Sunday, August 21, 2011

My son has found his voice…sort of

by Preston
(original post on July 29, 2011)

As I have heard from other parents on children on the Spectrum, my son is ADDICTED to video games and quite often cleans everyone’s clock when playing them. I do regularly get to beat him at some regular sports games on the Wii (Frisbee golf, bowling, etc.), but when it comes to standard games that the kids play, I’ve got less of a chance of winning than a snowball in Arizona has of lasting in August.

About a month ago, Stephen decided that he wanted a new stuffed animal. Specifically, a Yoshi from the Super Mario Brothers games. So, we had him save his allowance, and in an effort to save money, we found it on the mother of all shopping sites, eBay. Got a great price with free shipping…from China.

About 3 weeks after Yoshi was ordered, he showed up in the mail in a yellowish-brown envelope thing with markings on it like when I go to eat Chinese. Stephen had been checking the mail daily for us. Apparently, Stephen was sensing the arrival and wanted to make sure that Yoshi made it to the house safely.

It’s been a few weeks since Yoshi has moved in. He became an immediate favorite of Stephen’s, and accompanies Stephen everywhere he goes. I mean EVERYWHERE!!!

The funny thing is Yoshi can speak. He tells us what Stephen needs or wants. He has conversations with us on behalf of Stephen. He talks a lot more than Stephen does, and Stephen is a happier child with this anthropomorphic stuffed animal. And for reasons unknown to Lisa or me, we have started using Yoshi as an intermediary when we need Stephen to do something. Asking Stephen to do something directly usually ended is some sort of disaster, but when Yoshi is asked to “ask” Stephen to do something, Yoshi happily obeys and takes Stephen along to do whatever task is asked. Now, the quality of the work may be questionable, but at least the attempt has been made.

Is this a stage in Stephen’s development that he will outgrow? Is the using Stephen’s stuffed toy as a means of communication a help or hindrance? Will he wind up taking the toy to school and having to leave it in his backpack during the day? These are questions I don’t know, but one thing is for sure; Lisa and I are enjoying the fact that Stephen has found his voice, even though the little green booger looking stuffed toy is the one with the weird accent.

My Child is Autistic, But I'm the One With the Problem

by Preston
(original post on July 14, 2011)

Well, we almost had a meltdown last night. It was a long, frustrating day at the office, filled with calls from folks that think I know how to do their jobs better than they do. It’s probably true. Then, as soon as I get home, I have to run our older son to the church for a youth activity. By the time I’m almost home, I decide that I’m too tired to cook, so I call Lisa and get her opinion on which favorite fine dining establishment I should pick up dinner from. Hardee’s was the choice.

I get home with two burgers for Lisa and me. We share a large fry and get water or drinks from the fridge. Stephen gets his usual from Hardee’s, the children’s chicken finger meal. Surprisingly, he eats 2 ½ large chicken fingers and barely touches his fries. I then remember that he had occupational therapy during the day. On days he has OT, he usually eats better.

After clearing the table, and allowing Lisa to go to the back of the house to continue recuperating from her shoulder surgery, I invite Stephen to play Wii Frisbee Golf with me, since it’s not his day to have time on the Wii. He decides to watch homemade Mario Brothers videos from YouTube on the iPod touch. However, he was watching me as well, and laughed several times when I would mess up. Truth be told, I messed up some just to get him to laugh.

After my game, I went to the back for a few minutes to chill with Lisa and Sebastian the German Shepherd (a.k.a. Bubs, Bubby, Big Bubby, C-Bass, the German Shetland Pony). I somehow convinced Lisa to pick up Phillip from the church. While she is gone, I enjoy a little time with the dog while watching a little TV.

After Lisa gets home, things start going downhill. I don’t understand why, but bedtime is always the worst time at the Lane house. As much as Autistic children seem to like a firm schedule, bedtime is an exercise in how much time each child can find new and unusual ways to make a 9:15 bedtime stretch to 9:45 or later.  Last night was no different. Stephen started complaining that he had a tummy ache and wanted to sleep on the couch in the living room.

Lisa offered a compromise of allowing Stephen to sleep on the couch if he could brush his teeth by himself, with one of us washing his dental appliance. During this time, we somehow got Phillip in the bed while printing out a thank you letter and burning a DVD of pics and videos to send someone who sent the kids some gifts a few weeks ago.  Stephen kept stalling, trying to get us to practically carry him to the bathroom and do everything for him. When he didn’t get his way, he started his “whiney voice” that I honestly can’t understand. I mean, I don’t know what he is saying…it’s almost like another language. Someone Lisa and Phillip can understand him when he does this. Maybe I need my hearing checked.

As this dragged on, and we tried to get things done, he started complaining about the size of his bedroom and how it’s just too small for him. This is the same room that I spent nearly $2,000 and countless hours on last fall gutting, insulating, putting in new framing, electrical, sheetrock, doors and moulding, etc. Lisa and her dad did the painting, because I’m not to be trusted with a paint brush (go figure?!). Needless to say, I was getting peeved.

Out of frustration, I committed the major faux pas of telling Stephen to either do what he was asked to do or go to bed. At that point, he started crying while lying on the living room floor, with Lisa fussing at me telling me that I am undoing what was done during OT. So, I shut my mouth and let Lisa do her thing. She gets him calmed down enough to explain about how there is nothing we can do to make his room bigger, that my feelings were hurt because of how much time and money was spent on the room, yadda, yadda, yadda. He does eventually go to sleep on the couch. Although I probably should have tried to comfort him, I was afraid to say or do anything. I didn’t want to start things going downhill again, so I just kept quiet and allowed him to go to sleep.

This morning, as soon as I hopped in the shower, Stephen climbed into the bed and had snuggle time with Lisa and his dog. He was as happy as he could be. I was running late, so I didn’t get to say much to him. Hopefully I will get some fun time with him tonight. Maybe I should take him to Chick-fil-A or a Mexican place for just dad/son time. Heck, maybe just playing Mario Brothers on the Wii with him would be good. I could let him win…not that it would be that hard. He’s great at video games.

I work on computers for a living. Like a computer, quite often I think in a binary fashion. 1’s and 0’s, on and off, yes and no, black and white.  When stuff like last night happens, I have to think differently. I have to fight the instinct that a lot of fathers have. Sometimes I just want to yell the title of the new “children’s” book called “Go the F*** to sleep.” I have to remember that my son needs me to put aside the instincts. It doesn’t matter that I’m tired and/or had a bad day. In his mind, his day is what is important. He doesn’t function when he’s getting fussed at. All he knows is that when he’s getting fussed at, the whole world is bad and against him.

His perception of the world is different from most folks. I know it’s different than mine. I sometimes worry about his future. I wonder if I’m the right father for him. Was there something we did wrong when Lisa was pregnant with him that caused him to be Autistic? Heck, even the thought “why can’t he be normal” has crossed my mind. I guess these are all questions and doubts that parents of children on the spectrum have.

I need to learn how to meet his needs on his level. Every day, I try to be better. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail. Sometimes I get good advice and guidance from others, and sometimes what I get from others doesn’t work. I try to make mental notes of all this. It’s hard, especially when I’m tired or had a long day, or both. Ultimately, it is up to me to learn his "language" and what he needs. If I don't do this, then I have failed him.

All I know is this: My child is Autistic, but I’m the one with the problem.

The metrification of America OR Preston’s experience in attempting to repair the hard shifting of a transmission in a 2005 Dodge

by Preston
(original post on November 1, 2010)

In July I noticed that my truck was behaving a little strangely. The transmission didn’t seem as peppy as usual. Since I was overdue for my 60,000 mile maintenance, I chalked it up to the fluid needing flushing. After towing a Trans Am from the other side of Warner Robins, GA, I decided to have the truck serviced at a Firestone close to where I worked. After having a talk with the district manager over some work I ordered that didn’t get performed, I got the bill straightened out and have been driving the truck ever since.

A little over a week ago, we traded She Who Must Be Obeyed’s (SWMBO) 99 Odyssey for a 2007 Odyssey. Power sliding doors, heated leather seats, factory DVD for the rear. The ultimate soccer mom vehicle that is acceptable for even the Marlboro man to drive (only when he has to go the drug store to pick up feminine essentials, but I digress). We wanted something a little newer, safer and nicer for SWMBO and the progeny of the paterfamilias of the Lane household.

As typical luck would have it, right after obligating the family to a car payment for a vehicle that the used price is higher than most decent new cars were 10 years ago, I noticed that my truck was misbehaving once again. Even threatening to pull over to the side of the road and having a stern talk didn’t phase the truck at all. It kept acting up. I noticed more than once when slowing down that either the transmission was downshifting hard, or a midget in a Smart Car was rear ending me. Considering that the truck sits so high off the ground in the back that an FAA waiver is required, I couldn’t see the midget. I looked, and I couldn’t find him either. Either the little booger was quick getting away, or the transmission was acting up.

I began putting out feelers to anyone I know who could recommend a decent transmission shop in town. I’ve never had to have one repaired before, but I’m no fool when it comes to cars. I religiously DVR all the car shows that come on cable TV and encourage SWMBO to watch them with me. She tries, but she is so exhausted when I turn on the shows that she is usually asleep before I can fast forward the first commercial.  I can spell things like “Torque Converter” and “Dual Overhead Cam.” I even have a Craftsman Club card so that I regularly receive catalogs in the mail, although some folks call it “tool porn” instead. BTW: I’m not addicted…I can stop looking at those catalogs anytime I want! I just wish I remembered where I put last month’s edition….

Well, today I read about a guy with a Jeep with the same motor and transmission as my truck (Jeep is owned by Chrysler, the owner of Dodge). He was describing the same problem I was experiencing, and since he couldn’t find the dang midget either, he came to the conclusion that his Throttle Position Sensor (TPS) was going bad. Like a tool porn addict, I mean tool connoisseur, I opened a web browser and found a local store that stocked the exact part I needed.

Tonight when I got home, I dutifully changed out of my work clothes into some grubby clothes I usually reserve for yard work and fine dining. I raised the hood on the truck to let the motor cool and placed the meatloaf in the over for SWMBO (see, I do obey her). Then, I proceeded to work on the truck.

Now, for those of you who haven’t seen me in 15 years, that extra cheeseburger I ate after that date my senior year of high school has finally caught up with me. Given that I am a little more well rounded than I used to be, it’s sometimes hard to get my body into the weird shapes required to perform tasks. Now, for those of you not familiar with the task I was about to undertake, the TPS sits on the top of the engine underneath a casket like box labeled Dodge Magnum V-8. Both the V-8 and the shape of the box serve as reminders that if you bought this truck for its excellent gas mileage, you are dead wrong.

According to the guy on the web, this is a 10 minute job. Since I own Craftsman tools from my tool “catalog,” I figure it might take me 20. So, as mentioned in the service manual of my truck, I stood on the bumper and began taking the casket off the top of the motor. However, since I am standing on the bumper and am having to bend over the top of the motor to reach everything, there is now a 6 foot high plumber’s crack being shown to the next door neighbors. Thank God they’re my in-laws.

I get the casket off the top of the motor about 30 minutes into the job. Not too bad, considering that as many times a month that I go to Harbor Freight, and as much money as I have spent there and at Sears after looking at my catalogs, I have never seen fit to buy this thing called a breaker bar. It’s supposed to make getting tough to loosen/tighten bolts easier to work with. It’s only $10, but why spend the money when I can sweat off the weight grunting and tugging on the ratchet set and uttering under my breath the only words I remember from high school French, and they weren’t the words we were taught in class.

Now, when I bought my truck (slightly used), I was guaranteed that it was an American made truck. It was built in America, sold in America, and the last I checked, I’m still American. It’s an American truck. Right off the bat, I suspected something fishy with the dang Germans that owned Chrysler a few years back. See, I’ve got one of the Daimler Chrysler Dodge trucks, so my truck is the American cousin of the Mercedes. However, something ain’t right in this family. The first thing in the instructions I read was to get an 8mm socket.

So, I have to get off the American made truck’s bumper, go to my American made Craftsman tools and get the European tools out. It’s now getting dark, I’m sweating like I’ve run a marathon, the motor is still hot enough to cook on, and SWMBO is telling me that the meatloaf is ready. At this point, I’ve used my 8mm, 10mm and 16mm sockets and am cursing Frau Blücher and any other German involved in the engineering of my beloved truck. I realize at this point that somehow Lee Iacocca is laughing at me for buying a European American made truck.

So, I’m finally ready to remove the old TPS. According to the instructions of the guy who said the whole job only takes 10 minutes, I’m to use a T-27 bit. T-27? What the heck? He just sank my battleship! So, I grab that bit (after failing miserably with an Allen wrench…don’t get me started on that Allen dude and his ideas on tools), and realize that I have stripped the head of the 2nd of 2 bolts. Now muttering in Klingon (closest language to German I understand), I go to the house to get the mother of all tools, the Vice Grips!

**** IT!!! The vice grips won’t stay on! It could be the fact that I am now laying prostrate over the motor to reach the bolt and am having to weave through hoses as wires and Jimmy Hoffa’s remains, but I can’t get the dang 2nd bolt out. At this point, I'm trying to remember if the truck has one of those fans that turns on after the vehicle is turned off. As much as I would like to lose 50 or 60 pounds, I don't think a radiator fan liposuction is approved by the FDA. Also, since I just changed jobs, I'm not sure the aftercare of such surgery is covered by my new health plan.

After fighting with the vice grips for several more minutes, and fearing that my flashlight’s battery will die, I climb down off the bumper for the 73rd time. Now, I’ve attended Mass at a Catholic church before, but I swear I was up and down off that bumper more than I was in the pew at Mass. I go back to my trusty Black and Decker Drill Bit case and start looking at the T bits again. I realize then that the instructions were wrong. So I grabbed the T-26 (you sank my destroyer), chucked it up in a ¼ inch (finally, an honest to God American size!) socket, and a few seconds later, I have the TPS in my hand. Now, sometime during all of this, I did finally manage to get the wiring off the TPS without damage. It’s amazing, since my hands were greasier than the politicians that I’ve seen downtown.

So, less than 10 minutes later, I have my truck back together…no missing appendages, all the tools are accounted for, and no missing or leftover bolts, screws, etc. Truck even cranks and idles properly. While revving the engine a few times, I notice once again that my speedometer has two sets of numbers. American miles per hour, and European KillaMothers (also used in Canada, eh?).

For a split second, I have a flashback to my final driving exam with Coach Armstrong in the spring Driver’s Ed class. I remember seeing that second set of numbers, and the closer we got to 88, the more scared I got. Coach A finally told me that the car was a Ford Taurus, not a Delorean, and that to go back in time, you have to have a Delorean doing 88 miles per hour, not 88 killamothers.

Now you see, doc, that’s why they brought me in. Now, if you could loosen these straps just a little and hand me one of those pink pills.....thanks.

I Can't Believe It's Been Almost a Year!

I guess I just post everything on Facebook. Here are a few pics to catch you up. I'll also post Preston's latest blogs that never made it on this one.
We took the kids to a Monster Truck show.


Phillip went to competition and did AWESOME.
Phillip went through Confirmation at church.


Our nephew, Cole, was born!
Cole is growing!

Stephen makes a new friend at Miracle League.


Stephen enjoyed Miracle League.
Stephen earned his Webelos badge!
Phillip graduated from elementary school (6th grade).