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Eleven years ago, spring was consumed
with worry about where our oldest (whom I call Cactus on blogs) would
go to kindergarten. We went to school fairs and open houses; I talked
to friends and co-workers. I visited one private school without
telling Cactus, and the minute I walked into the classroom I knew it
was the wrong place – children lined up in neat rows, dressed
identically, working diligently on reports that all looked the same
with perfect penmanship (reports? these were seven-year-olds!) and
raising their hands (rarely) if they needed help. The room was
silent.
It wasn’t that Cactus couldn’t have
collected the information for a report. He had recently moved from an
interest in paleontology (he skipped right over dinosaurs to memorize
the details of the Paleozoic and Mesozoic eras) to meteorology. At
one open house he’d asked a bewildered kindergarten teacher who was
telling us about her curriculum plan involving reading readiness,
“So, when are we going to get to talk about cold fronts?” But the
conformity, the neat handwriting, the spotless white shirts tucked
into pressed pants with sharp leather belts? This was not the school
for our “out of the box” boy.
Cactus is “2e” – twice
exceptional. He is intellectually gifted in ways that take his
parents’ breath away. We never did find that ideal kindergarten
placement; he ended up skipping after a week into a first/second
grade classroom with a teacher who relished the challenge. The fact
that his passion for weather soon morphed into memorizing (and
reciting – often) the periodic table didn’t faze her a bit. Thank
goodness. She even moved into a second/third grade class two years
later so Cactus could have her for three consecutive years.
While exceptionally bright, Cactus is
also on the autism spectrum, with a distinct splash of Asperger’s
Syndrome. He didn’t start to talk until he was almost two, and half
of his first 50 “words” were letters of the alphabet. We didn’t
think much of his differences in those first years, with preschool
and elementary teachers who nurtured his eccentricities. In fact, we
didn’t really acknowledge there was anything amiss until his very
neurotypical brother came along and we learned what “normal”
looked like. Over the next few years, we saw a lot of that second
“e.” Handwriting that never did move beyond a second-grade
scrawl. Learning to ride a bike (finally) at 11. Refusing to look
teachers in the eye. Never going to a sleepover. Losing countless
planners without any assignments written in them. Enduring bullying
that school officials didn’t – or wouldn’t – see. Panic
attacks. Depression.
Like most parents of children with
special needs, our calendars have been covered with details of
therapy appointments and IEP meetings; our house filled with toys
designed to help develop lagging skills; many of my days consumed
with online searches and attempts to connect with others facing the
same challenges. It’s not very interesting stuff to those who are
walking the same road; we all want our children to succeed and will
do almost anything to get there. For us, it’s worked - people
usually see Cactus as a more-or-less normal, if geeky, teenager.
Now we are again looking at schools
–this year, colleges. Fairs and open houses and visits and lots of
time online gathering suggestions – the rhythm is familiar. This
time, however, I am accompanied by a tall young man who strides along
in a long black wool coat and a bowler hat, could care less about the
win/loss record of the school’s football team, and fills out those
information cards in still-fairly-illegible block letters. Some
schools have full-fledged support programs for students “on the
spectrum,” others almost no safety net at all – and in any case,
Cactus will have to take the initiative to advocate for himself and
get what he needs. A few schools have the option of a single room
even as a freshman – or would Cactus be better served by having to
negotiate life with a roommate? Even dining halls present worries for
this mom – I’m pretty sure Cactus will never touch the beautiful
salad bars and will instead go for the
all-you-can-eat-deep-fried-smorgasbords with Mountain Dew chasers.
Can you die of malnutrition in college? And don’t get me started on
the drinking, drugs, and casual sex that pervade many campuses.
Cactus isn’t the only one dealing with panic attacks anymore.
We’ve had to radically shift our
parenting strategy in preparation. Up until now, we’ve advocated
for him, looked for coming obstacles and cleared them, talked to
teachers before the term starts – in short, made sure he succeeded.
This year, our motto is “let him fail.” Let him fail in little,
(mostly) repairable ways, where we can debrief with him and he can
figure out how to address the damage. We have let him forget to set
an alarm, miss class, and land in detention. Let him learn the hard
way that staying up all night playing SimCity makes the next day
intensely painful. Let him put off telling a teacher about his
accommodation for writing exams on a laptop and have to plead for the
use of one at the last minute. Let him get a low grade in the first
term of senior year, jeopardizing at least one college admission. Let
him spend all his money buying books on a trip downtown and have to
skip lunch.
We’ve even put him “in the line of
fire” by letting him go by himself on a summer overseas service
trip, negotiating plane changes and staying by himself in a hotel en
route. He had a few misadventures – he met up with a drunk who
wanted to steal his hat, and he hitchhiked (ack!) from the hotel to a
restaurant- but he came home healthy and immensely pleased with
himself and his abilities. The depression has largely disappeared as
he’s realized that much of what he’s hated about high school
(notebook checks, gym class, mandatory pep rallies) he won’t have
to deal with in college, and he’ll finally get to study what he
truly loves in an in-depth way. He looked for, and found, plenty of
fellow “nerds” at the colleges he chose to apply to, and can’t
wait to have a real social tribe.
Still, we’re not sure he’s ready
for college. He’s recently been accepted for a study abroad program
as a
“gap year” before he starts college. We’re waiting until the admissions decisions come back this spring to make a final plan. We want so much for him to succeed in college – as does he. The question we’re still asking ourselves is, has he failed enough yet?
“gap year” before he starts college. We’re waiting until the admissions decisions come back this spring to make a final plan. We want so much for him to succeed in college – as does he. The question we’re still asking ourselves is, has he failed enough yet?
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I'm Liz, and I blog at SpectrumU, a site I started earlier this year for
parents seeking college options for their children on the autism
spectrum (so as not to let all that good information I gathered go to
waste). I live in Pennsylvania with an amazing husband plus Cactus,
his brother Dash, a beloved Rhodesian Ridgeback, and a cat who mostly
just sleeps on our bed and sheds. In addition to the blog, I tweet
(@asdatcollege), and SpectrumU can also be found on Facebook.
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