Sometimes you win some...

I have often struggled with finding my place alongside the professionals in my boys' lives. It's not so bad when I take them to physical therapy or speech. Sure, I feel a bit squirmy inside when I really think about the progress these therapists have made with my children.  It hurts my pride that I wasn't the one to help them. But I can sit in the waiting room while they work their magic and it's no different than bringing them to a doctor's office. Or so I tell myself.

But working with even the most sensitive and compassionate behavioral specialists (TSSes and BSCs) feels like an invasion of privacy because their "office" is my home.  SMILE's primary TSS is a soft-spoken mother type.  In fact, she has grown children. I like her very much and so does SMILE. So much in fact, SMILE recently slipped when addressing her and called her "Mommy." I know it was just a slip. SMILE often calls me "Daddy" before correcting himself. But...wow...that one hurt.

So, maybe my excitement and sense of accomplishment over SMILE's most recent meltdown are understandable.  I was chatting with Ms. TSS while SMILE finished his lunch and I mentioned the kindergarten graduation concert that's scheduled for tomorrow morning.  Suddenly, SMILE burst into tears and announced that he hated the concert and was afraid to go on stage. I was floored.  SMILE and his class have been practicing every day this week. Just yesterday, SMILE was excited to tell me about where he was standing on stage.  My little guy escalated FAST and was in a full screaming, pushing, sobbing fit.  I tried talking to him while Ms. TSS quickly doodled a sketch of children on a stage and parents applauding. Darn, I thought. Why didn't I think of that? But SMILE went on wailing, calling the concert stupid, insisting he hated it, and that he would miss me too much to do it.  I sat there helplessly while SMILE ranted and shot down every attempt Ms. TSS and I made to reason with him. We figured out he might not like the word "concert" so we stopped using it and reinforced that he's just going to do the same thing he did today, yesterday, and the day before. We tried to temp him with the promise of the refreshments the school was putting out for the graduates and their families. Nothing worked. He pulled on the lanyard around my neck, covered my mouth while I talked, and twisted my fingers. I caught Ms. TSS's eye and pulled SMILE onto my lap before she could intervene.

And then he said it. That one comment I waited for without knowing previously what it would be. It would be the key to reaching him, distracting him, and ending the chaos. 
    He wailed, "But I thought it was next time."
   "What does 'next time' mean, SMILE?"  My mind raced to chase this thought down any track he was going down.
    He took the drama down a notch and was quiet before answering. "It means 'a long time.'"
    "You thought the concert would be a long time from now?"
     "Yes," he whined. His little lip trembled and I gave him a hug.
     "Oh," I smiled. "It is a long time. It's not today." I turned him in my arms so he could look at me if he wanted to. And it breaks my heart because he does look me in the eyes when we find ourselves in these situations. It's as if he's trusting that I will know what to say to help him and he really wants to hear it. "It's not this morning. It's not lunch time or this afternoon. It's not snack time. It's not dinner time. It's not story time. It's not even bed time.  There's a lot of time before singing. And tomorrow, you'll go to school, sing on stage, and then have snacks. Do you think they'll have coffee for me?"
     "Well," he said, his voice clear and calm, "We'll have to see about that."
      "Yes, we'll have to see," I said before releasing him so he could go on to one of Ms. TSS's activities.
     
      I hate when SMILE tantrums. Sure, I don't like the noise, but that's not it. I've tried to articulate it before but I think I can now after this experience because a TSS was here to see it this time.  When SMILE really tantrums, he gets lost. My sweet, accommodating, loving little boy sinks below his autism and he can't control himself.  And, for once, the TSS's knowledge of the right thing to do doesn't work because she's not following her heart. But I am. And that's why I'm not going to struggle to find my place any more. Because I'm the one that found SMILE today.