December 2, 2014

Watch This Boy With Autism Get a Standing Ovation for His Festive Performance

The Mighty Staff Staff at The Mighty

This performance has us all excited for the holiday season.

Bobby, who has autism and is a student at the New England Center for Children (NECC), performed his favorite Christmas song, “When Christmas Comes to Town” from the movie “The Polar Express” in front of a big crowd at an event for the NECC, according to the YouTube video below.

The NECC is a school that focuses on autism-specific education, research and technology, according to its website. Their programs serve nearly 500 people on the spectrum between the ages of 18 months and 22 years.

Enjoy Bobby’s performance in the video below, especially when he finishes to a standing ovation:

Visit this DreamFund webpage to learn more about the NECC or donate to the cause.

h/t Autism Speaks

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December 2, 2014

When I Started Eating Lunch With My Classmate With Down Syndrome

Jaden Rhoderick Contributor
Down Syndrome 28K followers

Differences surround us. They can define us. They can hurt and separate, shape us and inspire us.

In fifth grade, the last thing most people want to be is different.

That’s when I met Caleb, as we were waiting for the bus to take us home. Caleb was obviously ready for the school day to be over; he kept saying, “Bus, bus, bus.” I was unsure what to think at first, but I knew, much like me, Caleb wanted the day to be done. But that seemed to be where our similarities stopped. He was unlike most of the other fifth graders I knew.

Caleb has Down syndrome.

He spent most of his time in a different classroom than the rest of the other students. He often sat in a different section of the cafeteria. He spoke differently; he acted differently.

But our differences didn’t scare me. In fact, our differences brought us together.

Around this time, I became involved in the Adaptive P.E. program at school. The program was voluntary and allowed me to work with my peers with special needs. I definitely wanted to be a part of it. Not only did I enjoy the program, but I learned more about Caleb.

Every day at lunch, I would sit with him. I thought this would be tough at first, because I was unsure how to interact because of our differences. But it was actually fun. After lunch, I would walk Caleb to P.E., and we would play together. We would bowl. We would dance. We would laugh.

And I began to look forward to spending time with him.

Others didn’t understand what was on Caleb’s plate, like I did. Others judged him. They looked at him with strange faces. They excluded him from activities.

One day, at recess, this all changed.

Caleb and I ventured outside to play soccer together. I assumed the game would only be the two of us. But much to my surprise, all of the other kids joined us. And this time, no one judged Caleb. No one made fun of him. No one left him out. It was Caleb’s soccer game, and I stood in amazement and happiness when I noticed the other kids give Caleb the ball and let him score.

Caleb has taught me that it’s OK to be different. He’s reminded me to treat others the way I want to be treated. I know, without a doubt, he is out in the world somewhere, teaching others this same lesson.

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December 2, 2014

My Son Did Something Naughty… and My Heart Swelled With Joy

Vera Vaughan Hough Contributor
Blindness 530 followers

I’ve been to many parent/teacher conferences. I have three typically-developing children — well-behaved, high achievers. In these later years of their schooling, I’ve received a lot of forms with “No conference necessary at this time” checked off. In the early years I went in to confer with teachers, who, to my surprise, never wanted to talk about the sheer wonderfulness of my darlings. There was always a problem. Most of the time the problem was talking in class.

“I’ve tried him in every seat in the room,” my oldest’s first grade teacher complained in her beautiful Irish brogue. “Finally I put him in the back and he talked to himself!”

It was the same with my two daughters. All I could do was say how sorry I was that they were disrupting the class, promise to talk to them, and do so. Then I waited for maturity and the passage of time to do the real work. I myself was often written up as the chatterbox, my name chalked on Mrs. Turtur’s blackboard circa 1976.

Now I have a son in kindergarten who doesn’t talk — or walk or see. When I go in for a conference (and it’s always necessary) I already know we won’t be discussing his sheer wonderfulness. The life and education of a special needs child is a continual problem-solving process, and I’ve become a de facto member of the Child Study Team.

Last year I went in to meet with T’s TVI (Teacher of the Visually Impaired). They’d been working on nesting and stacking cups. T uses an adaptive activity chair with a tray in these sessions, and Miss R. told me when he grows frustrated with the activity, T pushes the cups off of his tray with a sweeping arm motion.

“But Mrs. V. [my son’s aide] has gotten very good at catching the cups in mid-air and putting them right back,” Miss R. assured me. “So… lately he’s started throwing them backwards over his shoulder, instead.”

We looked at each other for a moment, and then I burst out laughing. Miss R. did too.

“I know… it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said. “So typical for his age, so creative…”

“So naughty,” I filled in.

It’s so hard for T to make himself known as a person in the world. At home we know him well, but it’s hard sometimes for us to understand what he wants and needs. He has only a few signs and sounds he uses to communicate. He relies on others to move him around and bring him things. We make so many decisions for T, and many of them are guesses.

I never expected that my heart would swell with joy when I heard my little boy was doing something naughty. I went around bragging about it for days. He’d given me the gift not just of rebelling against something, but finding a new and better way to rebel when thwarted. Sometimes, when I worry, I take that memory out and picture Miss R.’s impression of T tossing a cup over his shoulder with determination and aplomb.

Naughty — but also very nice.

The Mighty is celebrating the moments we gave or received a gift that touched our lives in a special way. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post describing this moment for you. Include a photo and 1-2 sentence bio to [email protected].
Hint! Some gifts don’t come in packages.

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November 21, 2014

The Holiday E-mail All Parents of Children With Special Needs Should Read

Melinda Brown Contributor • 1 follower
Autism Spectrum Disorder 123K followers

Ah, the holidays…

They always end up being so hectic and stressful. Add a child with autism in the mix and things become even more chaotic. I wrote to our therapist about my daughter, Lila, and Christmas. The truth is, the gifts mean nothing to Lila. She couldn’t care less. Know what she wants for Christmas? Her balloons and ping pong balls and for Mommy and Daddy to be at home playing with her.

We all have these preconceived ideas about the holidays and what they should look like. Baking cookies with our children, watching their eyes light up while we explain Santa and the reindeer to them, listening to Christmas music, decorating the tree together, having a picture taken with Santa, looking at Christmas lights, visiting family, all while our perfectly wrapped presents sit under the tree. And we don’t stress – we just enjoy the holiday season, right?

Is that really how it is for anyone? I have my doubts. You know… we’ve already re-arranged our entire lives for Lila and her autism, but for whatever reason, it never occurred to me we could flip the script on the holidays as well. Our SoonerStart therapist, Janet, sent me the following in an e-mail. I genuinely believe it’s something all parents of children with special needs should hear, so I wanted to share it with you:

There are so many social norms and expectations surrounding the holidays. It’s like there’s a big book of items that are stereotypical and everyone feels if they aren’t ticking off a certain number of them, they aren’t doing it right. So many holiday things are hard for people with ASD. Different foods/cooking smells, longer travel times to infrequently visited homes with unfamiliar people and a different schedule, things you can’t touch, sitting on Santa’s lap, opening gifts, more shopping trips, all the forced social interactions, I could go on and on…

This is a great opportunity to ditch all the “normal” expectations and start to develop BETTER, new, fun ways for you all to do the holiday thing. Free yourself from all that garbage and follow her lead. You can celebrate in an AUTHENTIC and true way to your family. Your special twist on things will mean so much more to her than ANY gift. It’s kind of exciting and freeing isn’t it – to get to rewrite the book and tick your own things off? You are going to have a much better time than a lot of “normal” families. Makes you almost feel sorry for them… 🙂

So, please take that advice and do as you wish with it. I hope it helps you and your families like it has helped me. Our holidays won’t ever be what typical families would consider normal, but maybe – just maybe — they will be even better. Happy Holidays and much love to all of you and your beautiful, different little families!

This post originally appeared on Dancing With Autism.

Melinda Brown

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November 12, 2014

I Would Have Made an Awesome Soccer Mom

Rebecca Masterson Contributor
Autism Spectrum Disorder 123K followers

I had a few hours of free time on Sunday, and because I lead a very sexy life, I used the time to clean out my pantry. It’s a little room off my kitchen that has, over the last six years since my son came home, transitioned from a cute, chandeliered office/pantry to an enter-at-your-own-risk-I-can’t-be-responsible-for-what-falls-on-your-head room. It was time.

Photos, party supplies, glue guns, three coffee makers, expired cupcake mix – I sorted and filed and moved and tossed. I was on the last shelf when I yanked down a big, big box marked “ice cream social.” Huh? Two things: one, why do I have a huge box marked “ice cream social”? And two, I don’t even remember being the person who had time to appropriately label stuff in my pantry.

I opened the box, and inside was everything you need for the coolest kid party ever. There was a shake maker, snow-cone machine, cotton candy spinner and a cake pop baker. Long-handled spoons, ice cream bowls and a bright table cloth with ice cream cones printed on it. At the bottom of this box — the cherry on this surprise sundae — was a lime green pedestal that held six small bowls for ice cream toppings. Sitting in the middle of the spinning pedestal was a ceramic cupcake with a removable lid for hot fudge or caramel or strawberry sauce. It was summer and Pinterest and laughing children in one clever serving piece. It was darling.

I wanted to throw the darling cupcake as hard as I could against the wall.

Instead, I sat down next to the box called “ice cream social” and cried.

I remember this stuff. I bid on it at a silent auction years ago, back when ice cream socials and impromptu play dates and birthday parties had starring roles in my parenting plan. Back before I knew that my son’s meltdowns were not a phase and back when I thought he played by himself because he was shy. Back before I had any idea that I would not be a soccer mom but a special needs mom.

What I have here is a box full of plans for a kid I don’t have. Some days, like today, it makes me sad.

I was crying for my son, but I’ll admit I was also crying for me. Instead of six different ice cream toppings always on hand for my son’s friends, I have an endless supply of pens for his therapists. Instead of being the house that everyone comes to, we are the people that are never home. Instead of bike rides, we have speech therapy; instead of swim parties, we go to OT.

Do I begrudge this? Not ever. But is this what I planned? No. Every once in a while, not very often, but every once in a while, I give myself permission to grieve for the life I don’t have, to think about the mom I don’t get to be.

I wrapped up the cupcake and put it back in the box. One day. Maybe. In the meantime, the sweetest boy in the world was on his way home. As moms go, I think I’m doing OK. Ice cream socials are fun, but my son needs a mom with a backbone, some fight and a strong voice. I’ve got that.

But just so you know, I would have made an awesome soccer mom.

Sincerely,
Becca

This post originally appeared on Sincerely, Becca.

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November 8, 2014

When My Daughter Graduates High School, This Is (Part of) the Speech I’ll Make

Sarah Porath Contributor • 1 follower
Dup 15q Syndrome 23 followers

When I was much younger, I used to practice my Oscar speech. You know the one: “I’d like to thank the Academy…”

These days I dream about a much different speech.

My husband and I often talk about how cool it would be to throw a party when our daughter graduates from high school. We’d invite every single therapist, teacher, aide, doctor, friend, relative and anyone else who has helped her (and us) along the way. Annabel has Dup15q syndrome, which often comes with a variety of developmental disabilities and challenges including autism, seizures, hypotonia as well as anxiety and sensory disorders.

She’s only in second grade, mind you, so we’re going to have to rent out a stadium. I’ve already started preparing my speech.

Here’s what I have so far:

Thank you to Annabel’s first therapist, who set the tone for all her future therapies. You had incredible energy and a no BS attitude that proved to us Annabel could be pushed through her stubborn streak.

Thank you to Annabel’s preschool teachers who greeted her with open arms and made school a far less scary place for Mom and Dad.

Thank you to my best friend who called me every single day for at least two weeks after we got Annabel’s diagnosis, just to check in and let me vent or cry or not talk about it at all.

Thank you to my brother for teaching Annabel the history of rock and roll.

Thank you to the girl from Annabel’s school I ran into last summer. You asked how Annabel was doing, and it melted my heart because Annabel just isn’t on most of her peers’ radars.

Thank you to Annabel’s principal who wears the best ties and lets Annabel carefully study them every day.

Thank you to our neurologist who confirmed what we knew — that Annabel is smart and more than capable of learning how to change her own behavior.

Thank you to every occupational, physical and speech therapist, who despite being kicked and slapped and bitten, sat in meetings and told us how much they adore our girl, how they love working with her and how much they’ve learned from her.

Thank you to every parent who has ever seen me struggling with Annabel when she’s having a hard day and given me a smile or a nod or an “I get it” look.

Thank you to our family for supporting us wholeheartedly and unconditionally.

Thank you to Annabel’s soccer buddy who told me in her sweet teenager way that she admired how much I love my girl. It made my night.

Thank you to Annabel’s one-on-one aide who, for the last four years, has guided Annabel through the ins-and-outs and ups-and-downs of school, who’s guided me through classroom dynamics and school politics, who’s loved Annabel like her own. We will be forever grateful to you.

Thank you to my husband, who kept his promise to me the night of Annabel’s diagnosis — that we were going to do something good with it.

Thank you to Annabel’s brothers, who have shown patience, compassion and understanding beyond their years.

Thank you to Annabel for teaching us how to be the strongest, most patient, most badass parents we can be.

There are and will be countless others, but this is a good start.

It will be an enormous party.

The Mighty is celebrating the people we don’t thank enough. If you’d like to participate, please submit a thank you note along with a photo and 1-2 sentence bio to [email protected].

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Sarah Porath