I think I mentioned that Kai is, so far this year, kicking third grade’s ass. Not only did he grow an inch, but he seems to have shaken off the torpor of late summer to find himself engaged and motivated.
I would like to say that this is due to my superior ninja mothering skills, but it is not.
Kai’s entering his sixth year at school, which is enough time to have a fairly accurate chart of his developmental peaks-and-valleys schedule. All kids have them—you can think of the phrase two-steps forward, one step back. The spectrum just amplifies Kai’s. Here’s what it looks like:
Kai experiences a peak in September of every year, characterized by in uptick in verbal and sometimes social skills that will last us until Thanksgiving, at which point the wheels will come off and we enter a developmental valley that lasts until his birthday. This year, the end of the peak period will coincide with a doctor-recommended mad scientific experiment to take Kai off his ADHD medications to “see what happens” (bwa-ha-ha-ha!).
Kai’s beloved kindergarten teacher has a theory about peaks and valleys involving birthdays and half birthdays as times when kids make developmental leaps, and that’s as good an explanation as any, and pretty much jives with Kai’s schedule.
Usually, when Kai has a valley, he needs more sensory input, he’s more oblivious, he talks less, he becomes uncooperative at school, his sleep becomes more erratic than even his usual deeply erratic sleep. But then he comes out of it and has made some kind of gain, and if you’ll look at the chart, we are right there.
All of this exposition and hocus pocus is just an elaborate set up to humblebrag tell you about Kai’s September peak.
:::
Kai has, in the course of a single week, asked me two questions about myself that have nothing to do with whether I’ll make him a pizza or unlock a level on Plants Vs. Zombies.
The first question came when I picked him up from school on Tuesday. He was carrying a picture of our dog Stella that he had shown his class.
“Mommy,” he said, “can you tell me the story of when you first met Elliott?”
I was so shocked and surprised that it took me a while to pull it together and remember to answer his question. I told him that I met Elliott at a pet store that was right next to my ad agency, and I’d go there when I was stressed out to pet the puppies, and then one day there was a dog there that I really liked. I told him that I’d almost named him Simon and that he was scared of everything at first, and that this was before I lived with Scott and long before Kai was ever born.
He listened as I talked, and I realized was saying so much to him that I’d never said before, talking about a life Before Kai, wondering if he had any notion at all of what that could even mean, what an ad agency is, or if he could imagine me not living with Scott, or if he even knows what “being married” is, and all the nuances of life that have just never come up because we’re too busy getting him to say “three” instead of “free” and all the rest of it.
When I was done, I thanked him for asking.
The next day, while we were once again in the car, he asked me if I’d ever been inside of an ambulance, this after we’d pulled over to let one pass us.
In fact I had, and I told him all about it, that I’d been in a car accident when I was sixteen or seventeen, and I’d had to ride in an ambulance to the hospital, but that I’d been okay.
“Phew,” he said. And then, after a pause, “Was it cool?”
“It was not cool, buddy,” I replied, “and you never want to be in the back of one because it means that you or someone you love is hurt or sick.”
I told his speech therapist about this yesterday after his social skills group.
Her eyes widened. “He asked you these questions in context?”
“Yep,” I said.
I watched her process this information, that this spectrum kid who struggles so much with empathy, who exists almost entirely in the here and now would ask not one but TWO contextually-appropriate questions about someone else’s experience.
“Huh,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
:::
But wait, there’s more!
This week, his aide, Dalila told me that Kai had asked his teacher if they could have a fish for a classroom pet, and she’d said yes.
I e-mailed the teacher to confirm this before I sent a fish and its related trappings to the classroom and discovered that yes, Kai had indeed made a successful persuasive argument that the class needed a fish and promised to talk about the fish to the class when it arrived.
She also told me that when Kai had presented his ability bag to the class—a brown paper bag that was to contain five things that he enjoyed or was good at—he was the only kid to properly introduce himself.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Kai and I am here to show you my ability bag.”
My friends, if that’s not a peak, I don’t know what is, especially since two weeks ago the child would barely respond to his name or simple questions about what he wanted to eat. “You decide,” he’d mumble, never looking up from the computer.
And so, whether it’s the new-ness of the school year or his half birthday or whatever, we’ll just go ahead and ride this wave. It’s 10 weeks before Thanksgiving and things traditionally go sideways.
Hopefully I can find things to write about until then.
Comments