Back to School

Today was the first day back to school for kids in our district. Hudson dreads this day every year, and today was no different.

His anxiety over going back to school started about a week ago. It’s the same anxiety that he endures at the end of every summer, and despite our best efforts, there’s no reasoning with him.

In a soft and wounded voice, he’ll say:

“Dad, I don’t want to go back to school…’

And he’ll usually go on about how he doesn’t see the point in it, or how he thinks he’ll never use anything he learns in school later in life. He added something new this year:

‘I’m not used to it anymore.’

Like many individuals with autism, Hudson needs structure in his daily life. He usually will argue against the routines we set up for him, and he doesn’t see how they help keep him balanced and regulated.

Summers are particularly hard because there is no programming here that meets his needs. We tried a local summer camp (who told us that their staff was trained on handling kids with autism), but he only made it an hour before having to come home. We’ve tried summer school, but it wasn’t the right fit for him, either.

The school year takes so much out of him. This year, we gave him the summer off. We had no options for structure, no way to give him a routine he needed but also hated. He picked up a couple of small chores to do around the house and he was generally free to do what he wanted.

He slept poorly the past two nights. We all did.

The ride to school this morning was mostly quiet. When his aide came to meet him, I could tell he was fighting back tears. It took everything he had in him to get out of the truck.

Kayla and I hoped today would go well for him, but we braced ourselves for the inevitable call that he had had a meltdown, or that he’d broken a non-negoitable rule from the student handbook.

No call came. We got a message from his teacher that the day ‘was going great’. When he came home, he had a sheet in his folder. It was an assignment to write down his experience on the first day. And while he said he was nervous before school, he finished the assignment by saying he thought the year would be ‘great’.

The same Hudson who had struggled for years with understanding and expressing his feelings without a meltdown was able to articulate his feelings about the day, found the strength to keep it together, and showed us that he has at least some level of optimism about the 4th grade.

We’re not naive enough to expect everyday to go like this. But maybe, just maybe, it’ll be better than we imagine.

Seven Years

Seven years. It’s been seven years since I sat in a room where four different doctors told me and Matt that our son had autism.

Hudson sat playing, blissfully unaware of what was being said. To be honest I don’t even remember what was said. After I heard the words “we believe your son aligns with traits associated with autism” I stopped listening. The doctors continued to talk but to me they sounded like they were underwater talking, or like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

I tried to pay attention and listen but all I could think about was my sweet boy and this uncertain future ahead of him. I tried to ask questions, would he regress further, would he gain more words… each question met with a “we’re not really sure…”

The ride home was particularly quiet. Hudson slept in the backseat while Matt and I were in a fog. The only sounds we heard were a few sniffles between the two of us.

When we got home we were still in a fog. I felt paralyzed. I needed to cook dinner, but I couldn’t. Friends texted and asked how the appointment went and I couldn’t answer them. It’s strange because while we knew the probability of Hudson having autism was high, we told ourselves he was neurotypical, but deep down we knew the truth and yet it still felt like a shock to hear it out loud.

I finally let it all out when my mom came over and sat with me. She hugged me and I sat and cried in her lap like I was a little girl again.

Although I don’t remember much of what the doctors said to me after revealing his diagnosis, I do remember one thing very clearly. They told Matt and I that we were the perfect parents for Hudson and they were confident we would do the best to help him. I scoffed and responded with “you must say that to everyone” and she said “no, I really don’t.”

Tonight at dinner, Hudson sat next to me and talked my ear off about strange animals. I made sure to hug him tight and told him how much I loved him. It hasn’t been the easiest seven years and we’re certainly not perfect parents, but I do wish I could take the moment of us tonight at dinner and show it to myself seven years ago and let her know it was all going to be okay.

The Swim Meet

Yesterday, Hudson participated in his first ever 3rd-4th grade swim meet. Students from each grade level signed up to compete in various swimming events.

Hudson is diagnosed with Level 2 Autism Spectrum Disorder, and he has many triggers. He is particularly triggered by waiting in lines or for his turn at something, and by competition. His need to win and be the best is so severe that he has 1:1 adaptive PE in his IEP. This means that most days in PE he works alone with the PE instructor. His anxiety over not winning a challenge or a game can be so crippling that it sends him into a full-blown meltdown.

He had played two seasons in a non-competitive youth soccer league when he was younger. And while he was great at cheering teammates on, he would collapse in a screaming pile on the grass when he missed a shot or someone ran faster than him.

So when we heard that he had signed up to compete with his class, we prepared ourselves for the worst.

The pool house was hot and loud, filled with the echoing sounds of kids and parents alike, with no open seats on either side. There were twelve different events that would take more than 90 minutes to complete, and the kids had been in the pool house for several minutes before the event began. Hudson’s event was next to last.

When Kayla and I arrived, we could tell that Hudson was already struggling. He was curled up in a ball at the end of bench, his head buried between his knees. His face was flushed red. His aide explained to Kayla that he was upset with having to wait for his turn to swim. Some classmates sat next to him, trying to comfort him as best as they could.

Eventually, Hudson’s OT and Kayla took him to a dry erase board in the back corner where he used markers to draw his favorite sharks. His teacher had brought over his headphones, which helped lessen the loud sounds. This distraction worked for awhile, but Hudson soon found himself in a pile on the floor, once again triggered and upset. And again, his classmates came to sit with him, which melted my heart. After several more minutes of this, Hudson’s OT took him out of the pool house and into the hallway.

When I saw this, my heart sank and I began wondering if his day would end without his swimming. I was starting to prepare myself for the ride home, and for how triggered he would be the rest of the day.

But with two events to go until his, Hudson returned to the bench and seemed ready to go.

Hudson took his position in line, waiting patiently for his leg of the relay race. He was the anchor. He knelt down at the pool’s edge to help his teammates climb out of the water. When it was his turn to go, he again waited patiently as he was helped into his life jacket.

And then, splash. Hudson was in the water and on his way. What happened next brought tears to my eyes.

As he swam in the most Hudson-esque way possible, doing what he called “shark and Spinosaurus spins”, every student on the bench began chanting.

“HUDSON! HUDSON! HUDSON!!”

The chants continued his entire swim down the lane. It was the kind of feel-good moment that you see on ESPN. Without knowing it, he had already ‘won’ just by conquering his triggers and getting in the water. But as he touched the edge, I looked at the other lanes and saw that the other kids were still swimming behind him.

Hudson’s team had won.