Knitters-Knitters

A Late-Summer Night's Special Ed Dream

Several nights ago, I had a dream that I was angsting over feeling unprepared for Olive's first day of school (which is less than a week away).  I worried that I didn't know what school supplies she needed to have in advance, if any.  I wondered if her school had a microwave, so that she could enjoy her typical fare of Indian curry dishes, black beans and rice, and spicy noodles instead of just cold sandwiches.  Now, this part of the dream isn't hard to analyze--at that time, I actually didn't know the answers to these questions (since remedied).  Where things get strange is when Soon-Yi Previn and Eric Lax materialize out of nowhere, to help.

Now, Mia Farrow is a regular in my dream-chamber and has played everything from starring roles to a face in the crowd.  Woody Allen, though not a frequent guest, has appeared here and there.  And, even though I didn't know what he looks like in real life until today (when I Googled his photo) this is the second time I've dreamt about Eric Lax.  But Soon-Yi?  Never, and I never wanted her there.  I had no interest, and if one could hire a dream-bouncer, she'd have been on my Denied Access list--for Mia's sake.  Yes, I chose sides.

The thing is, in this dream Soon-Yi was nice.  She gave me a list of everything Olive needed, and each item had a check mark next to it.  Then Eric Lax wordlessly handed me a large white plastic bag.  I didn't open it, but I understood it to be full of all the supplies on the list.  And I remember that I could clearly see a curve in the bag's shape that suggested one of the items was a protractor.  Soon-Yi did all the talking in this dream, and though I don't remember specifically what she said, it was general reassuring remarks about drop-off and pick-up locations, fat, non-toxic crayons, rolls of sticky-tape and how everybody worried about this sort of stuff.  She patted my hand a lot, which is, incidentally, Olive's main way of saying hello and good-bye (patters-patters, we call it).

The dream ends with a close-up on the face of Eric Lax, and my noticing that he's wearing a bow tie.

*******

The bow tie is significant.  I know of only one person in real life who wears a bow tie regularly, and that's my shrink.  Actually, saying he wears a bow tie regularly is an understatement.  He always wears a bow tie.  I've never seen him without his bow tie.  He is the bow tie.  You'll think I'm making this up for the quirk-factor, or, at the very least, to make my psychiatrist sound more interesting than your psychiatrist.  It's true, though---if I entered his office and found him in an ascot, a bolo, or a regular old necktie, I think I'd burst into tears.

After dreaming of Soon-Yi and her being so kind and all, I felt I should at least read her Wiki page.  I was shocked to see she has a Masters in Special Ed.  Had I heard this somewhere, and that's why my brain conjured her for this odd orientation? 

I'm pretty good at analyzing other people's dreams, but rarely my own.  In this case, I'm left with a thought that comes to me so often in this strange and convoluted journey that is Olive's--and our--education: help often comes from unusual sources.

Campers-Campers, a Look Back

Tomorrow is Olive's last day of summer camp.  Judging by the entries in the Holy Binder and the conversations I have at the end of the day with Olive's aide, Olive's favorite activities have been tae kwon do, swimming, and Shabbat.  I admit that despite my ancestry, my entire knowledge of what happens on Shabbat comes from watching Fiddler on the Roof.  I know there's candles and singing, and I'm guessing--given what it usually takes to make it into Olive's list of favorite activities--snacks.

This week has been a banner week for Olive.  Yesterday, she broke her first board in tae kwon do.  The board was pre-broken and taped, but Olive was very pleased with herself, nonetheless.  Then, today was rock-wall climbing.  Olive climbed the wall (with the assistance of counselors) and on reaching the top, crowed with pride and high-fived all her neurotypical fellow campers when they reached the top.  Her aide told me, "Once Olive got up there she was strutting all around, pretty sure she was awesome."

As we were driving home, I remembered a night back in college when the thought occurred to me: what if I'm mentally retarded (that was the term, back then) and I don't know it?  What if the hoity-toity prep school I went to was actually a special school, and right now, I'm actually attending a special college?  How would I know?  Would it matter?

If there's a benefit to being a very mentally impaired child as opposed to slightly, it's that you don't know and you don't care.  Olive doesn't know collegiate swim teams don't send scouts out to recruit Best Splashers.  She doesn't know her tae kwon do board was pre-split, and if she does, she doesn't know whether this is the norm.  (In fact, I don't know that one, either; my knowledge of tae kwon do is slightly less than of Shabbat.)  And she doesn't realize her fellow campers scaled the wall with much less assistance.  What she knows is that she reached the top, and that, yes, she's awesome.

The Discomfort Zone

I've discovered that by aggressively hammering a nail into the bottom end of my drop spindle, I can turn it into a top-whorl instead of a bottom whorl.  For some reason, this works more easily for me--much less leaping and skittering on the part of the spindle, and each twist of the wrist seems to last longer.

This is, I think, my fifth attempt at producing yarn.  I'm not sure the end result looks any better than tries 1-4, but the process is coming a little more naturally, and I feel like I have a clearer understanding of everything I'm doing wrong.  For instance, as you can see from that stray loop near the top, I've over-spun in many places.

I'm a long way from enjoying myself though.  The other night, Olive woke up at around 2 a.m. and snuck downstairs to commit all sorts of mayhem in the kitchen and crafts area.  And I confess, I was a tad disappointed to find that my bag of roving was not among the early morning casualties.

This is much more within my comfort zone: another Elizabeth Zimmermann yoke sweater, this time for Agatha.  The flower pattern came from a chart in Poetry in Stitches.  The yarn is, I think, Hifa 2 from Nordic Fiber Arts.  I haven't chosen the color patterns for the yoke, but basically, I plan on flipping through Poetry in Stitches and finding charts that fit the same numbers of rows and stitches as on the EZ pattern instructions.  I'm not sure what color will predominate the sleeves--I'm on a bit of a fiber diet right now and it'll come down to which shades I have the most of.

Speaking of the discomfort zone, last Thursday LB, Olive and I went on a tour of what will be Olive's new school -- the little Kindergarten through 3rd grade school 40 yards from our house.  Judy, the director of Autism Academy, came with us for moral support and to ask all the questions we were too ill at ease and nervous to remember.  The program met with her -- and Olive's -- approval.  I did have one moment of, Wait a minute -- I have a kid who's going to be in Special Ed?  Those moments still take me by surprise, but I tell myself they'll eventually stop.  And if not, I don't want to know that in advance.

Olive was downright reverent while walking through the hallways, holding hands and smiling the whole time.  We had taken Olive to the school a few times since moving here to play in the playground, but she had no interest in the jungle gym and would hurl herself at the door of the school, wailing piteously to be let in.   

She seems to know it is to be her school.

Accolade

Olive won an award at camp today.

Normally I'm against that whole, "Everybody gets a prize!" thing, but Best Splasher...

...now that's an accomplishment.

The Old House

Today we went back to the old house to check on the paint job, throw out some trash from the garage, and put some pots of flowers on the front porch. In general, I don't like going back to the old house, regardless of where that old house may be and what exactly happened there.

 In fact, the happier the memories, the harder it is to endure them.  I don't like going back, period.

I could write a song about just how much I don't like to go back, but it's been done, and quite handily at that:

 

My children adore Going Back, and love nothing better than what I consider the world's most painful activity: looking through old photographs.  Invariably, we end up in a conversation like this:

Girls: finding a photo of me and a friend, at college.  Who is that with you?

Me: That's my friend, Rich.

Girls: Where is he now?

Me: Well, he died.

Girls: How?

Me: He had an aneurism.  This is technically true.  The fact that the aneurism was caused by a blunt  instrument driven into his skull by his own hand following a bad mescaline trip is more than they need to know.  He wasn't the same after that, and died several years later.

Girls: how old was he?

Me: Desperate, by this point in the conversation. English majors don't tend to live that long...

Girls: Becoming alarmed...but weren't you and Daddy both...

Me: BATH TIME! Hair day for everyone!

So I had been wary of bringing Olive back to see the Old House.  You never know with her what's going to be be joyful and what's going  to be disturbing, and she tends to act out, Elliot to my E.T., whatever I'm feeling.

But it was very clear she was delighted to see her old stomping ground.  In fact, she did a little dance...

one of her best dances ever...

complete with a clear narrative...

...in the form of special arm movements and graceful neck bends....

It's going to be okay, Mommy!  

Campers-Campers

Here's Olive the morning before her first day of camp.  The beautiful orange ensemble was made by my friend Debbie.

And here she is the morning before her second day.  She's holding my purse and her satchel, ready to head for the door.

On the third morning I got no picture, because Olive was insistently dragging me to the door by my wrist before I could get my camera.

It's safe to say Olive is enjoying camp.  However, let my experience be a lesson to you: never miss orientation.  Even if you're vomiting bile and birthing reptiles, show up.  Even if you have to drag yourself there by your elbows.  Not only did we miss the all-important information regarding fire lanes and where to park, but we also managed to enroll Olive without knowing that this is an integrated camp.  This means that autistic kids and 'nother kids are all mixed up together.  And while statistics seem to show an explosion in the number of children diagnosed with autism, the reality is that Olive's particular camp group consists of 14 neurotypical little girls...and Olive.  I have no idea what they make of her or she of them, but I find myself wishing I'd never read Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye.

I know several readers of Knitters-Knitters have kids on The Spectrum.  Now would be a good time for you to wax eloquent about your child's terrific experience in the wonderful world of inclusion, even if you have to fudge it a bit.  Tell me that children don't get away with being as scornful and exclusive as they did back when we were mean little girls.

Olive has a young aide who accompanies her on all camp activities.  We'll call her Daphne, in keeping with our beloved Frasier theme.  Daphne includes a bit of text every day on Olive's experiences--not as detailed and reassuring as the Sacred Notebook, but very appreciated, nonetheless.  Here's today's entry:

Today Olive played with Maris and Lilith.  She put her face in the water (at swimming) and used the bathroom.  She also loved art time and Kid's Fit.  Can you please send a water bottle daily?

There's also a checklist, where it indicates that today Olive participated in swimming, Tae Kwan Do, art, story-time and sports, and especially enjoyed putting her face in the water. 

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall at Tae Kwan Do! 

To Dr. H. at the Same-Day Clinic

The next time

a small, autistic non-verbal person

(and her mother)

come to see you about said small person's

viral gastroenteritis,

consider--

just consider--

that said small autistic person

(and her mother)

are really there about the gastroenteritis

and not to serve as captive participants in your rousing game of 

Everything I Ever Wanted To Ask About Autism.

Thank you.

Tall Bus

Today was Olive's last day at school at Autism Academy.  While there's always the hope she may be referred back there in the Fall if the powers that be at Northbrook public school feel they cannot meet her needs, it's not very likely.  And today bore all the hallmarks of the last day: the contents of Olive's cubby are now in the front seat of my van.  There was singing and extra attention for Olive, who enjoyed it thoroughly, and who does not know this was her last day.  I have a special mix tape of her favorite songs from school, a few extra forks that didn't find their way back into her daily lunchbox, a letter, and a long entry in the Sacred Notebook that I can't bear to read just yet.  There was hugging and crying.  I may have started it.  And while I expect Olive will be happy in her new school, it's hard to ignore that I am not so good with transitions.

Tomorrow we are leaving for vacation, and will be attending a wedding.  We'll be back on June 6th.  I'm sure we will have fun when we get there, but first, there is the Getting There.  As you may have guessed given the distance between Chicago and coastal California, getting there will involve hurtling through the air while being held captive in a tin can flying. And I'll bet you're not too surprised to hear this is not an activity I enjoy.  My dislike of flying predates 9-11, and is mostly about the possibility of the plane dropping right out of the sky resulting in a fiery death preceded by interminable moments of knowing what's to come.  This morning I made the mistake of reading about fear of flying online, and now have learned several reasons to fear that hadn't occurred to me before.  For instance, many people are afraid that their panic will cause them to humiliate themselves in front of the rest of the passengers.  Great! I hadn't even thought of that one, but I'm guessing it's what stops most phobic people from ordering, Emily Hartley style, that they "turn the plane around."

This is where you jump in and post reassuring comments about thoroughly unremarkable plane trips you've taken, how the Valium didn't mysteriously fail you just when you needed it most, and how the most disturbing part of the process was having to remove your shoes at the security check point.  I'm waiting.

I Have Answers

A spaniel is a spaniel is a spaniel is not a cat, but cat-loving homeowners can, on occasion, be bribed negotiated into allowing a spaniel as a lessee. The definition of acceptable pet vs. true imposition is a subjective matter, and apparently, cuteness can only take you so far before cash has to step in. 

I know what you're thinking, but not to worry:  LB may have the body of a gazelle, but fortunately, figurative animal resemblance does not incur an additional security deposit.

Beginning June 30th, we have a place to live in Northbrook.  There is the small matter of selling one large house in Chicago, but like Cyrus the Virus in my favorite movie, I don't like to think too far ahead.

Our moving date is July 3rd.  This move not only makes me very happy by repositioning our home base to the other side of Eden(s), but it has also brought joy to others.  The mover we hired was positively gleeful when he noted our household items include not only a piano, but a 100 lb industrial sewing machine with an outboard motor.  On to page two! he chortled, when adding up the amount of truck square footage our move would require.

Olive will be going to this school for the Summer, and is wait-listed there for the Fall.  Should a spot not open up for her, she will go to one of the autism programs in the Northbrook public school system.  There is still the possibility that the North Suburban Special Ed District will see fit to "tuition out" Olive to Autism Academy (fingers and toes crossed). The main thing is that Olive's educational options in Northbrook range from excellent to very good, as opposed to from passable to frightening.  And my daily four hours of driving will go the way of pantyhose, stirrup pants, and Flash Dance sweatshirts worn with black bra straps exposed.  What a feeling!  Many thanks to Miss Susan for her photo-editing expertise.

Olive's Path

The incomparable Miss Susan has made a digital scrapbook about Olive, which has garnered some well-deserved attention in the scrapping world. You can view it online by clicking the arrow on the cover of the book below.  And to see it BIGGER, click on the hyperlink at the very bottom of this post:

Click here to view this photo book.