AJC article- I choose my battles

[Guest guest]

Dear Families and Friends:

Today in the AJC is an article written by fellow friend and parent Theresa Waldron.

10 years ago when was diagnosed with autism Theresa wrote an article in the AJC.

Todays article is a follow up.

Thank you Theresa for writing the article and helping to educate our communities.

Happy Mother's Day.

Heidi Fernandez Parent and Advocate "Knowledge is Power" "To the world, you may be one person, but to one person, you may be the world."

'I choose my battles'By THERESA WALDRONFor the Journal-ConstitutionPublished on: 05/11/08

Ten years ago on Mother's Day, Theresa Waldron wrote eloquently in the AJC of her son 's autism and the "inevitable mingling of joy and sorrow in being a mother." At the time, was 3, and Waldron wondered what their life together would be like. is now 13, and Waldron, who lives in Marietta, has written a new essay for this new Mother's Day.

McGowan/AJC

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Theresa Waldron and her husband divorced two years ago, leaving her with the majority of the work of caring for their son . She keenly feels the lack of personal time.

McGowan/AJC

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Theresa Waldron and her son, , 13, sit on a swing in the playground near their Roswell condo. At 3, he was diagnosed with autism. With the mentality of a much younger child, flaps his arms when excited, drawing unkind stares and pointing fingers from other children.

I was trying to put supper on the table when my son, , began shouting, "I want to go to Target and get a helmet!" When I didn't immediately respond, he started jumping up and down as he shouted.

I knew why he wanted a helmet. On the glossy pages of a book I had read to him the night before, there were photos of motorcyclists racing around sharp highway curves. was fascinated with their dark helmets, which had face shields, making them look rather like sinister bees.

To avoid a major meltdown, I told him if he would eat his dinner, we would go to Target and get his helmet. He immediately sat down to eat his macaroni and cheese.

Some moms might have dealt with this situation by not giving in to his behavior, but don't judge me until you know the facts. has autism. Although he is 13, he has the mentality of a much younger child. I choose my battles carefully. And besides, it was the day after his birthday, and he had a Target gift card to spend.

I love him dearly. We're as close as two people can be. But it's a tough job to raise my son, and it gets harder the older he gets. He has been through so many changes in the past two years: my divorce, two moves and going through puberty. People with autism have a very hard time coping with change.

A 135-pound kid jumping up and down and screaming is a lot worse than a 35-pound toddler jumping up and down and screaming. When do I give in? How do I negotiate? When do I put my foot down and say no? Some behavioral strategies, such as rewards, do work. He is on medication, which helps. But it is not a panacea. Mostly I just rely on my wits and determination.

Besides his tantrums, there are other challenges as well. People with autism fall into a range, called a "spectrum," which goes from severely challenged to very gifted. 's abilities lie in the low-to-moderate range. He reads on a second-grade level and is still learning the value of coins. He doesn't grasp abstract concepts like astronomy or global warming. It is a common misconception that all people with autism are math whizzes or concert pianists. Like , most of them fall somewhere in the midspectrum of abilities.

also has the characteristic unusual behaviors of autism. He repeats odd phrases willy-nilly. One of his favorite sayings is "You have to be really careful," which he says about everything from turning on the stove to holding a crayon. He can watch the same DVD movie over and over, especially if it features any kind of motorized vehicle. He eats the identical 10 foods he ate five years ago, in the same descending order, with macaroni and cheese being first on the list. If he sees a flying insect, he screams in terror and runs for cover.

I accept 's quirks because they are part of him. If I could have afforded it, I would have bought him that motorcycle helmet, even knowing he would have worn it everywhere and become a spectacle. I am used to him being a spectacle. By the very nature of his disorder, I live in 's world more than he lives in mine.

Another challenge is 's isolation. We've found welcoming arms at groups such as Miracle League, a baseball team for disabled kids. But he has never had a friend who is "typical," which is the term for children without disabilities. Like all kids, needs acceptance from his peers, and being with typical kids also helps him learn appropriate behaviors.

Granted, he has difficulty communicating, but typical kids still tend to shun or ridicule him. flaps his arms when he is excited, and during a recent trip to the park, he stood and flapped his arms in the middle of the playground while watching other kids play. Every kid within 25 feet was staring or pointing. I wanted to storm up to them and shout, "What's wrong with you! He's just a little different, that's all! Be nice and play with him!" The fact that typical children are not taught to accept and include disabled children is a huge thorn in my side.

My own personal frustrations in raising my son are enormous. I cannot leave him to make a quick run to the grocery store. I must hold his hand to cross a busy street. He needs help tying his shoes. I see other middle schoolers strolling with friends at the mall or pedaling their bikes to school, and I can't help but feel envious.

And I do feel resentful about the overwhelming responsibility and lack of personal time in raising . I have primary custody, and his father only has him every other weekend. Friends and family no longer volunteer to take because he is such a challenge. More than once I've screamed into my pillow or vented to my girlfriends. Some days I lose patience and want to throw up my hands. I'm no saint.

Most of all, as 's mother I've also learned to count my blessings. I am grateful he can speak, because not all autistic kids can. He can hook up a DVD player to the television and play games on the computer, so I know there is something whirring away in that little head of his. This gives me hope that when he is out of school, he will be able to live somewhat independently, in a group home, and hold down a job. Like any mother, I want that so much for him, and I know that he does, too.

He is also affectionate. Every time I get a hug from my boy, my heart just melts. And he tells me he loves me quite often — words I was not sure I would ever hear when he was younger.

After dinner, and I took that trip to Target. I explained to him in the car that the store might not have the exact helmet he saw in the book, but that they will most certainly have some other great helmets. Sometimes he is amenable to a change in plans, and sometimes he must have things exactly as he envisions them, no matter what. I am hoping that today will be an amenable day.

When we perused the bicycle helmet aisle in the store, turned to me and said imploringly, "I want the helmet to cover my face." As I watched his expression turn into tears, I pulled a fiery red bicycle helmet off the shelf. "Look at this one!" I exclaimed. "It looks just like Ben's!" Ben is his teenage cousin, whom he worships. Amazingly, my strategy worked.

"I'll get a red helmet like Ben's!" said, his eyes lighting up as he grabbed it out of my hands.

When we got home, he placed the helmet atop his head and it remained perched there, like a giant egg, for the rest of the day. He even wore it to take a bath.

As I got him ready for bed, smiled and said, "I got a new helmet, Mama." It rested on his bedside table, ready to wear the next day, which is Saturday. I am hoping by Monday the novelty of the helmet will have worn off and I won't have to deal with the issue of whether he can wear it to school.

As I kissed his cheek and turned out the light, I breathed a sigh of relief. We made it relatively unscathed through yet another day, and my boy is happy.