Human beings are capable of logical, rational thought. But we are not inherently logical rational beings. We are emotional. We are complicated. We are self-contradictory. We are inconsistent.
It’s easy to forget this. We expect other people to Make Sense, by which we mean that we want to be able to understand the reasons behind people’s feelings and actions. And to some extent, we often can. We have the ability to emphasize, to imagine how we would feel in a particular situation and hence understand how another person in that situation feels. But we can’t always know someone’s situation perfectly. We can’t always imagine that situation accurately. And, of course, we don’t all have identical responses to the same things. We don’t always make sense to each other. We don’t always make sense to ourselves.
So I am amazed at how often I fall into the mental trap of expecting children to make sense. Children are, in fact, less likely to make sense than adults. They are also less able to reflect on, understand, and express the reasons for their emotions and actions. But many adults get annoyed when children act in a way that the adult can’t understand.
It always amazes me how many adults seem to have completely forgotten what it was like to be a child, to have irrational fears and inexpressible longings and heartbreak over ordinary occurrences. Even though, as adults, we still have these experiences, only perhaps less often and more privately. Why does it never occur to us that a child might be crying because of the song playing on the radio, laughing at something they just imagined or remembered, or angry just because it’s been a long day rather than because of any specific event?
As with so many things, this expectation of an immediate and obvious cause for someone’s feelings is magnified in dealing with disabled children. I was at the beach with a 9-year-old nonverbal client today. We were walking along at the water’s edge when he suddenly began to cry.
I asked him what was wrong, although I knew he had no way to tell me. I asked if he was injured, hungry, cold, if he needed to go back to his Dad, if I could do anything to help… (While he doesn’t indicate yes or no, he will stop crying if I manage to figure out what he needs, so I try to list a number of possible solutions for him.)
When he simply continued to sob, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why I was assuming a concrete and proximate reason. Maybe he was thinking about something that saddened or scared or worried him. His grandmother has been ill. He has a new baby brother. And there are a million things I don’t know that could be wrong. Maybe his parents had a fight. Maybe he has a mean teacher. Maybe his best friend isn’t in his class this year. Anything could be upsetting him.
And maybe it was something more immediate, but abstract. He spent a long time tossing a ball to himself today, and then we walked past a group of kids playing a ball game. Maybe he felt left out and wished that the other kids would play with him. Maybe he felt sad about being so different from the other kids. About not even knowing how to ask to join them. Perhaps he was just disappointed that he was walking with me instead of swimming with his Dad (they did go swimming, but not for as long as he wanted).
We found a bench and sat. His Dad came over and started running through the same questions I had– did he need a snack, a sweater…? He waved Dad away, turned his back. He told him not to cry, and, at my urging, went back to his swimming.
“Don’t cry.” I hear that a lot, from many sources. It’s usually said in a sympathetic way, not a mean way. “It’s ok, buddy, dry those tears.” “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to be scared of.” “Aw… Cheer up, honey.” It’s a natural response, I think. We hate seeing someone in pain (there’s that empathy again). We want to fix it. We want to make it all better. And sometimes, we can. Sometimes sympathy and reassurance is enough. Love alone has dried many a child’s tears. But it can also hurt to be told that everything is ok when that just isn’t the case. So I’ve removed the phrase “don’t cry” from my vocabulary.
I put my arm around my client’s shoulder and sat with him and his tears. I spoke softly.
I reminded him that he was loved.
I told him that everyone feels sad and cries sometimes. And that he would feel better eventually.
I told him I understand that life can be really hard, and that it was ok to feel upset about that.
I told him that I wished I knew how to help him feel better, but that sometimes it just takes time.
He reached over and gripped my hand. After a few more minutes, he stopped crying. He stood up and tugged me in the direction of the parking lot.
“Ok,” I said, “Let’s go get your Dad and tell him you’re ready to go home.” And we did. And also, I told him that he was a great kid and I love hanging out with him. I probably should have said it sooner. I’ll try to remember to say it more often.
No lesson here, just reminiscing. I have a client, age 13, with moderate-to-severe developmental disabilities. Very social, loves music, loves simple word games such as being asked what sound various animals make, or asking me my favorite color, etc.. I generally see her for 3-5 hours a week, and have done so for the past two years. And just the other day, I had a very disquieting thought. It occurred to me, suddenly, that I probably understand more of what she says than anyone else in her life. Which is both unacceptable and understandable.
You see, in addition to assorted other disabilities and delays, she has a very profound speech impediment. She sometimes uses an iPad to communicate, but not often, and not with much fluency. She prefers speaking verbally. And, provided I pay very close attention and have had enough coffee, I can understand perhaps 75% of what she says. I don’t think anyone else in her life gets more than 50%. Teachers and therapists aren’t in her life long enough to learn. Her parents, in addition to being very busy people, are not native English speakers. They speak English quite fluently, but when you’re trying to decode speech based on minimal clues, there’s no substitute for having grown up with the language.
It’s not just the fact that her pronunciation is hard to understand. There’s also her unique patterns of speaking. She tends to drop consonant sounds, even the few she’s capable of making when she really tries. She drops words out of her phrases, syllables out of her words. And she speaks in the way people jot down notes to themselves, where a few key words stand for entire thoughts or requests. This is where it’s necessary to know her very well, because even if she pronounced those words perfectly, much of her speech would still be utterly mysterious to someone who doesn’t know what she’s referencing. There’s often quite a lot of guesswork even for someone who does know her.
If she comes to me and says “bus” (a word she can produce reasonably intelligibly), she might mean “I want you to make the sound of a bus” or she might mean “I want you to sing Wheels on the Bus.” Even if she says “I want bus,” I know she isn’t asking to ride on a bus. Sometimes for the song, she’ll say “duh bus” (the bus) or add the “round and round” gesture used in the song. Her BIs are working fairly intensively on getting her to give more information in her speech, so now sometimes she’ll say “sound bus” when she wants the sound. And if we’re already playing “make sounds of things,” it’s a good bet she wants a bus noise. She’s also pretty good with simple yes/no questions, so I can just ask. This is pretty simple. And many of her other shortenings are relatively easy to pick up, too: “A B song” is the alphabet song, “Gaga face” is Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” and what sounds like “Fie uh wayn” is Adele’s “Set Fire to the Rain.” “Uh dime it?” means “What time is it?” Some of her abbreviations make a lot of sense, especially for someone who struggles with pronunciation– cutting out articles and other words that aren’t as important to the meaning of what she’s saying. Others are less sensible and actually interfere with the meaning of what she’s saying. I don’t know if those happen because she doesn’t want to try and say certain words, or if there’s an actual cognitive disability in terms of her ability to recognize or remember or think in full sentences. Probably some of both.
Sometimes figuring out the reference is pretty hard. I often run though handfuls of guesses before hitting on the right one, and then I have to remember what that particular phrase means again in the future. Not as easy as it sounds, especially when many of those phrases are very similar, or sound very different from their correct pronunciations. When she asks “How was your day?” it often comes out sounding like “Wuh woo they?” I never would have figured out what it meant on my own; the BI who taught her that question filled me in on what she was saying, and I had to hear it a couple of times before it stuck in my mind. It doesn’t help that she sometimes ask “What’s today?” (as in, what day of the week is it), and it sounds pretty much the same. The way she says “color” is identical to how she says “flavor” (and I have no idea how to write it!). “White” and “grey” can both come out sounding like “why.” Something that sounded like a cross between “hammock” and “omelet” turned out to be a request for “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” So I have to guess at what sounds she is trying to produce, what word or phrase or part thereof those sounds are meant to represent, AND what she’s trying to convey by using those particular words.
Sometimes she finds a way to give me clues, sometimes not. Once, she asked over and over for “ghee ew up,” to my utter confusion. My brain started trying out possibilities: Giddy-up? Something about horses? Do I know a song about horses that I’ve sung to her before? (Many of her requests are for songs, which at least gives me some idea where to start). Or maybe it’s something about getting up. Is she asking me to help her get up? “Give it up,” perhaps. Is that a song? It might be a pop song I don’t know; she listens to a lot of pop music. Maybe I’m assuming word breaks in the wrong places. The last two syllables could be “Europe.” All along, of course, I’m saying things like “I’m sorry, I don’t understand, can you tell me another way? What is it?”
Finally she added a gesture– clasping her hands and swinging them back and forth. She had to do that a few times before I finally was able to make the mental leap to a song we’d sung together a few weeks prior. She was asking for “London Bridge is Falling Down.” Really. Here’s the logic: her favorite line in the song is “Take the key and lock her up, my fair lady.” (And sometimes, when I’m feeling energetic, I hold hands with her on that line and swing our hands back and forth.) So she was quoting her favorite line, but omitting most of the words, leaving her with the phrase “key her up,” which I was only able to figure out once I knew what she was asking in the first place. Sometimes at this job I feel a bit like a cryptographer. Or a linguistic anthropologist.
Another time, she said what sounded like “WUH wiggen.” No clue. She said it a few more times, but I was drawing a blank. Sadly, I can’t get her to add information by asking things like “What is it?” or “Can you tell me more about it?” or “Can you show me on your iPad?” but experience has taught me that sometimes she can answer certain yes/no questions that help me narrow it down.
(And rarely, wonderfully, if it’s a song, she’ll try and sing it for me. Her singing is beautiful, but not much more comprehensible than her speech. She only ever pronounces the final syllable of any line, the rest being filled in with moderately accurate vowel sounds with “w” substituted for the consonants. And while she can hold a note pretty well if she’s singing along to the radio or YouTube, when singing alone she’s very quiet, and the melody fades the same way the lyrics do, only bubbling to the surface briefly in places. Still, I love her singing, and there’s always a special thrill when she hits a line in the chorus and I finally recognize what she’s going for and start singing it with her and her face lights up with a smile about a mile wide.)
But this wasn’t one of those times.
“I don’t understand. Is that a person?” I ask. Could she have a friend at school named Mulligan or Brannigan or something like that?
“WUH wiggen,” she repeats.
She says it again, “WUH wiggen.” I admire her persistence. And sometimes, if she says something enough times, my brain will finally match her sounds up to actual words. The cadence helps a lot. But sometimes, we both just end up frustrated. Sometimes I work to get her attention onto something else instead, if I really don’t have a clue.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know it. Pick something else.”
“WUH wiggen.” She’s starting to look annoyed, and I can’t blame her. Could it be a game?… An animal?
“Is it a song?”
“Yeah.” Finally, a clue! But I can’t think of any song titles that match up. It could be anything from a nursery rhyme to a new release. The odds are against me, but serendipity is on my side. I somehow finally parse the words as “love again,” recognize them as belonging to the line “we can learn to love again,” and cross my fingers.
“Just Give Me a Reason? Is that what you want me to sing?” And finally, there’s the smile. Phew! I think she heaves a sigh of relief along with me. I laugh at the utter absurdity of the mental journey we’ve both just taken in order to reach common ground. And yeah, I’m feeling pretty good about myself for figuring that one out.
By the way, the song is completely out of my range and I only know about half the lyrics. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even try to sing it in the shower, much less where anyone can hear me. But I know that exchange was hard work for her as well as for me. I know it’s stressful for her to try over and over to make someone understand, with no guarantee of success. In short, she’s earned it. So I give it my best shot. Top of my lungs. And she smiles and smiles.
I wish more people in her life could decipher her speech too, but how could I ever explain to someone how to decode her communication? How could I teach them to seek out those mental leaps? I don’t even know how I do it, or how to improve. There’s no secret formula for this, no easy answer. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve failed at understanding her requests. Innumerable apologies for innumerable disappointments. Or the times I’ve figured something out, and then forgotten it on another day.
I’m proud of the times I’ve succeeded. I’m proud of her every time she figures out a way to give me more information. The leap from just saying “bus” to saying “sound bus” is huge. I still don’t know that she could go up to anyone and say “sound bus” and be understood, but it’s definitely progress. I’m sure that eventually she’ll be able to say “make sound of a bus,” and then she’ll be able to request it from anyone, not just the handful of people who know her best. I’m looking forward to that day on her behalf.
Anecdote from today. I was out walking with a teenage client and her BI. We’re working on teaching her to cross the street safely– stop, look, then walk. She’s not particularly interested in learning this. She’s used to having someone else take care of it for her, and she’s generally unenthusiastic about any task that requires her visual attention.
We reach an intersection, and stop. The BI prompts her to look to one side and then the other.
“Any cars?” She asks the client.
“Yes,” the client answers, although the street is completely devoid of traffic.
Now, this may well have been sheer laziness on our client’s part. “Yes” is often her default answer, and she tends to be a bit lax about yes/no questions. I have a hunch that the reason for this careless approach is that it only ever takes two tries to get a yes/no question correct, so why bother thinking about it too much? You say”yes” and then you get told “good job” or “try again.” Big deal.
(I also suspect this client of deliberately answering wrong at times during easy tasks in order to spend more time on those tasks rather than harder ones– a metaphorical “dragging her feet” tactic. So far, I seem to be the only person who has noticed this. On the other hand, she’s tricked me a number of times into helping her with a task that I later find out she’s perfectly capable of doing on her own.)
Returning from my tangent here: there is another possible explanation for her wrong answer today, and it goes back to what I said last time about precise language. Language has a lot of subtext and context, and we process them so automatically that we don’t even consider the possibility that our assumptions may not be obvious to someone else. The BI asked the client if she saw any cars. And there were plenty of cars– parked alongside the road. Is it possible that our client simply didn’t think about the purpose of the question and so misinterpreted the connotation?
“Are there any cars coming towards us?” I clarified. The BI laughed as she realized the possible misunderstanding. Unfortunately, our client’s attention had already moved on to other things, so I didn’t get a chance to find out if my rephrasing of the question was useful.
This is one of many reasons that I really wish ABA practitioners would give their clients brief explanations of tasks and their purposes before starting each task. It doesn’t do much good to teach someone to look both ways and report on the presence or absence of cars if they don’t understand that the purpose of this activity is to decide whether or not it’s safe to cross the street.
I might as well take a moment to point out that there are valid arguments on both sides here. Reasons to explain a task briefly beforehand include:
- The client might be able to judge how important this particular activity is for them (eg., they might be more attentive if they understand that the purpose is to keep them safe);
- The client might be less frustrated with a seemingly meaningless task if they can see that it is a step towards a larger goal;
- Offering an explanation is a form of courtesy and respect, of treating the client as an intelligent human being and presuming competence. If they can’t understand the explanation, there’s really no harm done, while if they can understand it, it seems rather rude not to offer one.
Reasons against include:
- Letting the client decide how important they consider a task can backfire, as children’s priorities are not always the most sensible;
- There is the possibility that the way the explanation is phrased will create misunderstandings that interfere with learning the task;
- On a related note, having the end goal in mind from the beginning might lead to the client skipping important steps in their haste to reach the result;
- Caregivers and therapists have to be more vigilant about laying blame on a client who fails at a task despite having had it explained. It’s very hard to remember that understanding the rules/steps and following them are separate skills. Also that being able to repeat the reason for something doesn’t necessarily mean understanding that reason. (I am reminded here of an anecdote in the memoir “Following Ezra” that goes something like this: the boy steals something from a classmate. To discourage this, his father tells him that when he steals, he disappoints both his father and God. The boy memorizes this lesson… and comes home the next day to cheerfully report, “Hey Dad, guess what? Today I disappointed you and God!” He had learned the words of the lesson but not the meaning, or at least not the implication, obvious to most people, that disappointing dad and God is not a good thing. He wasn’t a malicious kid, just an oblivious one. Fortunately, his father understood this and tried explaining it a different way.)
So, this post got a lot longer than I intended, and now I can’t think of a clever way to wrap it up. I hope I’ve given you something to laugh about and something to think about.
He’s one of those kids that people (myself included, I’m embarrassed to say) inevitably describe as being “in their own world.”* But that’s not true at all. Better to say that he perceives and interacts with the same world we do… he just does so very differently than most of us. We don’t “speak” the same mental language, and many things that most people take for granted just aren’t on his radar. I suspect that plenty of things that are obvious to him pass us by completely, too. He doesn’t often make eye contact, rarely looks at something that someone is pointing at. He doesn’t do social smiles, or acknowledge when people arrive or leave, or have any verbal language. It’s hard to remember sometimes that he’s actually very observant and quite clever.
He’s a musical kid. Hums a lot, whistles better than I do, and does some reasonably good bird calls. He vocalizes a fair bit, especially when happy or excited. But he doesn’t use many speech sounds, and almost no consonants. With one exception. One of his happy verbal stims goes something like this: “bee-bee-bee bee-buh-bee…”
I wondered about this for a while. Why “bee?” Granted, “B” it is one of the early consonant sounds babies learn, but usually after “Mama,” at least, and it’s usually “Bah” rather than “Bee.” “Gah” and “Dah” are also learned early, but I’ve never heard him say either of those. When the most likely answer finally popped into my mind, I couldn’t believe it took so long for the idea to occur to me.
See, he’s from a multilingual household, and the most commonly spoken language at home is… Arabic. Where the standard term of endearment is “habibi” (ha-bee-bee), which means “beloved.” His parents and grandparents and so on use his name as well, of course, but very often he is addressed as “habibi,” especially when people are happy with him.
It’s wonderfully endearing to me that, out of all the things he hears on a daily basis, this is the one he has chosen (consciously or not) to mimic. Maybe it’s his way of saying “I love you” back to his mother, to his family, to the world. I don’t know. But it sounds even more joyful now that I know its origins.
Bee-bee-buh-bee indeed, dear child, bee-bee-beeee…
* Autism expert Judy Endow writes on why she dislikes that phrase: http://www.judyendow.com/autistic-behavior/we-are-not-in-our-own-world/ http://ollibean.com/autism-and-measuring-normal/
Once upon a time, I realize sadly, I would have thought there was something “wrong” with a child like this one. I would have been ill at ease around him when I was a child myself. Painfully timid in my own childhood, I had almost a phobia of anything that stood out from the normal and drew attention to itself, completely unaware that I was one such subject myself. I didn’t “speak” fluent neurotypical then, but neither did I speak autistic, at least not in the sense of being able to relate to most other autistic people (though I suspect one of my few childhood friends would have qualified for a diagnosis of what was then called Asperger’s syndrome).
Now I speak passable neurotypical, and quite diplomatically at that. I also speak passable autistic– perhaps not with perfect fluency, but enough to make friends among its native people. Neither language requires much conscious effort on my part, except in extreme situations. “Speaking” is a metaphor here– it’s much less about verbal language than about mental and behavioral language. Perhaps I bridge the gap so well because my brain’s native language is verbal– like that of most neurotypicals– but its syntax and vocabulary are closer to autistic.
Language is on my mind because I think my young companion at the beach today speaks a very different neurological language than I do. His mind, I suspect, does not yet think in words. He seems to understand words that others say, although I have yet to gain a sense of his level of language comprehension. He shows no interest in words, so far as I can tell. I should mention that today was only my third time working with him, but within a few hours of our first meeting (when I introduced myself by reassuring him that I wasn’t there to make him sit at a table and do things), he identified me as an acceptable adult to trust and ask for help with things.
A neurotypical observer of us at the beach today would probably have identified little interaction, much less cooperation, between us. The same observer might not have known we were playing and having fun, except by looking at our smiling faces. They would have seen, mostly, a young woman meandering along the beach with an elementary-school boy, about 1-3 meters (yards) from him at all times.
The boy jumps on the wet sand at the water’s edge, squats down to gather a handful, tosses it to himself for a few minutes, repeats. He stands, lopes a few feet down the beach. Bends backward to stare at the sky. Stands with his head and leg angled to one side, like a dancer caught mid-turn, looking down at his own heel. A phrase from a piece of autistic performance art comes to mind– “stiff and stimmy, stiff and stimmy.” One hand flaps rhythmically, sometimes hanging down loosely from the elbow, at other times up near his face, his elbow bent. (I wince, recalling that as children we used that gesture as a derogative to indicate intellectual disability). He dashes into the surf and back, jumps, twirls, crouches, kneels, kicks water, scoops sand, again and again and again. Sometimes he brings sand to his face, smells or tastes it carefully. He is smiling broadly almost the entire time.
The boy is never silent. He shrieks, growls, makes sound effects, gives bird calls, vocalizes vowels, and hums– sometimes a few notes, sometimes a recognizable line or two from a song. I repeat a hummed phrase with him maybe 10 times, obviously knowing it yet unable to place it, until I finally recognize it as a middle line from a Christmas carol. Over perhaps an hour, I recognize half a dozen songs– children’s songs, mostly, in both English and French– all hummed perfectly in tune. He does not say or sing any words.
I walk along the beach near him, not crowding. I stoop to pick up shells, rocks, or seaweed. I draw patterns in the sand with my hands and feet, dig holes, make piles and shapes of sand that the boy often comes over and takes from my hands to play with. Sometimes I hum what he is humming, or join him in a yell of excitement or joy. Sometimes I hum or sing something else. Often I am quiet. I, too, am usually smiling.
Here’s what a casual observer does not see: every ten minutes or so, the boy looks up at me, as if making sure I’m still nearby, and smiles when his eyes meet mine. Although he walks looking at his feet, he manages not to bump into anyone on the busy beach. Only once or twice does the water and sand he is flinging about come near to hitting anyone. On those occasions, I come over, tap his arm, and remind him to please be careful not to get sand on other people. When he wades deeper into the waves, with me walking alongside him, he comes over to hold my hand, not letting go again until we’re back in the shallows. He doesn’t try to go in the water any deeper than where he can stand firmly, a level of safety-awareness that even many neurotypical children lack. His mother comes over at one point and asks if he is ready to leave. He gently but firmly pushes her away. At one point he takes my hand and pulls it toward his jacket. “You want me to take your jacket off?” I ask, and take hold of a sleeve. He pulls away, then brings my hand to his jacket again. “You want me to zip your jacket up?” I guess, and he stands still while I do so.
Here’s what I almost miss: a number of minutes after I pick up an interesting rock, he picks up a rock. He tosses it to himself for a while, then hands it to me to hold. Usually, as I draw patterns in the sand, he ignores them. Sometimes he comes over and steps on them. I wonder if perhaps he wants me to stop, but then I realize he’s just trying to experience them in a tactile way. Much later, he begins using his own feet to make patterns in the sand. I assume this is something he’s always done until his mother expresses surprise. I realize he’s been paying close attention to me all along.
From time to time, I tap his arm a few times to get his attention and point out something– a kite, a pelican, a crab– or make a request (“let me take your shirt off before you get in the water,” “We’ve gone far enough– let’s head back towards your Mom now,”).
I learn about the texture and feel of the sand in great detail. The warm, fine sand that lies dry above the tidemark. Sand swirling in the water against my legs. Watery sand between my toes as the waves retract. The innumerable textures and behaviors of sand between wet and dry– it’s fascinating stuff, really, the physics of how it moves and dries, clumps and scatters and melts. I stomp, place my foot lightly, press down, try to make different depths of footprints. The sand here is wonderful– white and black grains of slightly different weights that settle into beautiful patterns, and golden flecks of mica throughout both.
It’s a perfect afternoon, spent with a perfect companion. I wonder many things, about what he knows and doesn’t, when he will acquire certain skills that most children his age perfected long ago, when he will begin to communicate in words. I wonder what occupies his thoughts, remembering my own childhood hours of telling myself stories as I wandered back and forth in the yard. I wonder what it’s like to think in something other than words. I wonder what kinds of things he should be taught now, and how best to convey them, and how I would know whether or not he understands. But I have no fear– either of him or for him. He is obviously intelligent, happy, alert, and generally cooperative and considerate when he is aware of what others want from him. I can’t understand how anyone could think there is anything “wrong” with a child like this.
The literal-mindedness of autistic people often requires that we show a certain extra care in the way we communicate with them. Particularly as children, they have not yet learned many of the social and behavioral rules that go unsaid, the ones most other people generally pick up through observation by about age five, the ones that become so obvious that before childhood ends, most folks have stopped even being aware of them as rules. Even among typically developing children, I often see parents get frustrated with their children for asking questions whose answers are assumed universal by adults. I am always sad when I see a parent snap something like “what do you think?!” or “you know better!” at a child who is asking an honest question. (True, sometimes children do ask questions who answers they know perfectly well, but that’s a different story. I hate, too, when a parent says “stop that!” to a young child without specifying what “that” is. So unfair! But I digress).
The other day, I was working with an autistic client, an elementary-school boy. We were at a fountain, and (not surprisingly) he showed every sign of wanting to play in it, which would have been a bad idea in such cold weather.
“Please don’t get your clothes wet,” I instructed as we approached.
As soon as he got close enough, he scooped up some water in his hands and poured it onto his own foot. Deliberate disobedience? Not having attended to my instructions? Lack of impulse control? Or…? A moment later, a thought occurred to me.
“Your shoes count as clothes,” I clarified. And then, because I remembered that many autistic children (as well as those with ADHD and other developmental disabilities) often do better with instructions that tell them what to do rather than what not to do, I rephrased my instructions altogether:
“You may get your hands wet, but only your hands, nothing else.” And he followed this instruction easily.
Now, this child is not perfectly obedient– no child is. He has a mischievous streak, a strong will, intense curiosity, and a frequent tendency to ignore the preferences of his caregivers. But at the same time, I suspect he sometimes gets labeled as disobedient unfairly.
When you give him a rule or instruction, it is common for him to do something that almost goes against the rule, but not quite. Children like this are often said to be attention-seekers, to “like getting a rise out of people,” or to always be “pushing boundaries” and “seeing what they can get away with.” This puts a somewhat negative spin on the situation, making it sound as if the child prefers to cause a certain amount of trouble. And perhaps at times this is true.
But let me offer a possible alternative explanation.
Imagine a typically developing boy of the same age. His mother sends him out to play on a muddy day with the instruction “don’t get your clothes dirty!” The boy thinks about this for a moment and wonders if the rule applies to his shoes as well. So he asks. In words. Verbally. He says something like “Does that mean my shoes, too?” And he gets an answer.
Such a simple and obvious exchange, we hardly notice it.
But now think of a relatively nonverbal child in the exact same situation. He has the same question in mind, but he lacks the words and the ability to ask the question verbally. He still wants to know the answer. And the only possible way for him to get the answer is to perform an experiment, to try the action that he is not sure is allowed and see how people react. He’s not trying to test limits or get anyone upset or cause trouble– he’s just trying to ask a question (as all children do), using the only method he knows.
So please, think of this possibility the next time you work with a child who seems to be trying to get around the rules or give you a hard time. They may just want to understand better, and it would be unfair to punish them for that perfectly reasonable desire. Please assume, at least at first, that the child has the best of intentions. Be respectful of the fact that they may genuinely not understand, may not have the same basic knowledge about the situation that you take for granted. And please take responsibility for your part of helping the child behave well: be as clear and explicit as possible when setting rules. Choose your words with care, in order to make the situation easier for a child who might be struggling very hard to do the right thing.
[Update!! Those who want a tool similar to this can download one for free from http://autismandhealth.org/%5D
I have heard many complaints from autistic people and other people with disabilities about their struggles in communicating with healthcare professionals, etc.. I propose a simple questionnaire for professionals to use. These would be standard intake questions, and the answers would be put at the front of the patient/client’s chart.
If you like this idea, please take this quick online survey!!!
If I get enough positive feedback, I will try to make this tool become a reality. I don’t know how, but I will try. Please help me spread the word.
(If you have trouble wti the survey, you can also comment here on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/notes/open-discussion-on-autism/suggested-questionnaire-for-healthcare-and-related-professionals/789224341139804)