room’s electric teapot and it boiled over, spewing boiling water and piping hot rice stick all over the top of the dresser.

My first public restroom experience left me feeling like a dirty, ugly American. The toilet was confusing enough, with its buttons: one for bodily function-masking sound to play while the user does her business; one for a “powerful deodorizer;” and two (two!) for bidet functions. “Would you like a rear or frontal water attack?” it asked.

I’d learned my lesson about playing with the loo buttons back in our hotel room, when Mr. Wright pressed the “front wash” button, “just to see what would happen,” and got a face full of water. Unbelievable – thousands of miles away from the toddlers and I still had to shout, “Stop playing with the toilet!” Anyway, I resisted the urge to punch the button for a powerful deodorizer, since I wasn’t sure exactly what odorous target it may be seeking.

Placing my hands under the faucet, I was pleased to be at a simple sink – no confusing buttons; just a simple pump for soap. I pumped twice, and the liquid that covered my hands was thin and watery, unlike the thick, shiny handsoap we use at home. I rubbed my hands together vigorously before rinsing under the running water, taking notice of the sign that said, “Prevent disease by washing hands and gargling.” Gargling? Sure enough, the ladies to either side of me were gargling with gusto.

Feeling a bit awkward about being the only gal unsanitary enough to leave the restroom before gargling, I placed my hands in the high-powered air dryer, and then exited. Mr. Wright was waiting for me near the doorway. I showed him my hands. “I think I just washed my hands with mouthwash,” I said.

He took both of my hands and pulled them to his face, inhaling deeply. “Ah… minty fresh!”

People carry mouthwash cups with them into restrooms. They also carry tissues, since some public washrooms don’t have toilet paper. I saw one man heading into the men’s room in Tokyo Station with a pair of chopsticks.

I don’t even want to know what he used them for.

We read that it is extremely rude to gesture with one’s chopsticks. We were told the same by our travel advisors. Somehow, in the confusion of engaging in conversation while consuming enough food to feed a third world country, Mr. Wright and I consistently forget that advice. We’re animated talkers, my husband and me, and it’s just so hard to break habits that are ingrained into every fiber of our being.

Our saving grace is the very nature of the people of Japan. They are patient and kind. They dismiss our faux pas like we dismiss our toddlers’ inappropriate exclamations and less-than-perfect table manners.

This week, I consider myself a daughter of Japan. Like my uncouth daughters, I ask question after question about customs, food preparation, traditions… the equivalent of a small child’s “Why? Why? Why? WHY, Mommy?”

The only difference is: I’m taking notes.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toddmecklem/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jpellgen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Table for One, Please...

Remember when I urged all of you mamas to break into spontaneous conversation about parenthood with any fellow mama you might bump into?

I did that today. With Mr. Wright out of town and the kidlings safely deposited in institutions of glorious education, I slipped into a new-ish Pan Asian restaurant for lunch. Alone.

I actually rather enjoy dining alone, once I get past the hostess who, invariably, says, "Just one?" I often answer - in song, "Not JUST one... I'm ONE! SINGULAR SENSATION! Every little move I make!" It tends to be an embarrassing spectacle for everyone involved, except, of course, me.

Anyway, the staff at the restaurant actually had to pull a larger table apart to make a small table for lonely little me. About five minutes after I was seated, a waiter approached and said, "I'm bringing you some neighbors. You don't mind?" I was so engrossed in my book, I barely noticed as he pulled the adjacent table a little further away, putting a bit more distance between my table and its separated twin.

Guess who sat down? Two ladies! Two MAMA-ladies! They asked what I was having, and ordered the same thing. We talked about kids' sports, about adoption, about mama stuff. We all finished at about the same time, and I was pleasantly surprised when one of the mamas wrote down her name and email address, and asked me to keep in touch. She said, "Isn't it great when you go in for lunch, and come out with a new friend?"

Amen, Sister.

Thank you, Pan-Asian-Lunch-Place-Mamas... You made my day!


Have you met someone who made you smile recently? Tell me about it!

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/damaradeaella/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

I Can't Take Her Anywhere: Guest Post by Mr. Wright

What's it like, living with a troublemaker like The Gonzo Mama? Why not ask my guest blogger, Mr. Wright?

I can’t take her anywhere.

If there is one thing I can say about The Gonzo Mama, it is that I cannot take her anywhere, at least without her causing a scene of epic proportions.

I know you all will find it hard to believe that the mommy blogger extraordinaire with something to say about everything in her writing is the alter ego for a mommy extraordinaire who says something about everything in real life.

Now, I am not saying that going out in public with The Gonzo Mama is going to mean getting into a fight with her, or because of her. I am saying that it is always exciting.

To put it in perspective, she has actually only incited one riot resulting in physical violence, and me having fight off not one, not two, but three douche bags over her calling to their attention that their drunken slurring of a British slang term for a cigarette was inappropriate and offensive.

A strike for political correctness and sexual orientation sensitivity, and a strike that left my eye swelled like a blueberry on Major League steroids.

Now, I am not talking about making a comment to creepy lurker dudes, or telling off drunks in a club who place an errant hand on her backside. Those are not even in the same league or sport.

The typical norm is much more along the lines of brutally honest critical opinions that, by comparison, make Simon Cowell look like a patronizing butt smoocher.

I must admit, many people must find it helpful to have their grammar corrected in public.

And who would not want to know that the root beer they are drinking has most likely been filtered through fish guts?

Even the finest chefs could not object to the constructive criticism of having their work compared to hamster vomit.

I would find playing an extra in an off-Broadway production of Brokeback Mountain preferable to having to relive Gonzo Mama’s frequent inquires about other people’s fashion choices.

I will share one time, lobbying at the capitol, we passed a lady exercising her right to free speech by standing silent, holding a sign promote valuing the sanctity of life for unborn children. Not a shock sign, showing pictures of a disfigured fetus, but a tasteful picture of a baby. A rather large gentleman was badgering her and pelting her with obscenities. As we walked by he yelled a derogatory comment about the Bible. The Gonzo Mama interjected, “Well, I believe in the Bible.” His response was quick. “If you believe in the Bible, then you are a firetrucking idiot!” (Please see other writing of The Gonzo Mama for the back story on “firetrucking.”)

At that point, I instructed The Gonzo Mama to keep walking. I drew this outspoken individual close, looked him in the eye and in a low voice calmly discussed his options with him. He looked at me. I assured him, “I am serious as a heart attack.” He quietly chose the option of turning and walking away, as opposed to having his guts stomped in by a kilted tassel loafer worn by a man in a rather smart three button suit.

On our most recent trip, we found ourselves in a convention tradeshow and at a booth offering free CFL light bulbs (the twisty kind). They were promoting helping the environment. The Gonzo Mama pointed out these twisty buggers contained mercury that ends up in landfills and anywhere these things are broken. They are, in fact, much worse for the environment than traditional incandescent bulbs. Not withstanding they make some contribution to the environment, in that they lead to less power consumption of electricity generated by use of coal of fossil fuels.

The Gonzo Mama powers her abode with power that is CO2-free, from renewable hydroelectric power, so even that is not an issue. Twisty bad, old-school good. As I faded into a side conversation with another attendee, the Gonzo Mama entered into an increasingly heated discussion with the sales representative, moving to the topic of veganism. When the rep offered, “Well, in college I tried being a vegetarian for awhile, but it was just a phase,” The Gonzo Mama’s reply was, “Well, in college many girls are lesbian for awhile.” I took my cue and ushered The Gonzo Mama hurriedly away with the promise of a venti soy chai.

[The Gonzo Mama MUST interject here. The woman was saying, "But you haven't always been vegan, right? I mean, people don't RAISE THEIR KIDS LIKE THAT, do they?" I was responding, "Sure, some people do, and CPS even lets them keep their kids, sometimes..." when she busted out with the "it's just a phase" thing. What was I SUPPOSED to say?]

Life is meant to be lived to the fullest. One thing that I can count on is I can’t take her anywhere, and expect it to be boring.

Divine Secrets of the Ma-Ma Sisterhood

Motherhood does something strange to the female psyche. Somehow, the journey into the empowering and bewildering mother world produces a physiological need to share stories.

Even before giving birth to my son, I saw the warning signs. I watched mothers speak of their children’s day-to-day activities as if their progeny were the first to ever crawl, kick a ball, utter monosyllabic nonsense or “make a stinky.” Ridiculous!

“I, for one, will never carry on that way,” I vowed. Naturally, I had to eat those words mere hours after Pockets was born. I can’t explain it. There is a biological need to share stories of birth, child-rearing and mothering with other mothers.

Perhaps it’s a type of congenital disease that courses through every human female, waiting for the commencement of motherhood to flare up. Like me, most don’t even know they are carriers until they find themselves discussing a single messy diaper at length with complete strangers.

The phenomenon is not limited to biological mothers. Adoptive moms, too, experience the compulsion to share their stories about every aspect of their parenting journeys. Given the opportunity, we will share every intricate detail about how long our adoptions took, the necessary but frustrating navigations of “the system,” what our fears are about raising children whose medical histories we may not know, and what led us to chose adoption. When we’re done, we’ll tell you about our child’s first tooth, first day of school, and how amazing our child is.

Whether bragging about our kids or commiserating about the trials of parenting, mommies needn’t look further than the busy mom next door or the woman bouncing a toddler on her hip at the bus stop. I’ve struck up conversations about potty training, naps, teething, schooling and teenagers with women on the subway in Washington, D.C., on airplanes and in public restrooms.

Of course, it is widely known that I have no shame.

Nonetheless, I find mothers are largely receptive to unsolicited conversations about parenting. I’ve only been threatened with one restraining order in my 15 years of verbally violating strangers’ personal spaces.

Believe it or not, motherhood can be lonely. Some mothers feel they are unique in their fears or struggles or worry that they “aren’t doing it right.” The compulsion to connect with other moms and share our stories is an important one, and it shouldn’t be ignored. Sharing exposes us to different points of view on the very issues we are dealing with and reminds us that we aren’t so alone – other moms have lived through difficult situations, worried about their children and made mistakes in parenting.

Just last week, I felt like a candidate for Worst Mother Ever when I hit the drive-thru at Taco Bell to buy cheese roll-ups for my two toddlers before dropping them off at daycare at 9:30 a.m. I called it “brunch.”

I was feeling guilty and said as much on my Facebook and Twitter updates. I received a flood of messages from other moms in response, assuring me that I hadn’t even made the playoffs for the title of Worst Mother Ever and sharing their own less-than-glamorous parenting moments. One mom told me that she’s often running late in the morning and takes her son through Jack in the Box for deep-fried chicken strips, then parks down the street from the school until he finishes them, so other parents don’t see what he’s eating for “breakfast.” Another admitted that she fed her daughter and the daughter’s friend cake with extra frosting when she realized there was nothing suitable for lunch in the pantry. “Think the other mom will mind?” she asked.

Don’t be shy, my mama-sisters! When you see a mom struggling to keep her brood in line at the grocery store, regale her with your story about how your baby cried nonstop on a six-hour flight. She’ll appreciate it.

Welcome to the sisterhood!

Photo by paida70