Here’s the flip side to my last post. Here’s what makes this job worthwhile.
Yesterday, an autistic child whose average attention span is about 30 seconds curled up next to me on the couch and let me read almost 30 pages of “The Reason I Jump” out loud.
Yesterday, a girl who generally insists on my undivided attention and loses her temper at the drop of a hat let her sister select several songs in a row without resorting to violence.
Yesterday, a mother who is very strict and concerned with appearances in public lay down on the bedroom floor with her son to cuddle. They were both smiling blissfully.
Yesterday, a parent apologized for interrupting a disabled child’s conversation.
Today, I watched an autistic child tolerate, with good humor, the fumbling attempts of an ABA tech to engage in play-based interaction. The parents are being patient, hoping that they can teach the neurotypical tech how to better interact with autistic children. The kid is being a good sport about it– probably better than I would have been. I think this also answers my question about whether ABA can be totally benign: yes, so long as the family knows what boundaries to set and teaches the kid not to take it too seriously.
Today, a mother felt renewed hope for her child’s future.
Today, the most profoundly autistic child on my roster did so many things I’ve never seen before that I stopped counting. Among them: voluntarily paid attention to something an adult was showing him, used the toilet without prompting, calmly tolerated multiple adults conversing in his presence, shared a trampoline and eye contact with another child, and held a vocal (though not verbal) conversation with the same child.
Should I call these small miracles? Small miracles can be huge. In fact, they are everything.