The following exchange from Ghostbusters has always stuck with me when it comes to Skylar’s typically developing little sister Alyssa’s right to a separate existence when it comes to school:

 Egon Spengler (as played by the late Harold Ramis): There’s something very important I forgot to tell you.

Peter Venkman (as played by Bill Murray): What?

Spengler: Don’t cross the streams.

Venkman: Why?

Spengler: It would be bad.

Venkman: I’m fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing. What do you mean, “bad”?

Spengler: Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.

As previously written about in this blog, I’ve always been a proponent of Alyssa having her own life at school without having to answer questions about why her big sister says or does certain things.  It’s not that I don’t think Alyssa can handle it—I’ve seen her educate others both young and old at a level so high that it would make the most decorated BCBAPhDMBAMDEsquire pass out in awe. I just don’t want her to have to.  That’s why I wasn’t initially delighted when my wife Jen decided Skylar (accompanied by her ABA pro and BCBA) would attend Alyssa’s school talent show last evening.  Sure, we were armed with a ridiculous amount of support but taking Skylar places even without supports has never been an issue for us—taking Skylar places without her having issues is more the problem.  While we generally don’t mind Skylar struggling in public, as it’s our job as her parents to normalize her life as much as possible, it’s also our life to do the same for Alyssa and having a big sister melting down like an infant is not normal.  Skylar attending this talent show was crossing the streams.

Egon Spengler: I have a radical idea. If the door swings both ways, we could reverse the particle flow through the gate.   

Peter Venkman: How?

Spengler: We’ll cross the streams.     

Venkman: Excuse me, Egon, you said crossing the streams was bad. You’re gonna endanger us, you’re gonna endanger our client. The nice lady who paid us in advance before she became a dog.

Spengler: Not necessarily. There’s definitely a very slim chance we’ll survive.

Not surprisingly, Skylar did just fine during the eating portion of the evening, dining on multi-cultural cuisine and several dozen desserts without incident. But when the lights went down for the show, my heart began to race.  Alyssa had enough on her plate as a seven-year-old playing piano in front of a crowd for the first time.  A big sister melting down on top of that didn’t seem fair.

When the first group of performers took the stage, Skylar predictably dealt with her anxiety over being in a strange place mixed with the expectation she remain seated and reasonably quiet by perseverating.  Over and over again, she asked “Why did I get a break for one million minutes?” When her ABA Pro and BCBA didn’t bite, she turned to the biggest sucker she knew for affirmation: She turned to me.

Skylar wanted me to reply “because you’re cute” but I couldn’t, even as her voice began to escalate to “scene” levels.   Replying to a question from my older daughter based in perseveration and the need to script/gain attention from others is about the worst thing anyone can do if they want her to stop.  Thus, my response had to be no response at all. The problem with ignoring Skylar then and there was that it didn’t matter if a meltdown presented a learning opportunity for her to realize throwing a fit doesn’t equate to getting her own way.  What did  matter then and there was that if she melted down, all life Alyssa knew when it came to her autism-free safe haven school would stop instantaneously and every molecule in her body would explode at the speed of light.

Skylar took a break from asking me the same question to use another of her coping mechanisms—the old bathroom request. Her workers granted it and I took the opportunity to move away, as I was obviously the target.  Still, I cringed in anticipation of hearing her yelling behind me or watching leave in a tizzy while Alyssa hid her head in shame but neither of those things happened.  Two things that did happen were Alyssa kicking major ass on the piano playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” and “London Bridges”, and Skylar kicking major ass too—that is to say, she kicked perseveration’s ass majorly.

By the end of the show, Skylar was singing along to a young lady performing Owl City’s “Good Time” and requesting to sing “Unconditionally” by Pink in her own school talent show.  She helped herself to more food and played around other kids, including her sister. She also approached adults and asked random questions, all of which were answered patiently.  One exchange from our night will stick with me in the future when it comes to Skylar and Alyssa’s school:

            Skylar: How old are you?

            A woman: How old do you think I am?

            Skylar: Twenty-one.

           The woman (laughing) I’m a bit older but I love you for saying that!

           Skylar (in a matter of a fact tone): I love you too.

We crossed the streams and lived to tell about it.

The somewhat evil expression on Skylar’s face pre-show didn’t exactly give me confidence she’d do well as a spectator but she ended up having an excellent time watching her little sister play the piano

 

Long before I was the Autism Dad of Skylar, I was a fledgling novelist not yet 30 years old. I had what appeared to be success almost out of the gate, procuring a coveted literary agent just a few months after sending out query letters for the manuscript I’d finished (ha-ha!). In mid-2001, I entered into a six-month contract whereby the agent would pitch my work to publishing houses. The future looked bright, even when the agent wasn’t able to sell my book within the agreed upon time frame. She claimed it wasn’t the material but a suddenly volatile book market and that I should keep at it.

Keep at it I did. I left my job as a Day Program Director at a program for adults with special needs, in part, to provide shared living to my favorite individual there whom my wife Jen and I wanted to become a part of our hopefully growing family, and, in part, to have free time during traditional working hours while still drawing a good salary. The free time not only meant our future kids wouldn’t need to be placed in day care, it also meant I could have more time to pursue agents and tweak my finished (ha-ha!) book in the unlikely event it needed any fixing. I even began work on the next one.

I sent out dozens of query letters but instead of getting the positive responses I’d anticipated, I mostly received form letters rejecting my proposal. Still, I remained undaunted, as virtually every successful writer I knew of experienced the exact same thing. The agents who didn’t ignore my proposal asked for material such as the first 50 pages, which I was happy to oblige. Similarly to when I’d gotten my first agent, I figured the work itself was my surefire entry into this exclusive world.

I was dead wrong. I received vague-but-polite rejection letters in response, praising aspects of the writing but claiming it “wasn’t a match” for what they sold. I wasn’t terribly upset, however, as my priorities changed dramatically when Jen gave birth to Skylar, our firstborn. I had no intention of giving up on my writing dreams just yet but I did need to take a short break. Little did I know the short break would last nearly six years.

The first several months of Skylar’s life was a challenge unlike any I’d ever faced. I’d never even been around a baby, let alone served as the primary caretaker for one. I had very little idea what I was doing and, unlike writing, nothing came naturally to me. Unfortunately, things I believed to be challenges at the time paled in comparison to what was to come.

When Skylar reached nine months, we began to notice her development had not only stalled but was heading in the wrong direction. She was no longer meeting milestones and appeared extremely detached, staring incessantly at ceiling fans and not responding to much of anything verbally. She tapped things for hours on end and displayed little emotion or ambition to explore her surroundings. Jen and I were both in the human services field but only my wife had the foresight to suspect autism. I, on the other hand, suspected Skylar’s struggles were the direct result of being stuck with an inexperienced, unskilled father during the day. Even though I was trying extremely hard to be a good parent, what the hell did that matter? There are no points for effort when it comes to parenting. I had to improve, leaving me no time to sell a stupid book.

Our pediatricians—as they were trained to do—downplayed the possibility that Skylar’s delays indicated autism. In fairness to them, the intensity of my concerns didn’t exactly match those of my wife, making Jen look like the type of worried first-time parent who needed constant reassurance everything was okay. And in defense of me, Jen absolutely did fit such a profile, as autism was hardly the only malady she’d diagnosed Skylar with during our daughter’s first year of life.

Skylar around the time we started to notice her development had stalled

The pediatrician suggested bringing Skylar to an ear specialist, as she’d had several infections over the previous few months. The ear specialist looked in her ears and immediately remarked they “looked like hell”, so much so it was questionable if she could hear much of anything. It was a huge relief, as the run of infections lined up perfectly with the time she began to fall behind developmentally. That had to be it. She didn’t have autism and I was off the hook for sucking as a father. The tubes the doctor was to insert would solve everything. I was so relieved I even began to think about resuming work on selling my book to agents.

The tubes he inserted improved Skylar’s hearing but solved nothing. She continued her detachment from the world around her, making no eye contact and developing zero language skills. She played with toys incorrectly by spinning wheels or slapping them and had no sleep pattern to speak of. Meanwhile, her cousin Jenna, born just two weeks after my daughter, seemed likely to go on a spoken word tour and teach at a university before reaching the age of two. Jen continued to insist it was autism but nobody else seemed to agree, most of all me. Skylar’s problem was her awful father but I was getting better and so would she. Any other possibility was too horrible to consider.

Reality was forced upon me when Skylar was diagnosed with autism at 18 months by not a doctor but a comprehensive study at Boston University. People immediately told me how lucky she was to be born to parents who would know what to do. Right. Maybe she was lucky to be born to Jen but I sucked so much that I couldn’t even admit my kid had autism until it was way too late. I’d been a delusional coward and my poor little girl was probably doomed to a life of solitude because of it. I would never connect with Skylar.

For obvious reasons, I continued to ignore my book but that didn’t mean I didn’t spend a ton of time reading. I needed to educate myself about what my little girl was facing and how to best help, as all of my professional autism experience was with adults, not kids. My hopes were raised when I noticed that more than one of these books spoke of a miracle diet that had “cured” kids with autism. It occurred to me that the claims were farfetched but, then again, how could more than one person have the same story? It didn’t seem harmful so why not give it a shot.

The diet possibly helped regulate Skylar’s sleep pattern and she made great improvements across the board over the next 18 months, though the huge increase in the volume of her direct services resulting from the official autism diagnosis directly coincided with her surge. Maybe I couldn’t help my kid beyond defrosting a delicious Kinnikinnick donut that fell within her gluten-free-casein-free (GFCF) diet but I was going to at least oversee the miracle of her recovery. I even started to dabble in selling my book again, sending out query letters but not bothering to read or edit the material because it was, after all, finished (ha-ha!). I also trained to become an educational advocate for kids with special needs.

We eventually determined the GFCF diet, while not harmful, didn’t make a lick of difference in Skylar’s autism while making her even more of a social outcast so we dropped it. Nonetheless, her improvement, outside of occasional regressive periods, was steady. She was talking in short phrases, fairly well-behaved, and seemed happy enough as she entered the public school system. I spent the next few years working steadily as an advocate and volunteering for non-profit organizations in increasingly high profile, time-consuming roles that kept me from any actual writing beyond the occasional query letter. It was just as well, as I continued to get vague, polite rejections or ignored altogether. It didn’t bother me, though, because who the hell cared about selling a book when I had a kid with autism to save and other kids with special needs to help? It wasn’t until I received a particularly blunt rejection letter that my passion for writing was reinvigorated.

The letter basically said my voice in the book was boring (I was writing in third person perspective) and it contained a ton of clichéd material. What? Sorry but my friends and former agent who’d read my work would strongly disagree, sir. Sorry you wasted your postage to share such a garbage take. Obviously, this particular agent just didn’t get the deepness of what I was conveying and decided to make stuff up to cover for his own intellectual shortcomings. As I dug through his notes, I realized the bastard who’d written these unkind things was…right on the money. Blessed (I guess) with years spent away from digging deeply into what I’d written, I realized the book was failing because it deserved to fail and the agent who’d represented me all those years ago had made a mistake in doing so. As for my friends, well, they were my friends and, thus, far more likely willing to look past major issues, keep reading, and focus on the positive than would a person with whom I had no affiliation.

With Skylar entering first grade and my younger daughter Alyssa thankfully developing typically, I said goodbye to special education advocacy (the money I made wasn’t commensurate with the time it consumed) and set about reinventing the book in a voice that wouldn’t be boring in the least—ten of them, to be exact—in first person perspective. Maintaining coherence, of course, would be a challenge, as I was taking on a literary task more absurdly overwhelming than attempting to cure my kid’s autism by following the lead of 90’s MTV game show hosts and doctors with questionable-at-best credentials.

The initial results of the revamped book— much like Skylar’s development for the few years that followed—were mixed and exhausting, even though I didn’t work on it with any type of consistency. She struggled for the most part at school and home.  Meanwhile, nobody who read the updated, more ambitious version of my novel seemed to like it (versus almost everyone liking the lesser version years before).

I took yet another long hiatus from writing to accept a job as a day program director for almost a year and expanding my roles volunteering for everything under the sun. But, as chronicled in previous entries of this blog, my decreased presence in my older daughter’s life, even just as the point person to coordinate and advise, proved disastrous, and I had to leave the new job. Hey, at least maybe I didn’t suck so much as a Dad after all.

Unfortunately, continuing to suck as a writer was something else altogether. Even when I had bursts of effort with the book, I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to accomplish with it anymore. That’s when a conference with the slogan “Write More, Suck Less” caught my eye. It was the Southern California Writer’s Conference (SCWC) http://writersconference.com/sd/
in February of 2013. It was time to put up or shut up.

For those six months leading up to SCWC, I worked tirelessly to make my new version of the book much clearer and more focused on story than technique. I finally started getting positive feedback from readers again, though I still knew them all personally. I went to the conference nervous but confident and, by the time it ended, not only had the mostly positive feedback continued from fellow writers I’d never met but I also had a clue about how the book business worked for the first time. Best of all, I met some people I’m now honored to call friends and have had the thrill of watching them find success with their projects over the past several months.

I returned home on a mission. I spent the next year addressing issues in the book I’d learned of through feedback at the conference and then sending it out to a wide variety of readers (most of whom I didn’t know this time around). The praise continued by and large, so much so that I hired a professional editor with whom I have great chemistry. He’s helped me bring the book to the point where I feel as though it’s one draft away from being a viable candidate for representation and/or publication. I returned to the SCWC last weekend with high hopes for another great experience, hopes that took a big hit when I contracted food poisoning on day two.

When I wasn’t shivering and vomiting in my room while missing out on great workshops and seeing people I’d been looking forward to seeing again for a year, I moped. The food poisoning was the perfect symbol of my star-crossed journey with this book and as a writer. It didn’t matter how much I’d improved, how hard I’d worked, or how I’d shown courage to get my stuff in front of others—3,000 miles from home no less. There are no points for effort when it comes to publishing a novel. The book and my writing aspirations were doomed too.

I went on Facebook to leave a post on the SCWC page explaining my sudden disappearance, as walking from my room to tell people in-person in when I was so nauseous was risky (one unfortunate hotel trash barrel learned this firsthand). I was hardly a celebrity at the conference but enough people knew me there to probably at least wonder where the hell I’d disappeared to. Shortly thereafter, Skylar, as she’s apt to do, stole her mother’s phone and decided to also go on Facebook. In the process, she noticed my post. A few minutes later, I received the text in her inimitable style asking if I had thrown up.

Aside from the complete weirdness of the scenario, her text was normalcy personified—a daughter asking her father who was away on a trip if he was okay after finding out he’d taken ill. My spirits were bolstered immediately. Maybe my effort in trying to write hasn’t yet mattered from a publication standpoint but my efforts as a parent do matter. I realized right there that no matter what happens to my book, my writing odyssey has been a success. Skylar and I are connected. She’s not doomed to a life of solitude at all.

I’m not sure I’m a writer but I definitely try. The MA is written in because the tag mistakenly read CA and people I didn’t know were wondering why I had a Boston accent. I also think the CA reflected an unconscious wish I lived out there on the part of the Conference organizers and, really, who could blame them?

One of the following things is not like the others…or so it seems.

• A good report card
• Making a sports team
• Praise for high character from a teacher or Principal
• A significant amount of friends
• A flat chart

The first four things listed are all common sources of pride and causes for celebration for parents when it comes to their child and school. The final thing, while appearing atypical to most, was definitely a source of pride and cause for celebration for me when it was sent home yesterday.  We often associate soaring as a positive when it comes to matters of education but when it comes to that chart, Skylar, and me, it turns out that grounded is the key to success.

As evidenced by the soaring dots of 2012-2013, grounded has not always been the case for Skylar at school and my soaring denial was to blame.  It all goes back to her IEP meeting at the end of her second year of kindergarten (Yes, she required not one but two years of notoriously rigorous kindergarten.  Such a thing would be a red flag to most but, as you might have guessed, this isn’t a blog entry where I’m going to come off terribly wise.)  The meeting was led by a TEAM Chair who, like most (not all!) TEAM Chairs I’ve encountered, didn’t exactly give off the vibe she had my child’s best interests at heart.  When I raised the possibility of Skylar being placed full-time into a full inclusion classroom for first grade, she emphatically shot me down.  I rolled my eyes on the inside, as I felt her point of view had more to do with the school district not wanting to potentially hire a 1:1 down the road to keep Skylar in the least restrictive setting possible than an informed opinion but, informed or not, her opinion was consistent with past TEAM Chairs and the district as a whole.  Plus, what could I really do if the rest of the TEAM agreed? That’s when something interesting occurred: the rest of the TEAM didn’t agree and stated, on the record, Skylar could handle full inclusion in first grade.  Wow!   My pride soared, even as I failed to grasp the in first grade portion of their statement and substituted it with forever.

The TEAM Chair continued to protest.  She comically kept getting up to leave the room and make phone calls only to come back with different compromise offers all designed to keep my daughter out of full inclusion.  I replied emphatically each time that I would only sign an IEP placing Skylar in a full inclusion setting, where access to typically developing peer role models and the true curriculum awaited.  The rest of the TEAM backed me completely and it turned out spectacular…in first grade.

First grade was a dream year for my daughter.  Her teacher, para, and classmates were all amazing and she thrived both behaviorally and academically, even without the 1:1.  I sat at her IEP at the end of that school year giving the TEAM Chair the middle finger on the inside and barely listening to warnings from the educators and therapists I so liked and trusted about how the abstract nature of the material in second grade may be too much for Skylar and it could manifest itself in negative behaviors so why not pull back at least a little with the full inclusion to start second grade and consider additional staffing if necessary?  I watched the TEAM Chair stare daggers at the teachers and therapists but I wasn’t processing the actual reason why because I was stuck on the whole pull back on full inclusion portion of the conversation.  What?  No way!  Seriously, the kid had two errors on spelling tests all year in first grade but second grade was suddenly going to be some big problem?  Jeesh.  Two spelling errors in a single school year. Was that a record of some type? It had to be.  She was college-bound! Sure, she had little to no idea what any of those words she spelled correctly actually meant but still—two wrong all year! I was so busy soaring that I failed to read between the lines that maybe it was time for me to push for the 1:1.

Grade two didn’t start out as dreamy unless you categorize nightmares as dreams. I began getting notes in Skylar’s communication log about her aggressing towards the para but I didn’t panic.  Sure, Skylar had never been violent before but it was a new para and she was obviously just testing.  I figured her negative behaviors would stop soaring.  I was wrong, as they worsened to such an extent the classroom teacher bravely and heroically put her neck on the line at an emergency TEAM meeting and stated flat-out Skylar could possibly handle full inclusion in second grade but only with a 1:1 staff person. The school district, to its credit, didn’t (at least openly) dispute this and a 1:1 was hired for my daughter. Surely, this would prove the fix.  Wrong again.

At Skylar IEP, the TEAM suggested partial pullout with the 1:1 accompanying her at all times would be best for her headed into third grade but I rejected the notion. How was she going to get into college unless she was pushed the same as other kids in her grade?  If the difficulty of the work or expectation she remain on-task was stressing her out, I was sorry to hear it but there were behavioral interventions yet to be tried that could help with that, especially with a new school BCBA we liked on board.  Third grade would be better.

It wasn’t. Academic progress was largely non-existent but Skylar’s aggressions soared to the point of being felonious assaults towards her poor 1:1.  I felt bad, of course, but I reasoned dealing with such things was the 1:1’s job and if she wasn’t suited for it, they could transfer her to another child and find one who was.  I remained idiotically closed off to the notion Skylar couldn’t handle full inclusion until I began getting reports kids were crying because she was scaring them. Suddenly, a ton of bricks landed on the wall that had been blocking my sense of reason.

My daughter had always been loved, accepted, and included by kids and parents alike at her school but her newfound (in retrospect, only “newfound” to me) volatility was putting that at-risk. Plus, I loved those kids and the last thing I wanted was for Skylar to make school a terrible experience for them.  I finally conceded full inclusion may not be the place for my daughter after all and requested to move her to a sub-separate classroom setting for half of the day. But it was too late. The overcrowded school no longer had the physical space necessary for such a classroom, necessitating a move to a different school within the district to meet her needs. Had I been more open-minded prior the third grade and actually put aside my disdain for bureaucrats and foolish pride that  my daughter with autism could do the impossible and instead listened to what people who I respected we saying about my daughter, maybe such a classroom would still exist. I had blown it for my little girl.

I hated the idea of Skylar going to a different school. She was already socially inept and introducing her one-of-a-kind act to a bunch of kids who hadn’t known and accepted her since kindergarten (years one and two, no less) potentially doomed her to ridicule and loneliness instead of tolerance and acceptance. What had I done?  I was incredibly guilty over my screw up and what do I do when I’m incredibly guilty over a screw up?  I read.  Yup, it was really time to soar!

I headed straight to Amazon’s website. Was it to order some type of psychology book for myself to get to the bottom of why I’m such a moron? No, it was to purchase a book about homeschooling a child with autism.  Actually, since it was an idea that was 2x the awesome, I bought two books about homeschooling a child with autism. Sure, I didn’t have the patience with Skylar to teach her to zipper her coat but what possibly could go wrong?  Fortunately, my reclusive sense of reason again made an appearance and I never found out.  As awful as it would be for Skylar, a new school in the district was the only realistic solution and, when that inevitably failed, I’d fight for an out of district placement (even though I’ve never wanted her outplaced).  Yes, once again, I was viewing my little girl as more prop than a person.

I was one signature away from my master plan beginning when my logic finally became grounded enough to allow me to think effectively outside the box.  I loved the new BCBA and she had great ideas she’d put into place for the smaller kids with autism entering the school while most of the older kids with autism with behavioral needs had been sent elsewhere. But why couldn’t the remaining ones like Skylar stay?  Space?  That seemed an easy fix.  I knew a new Principal would be hired the following year. I had no problem with the old Principal, mind you, but maybe the new one could have direct experience at a program for kids with autism and know how to fight to get resources? If Skylar could just get through third grade, there was the potential to keep her where she belonged and meet her educational needs.

It was time to put my advocacy skills to use for something productive for the first time in a few years.  With the help of two other groups of parents, my wife Jen and I pushed hard with the district to provide the BCBA what she needed both for the present and future.  I then assured Skylar’s phenomenally  patient  classroom teacher that I couldn’t have cared less what my daughter did or didn’t do academically the rest of the school year and would sign anything I needed to sign to take the pressure off of everyone. Finally, I made a point of apologizing in advance to the parents of the kids in her class for my daughter’s behavior but their responses were almost universal: we love Skylar and we want her to stay.

Stay she did. She and everyone else survived the rest of third grade.  The school hired a principal with a background educating kids with autism, a special education teacher with the same profile, and found space to create a sub-separate classroom for her and other older students with autism who needed it.  Skylar is still included with her typically developing peers during fun things like recess, lunch, and special classes like music but is able to retreat to a quieter, less pressurized setting for academics. My modest aspiration for her entering fourth grade was to simply decrease her negative behaviors but, as that’s occurred, her schoolwork has steadily improved.  I am overjoyed.

I realize Skylar’s story when it comes to school is far from finished and there will be bumps and dips—both good and bad— along the way but I will never again rise or fall with them.  I am grounded.

 

Diamond Is the Sky now has a Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/#!/diamondisthesky

For many parents of people with special needs, our number one fear in life is what will happen to our child when we die.  I’ve even heard some special needs parents say there are times they almost hope to outlive their child.  It seems incredibly backwards and wrong but I absolutely understand this mentality.  What will become of our vulnerable kids when they’re no longer young and we’re no longer around to protect them?  To many of us, it’s a mystery just as foreboding as death itself.  The natural coping mechanism is to take solace in the existence of our typically developing children like my daughter Alyssa.

Solace is fine but actual expectations are not.  Just because somebody like me or my wife Jen is the parent of a child with special needs doesn’t mean the world owes us anything. Our typically developing kids don’t, either. I had this epiphany roughly ten seconds into Alyssa’s life. After thanking God she was healthy, I then thanked God she was a girl. Why?  A girl, I generalized, was more likely to care for a sibling with autism like my older daughter Skylar than a boy would be. As I listened to my tiny newborn daughter cry, it suddenly struck me just how vile my previous thought was. Alyssa was a human being in her own right, not a pre-destined savior for somebody else. I made a promise to myself from thereon I would never put any pressure on her to be anything but the best person she could be.  And I’ve sincerely done my very best to keep this promise but have often felt as though I’ve failed her. Oddly enough, her general awesomeness towards her big sister and autism matters in general have been the source of my angst.

I think Alyssa’s outgoing, truthfully often loud nature makes her benevolence towards her sister and other kids with autism more effective because so many eyes are generally on her.

Two stories, in particular, stand out.  It’s because Alyssa not only displayed great compassion for people with autism but led the way for others to do so, as well.  The first was in pre-school a few years back. Alyssa, not yet four, was in a class with about a dozen other kids, including one who clearly had some issues setting him apart from everyone else.  My younger daughter, who developed radar for such things from the time she could put two words together, immediately recognized the source of these issues and expressed her concern to me. “Poor lil’ ossism boy, Daddy.  He doesn’t wanna play with anyone and nobody wants to play with him but I pat his head and say ‘it’s okay, lil’ ossism boy.’  I tell my friends they should play with him, too.”

I was blown away for a number of reasons, not all positive, but decided to assist her in her quest to befriend this child and set an example for others to do so. It wasn’t too difficult because I had the real world example of Skylar to draw from. “I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t want to play with anyone,” I replied. “I think he’s not yet comfortable playing with people he doesn’t know. Maybe you could just give him a moment of your time every day and play near him?  Maybe he’ll come to you when he’s ready if you do this enough? Maybe your friends will see this and try to do the same thing? It would probably work better than you telling them they should do it.  Also, try not to call him ‘lil ossism boy’.  He probably feels different enough already.”

“Okay, Daddy,” my younger daughter shot back.  About a week later, I arrived at her school a bit early for pickup and saw that not just Alyssa but several other kids from the class were playing near the kid she had been concerned about.   It wasn’t a stretch to assume my little girl had something to do with this welcome development. My overwhelming pride, however, was mixed with sadness.  Alyssa should just be a pre-school student, dammit, not a play therapist.  Why did I advise her like I had?  Had I put pressure on her?  I may have broken my promise to myself.

Skylar and Alyssa just hanging out

My second story is from last spring. About nine months ago, Alyssa (who attends a different public school from her big sister to better insure having her own existence) was playing with some classmates at a playground when Skylar and I arrived to pick her up.  My younger daughter, who loves to work a crowd for laughs, decided it would be funny to whisper bathroom terms into Skylar’s ear along with the command she repeat the words for her friends.  Skylar did as requested, causing everyone present to laugh hysterically.  I wasn’t happy but decided not to embarrass Alyssa on the spot.  After all, she was generally a great sister and, as a kid, had the right to screw up every now and then.  I did talk to her later, though.

“Alyssa, you know it wasn’t right to script Skylar to say those things, don’t you? She trusts you more than anyone in the world and you took advantage of that.”

Alyssa’s lip began to quiver. “I was just joking, Dad. We were just laughing at the jokes.  Skylar was laughing, too.”

“You were all laughing at her—not with her—and you made her the joke, Alyssa.  Please don’t do it again.”

Alyssa began to cry and I felt awful. I didn’t feel that I was wrong in what I’d said, mind you, but that was small comfort in the moment.  She didn’t deserve to be lectured so heavily, especially since I would have done the same thing when I was six years old. Had I again broken my promise to myself?

Early this fall, Skylar and I returned to the playground.  Once again, there was a crowd of kids. “Alyssa, tell her to say ‘poop’,” one of them bellowed, causing the other kids to laugh.

Alyssa wasn’t among them, though. “That’s making fun of her,” she snapped, getting in the offending party’s face.  “Don’t do it again!”  A few seconds later, nobody else was laughing, either.  Yet again, I was both incredibly proud and mortified.  It was wonderful for Alyssa to stick up for her sister but what had I done in making her feel she had to do so?

It’s best not to mess with Skylar when her little sister is around

A few weeks later, over thirty little girls came to our house for Alyssa’s birthday party, including the one who’d requested Skylar say “poop.”  They played like maniacs, stopping only to work on craft projects like the bags many of them were designing to take home. Skylar, as she’s apt to do, misplaced her bag and began to throw a fit.   The kids present who knew Skylar weren’t too fazed and knew to ignore her. The ones who didn’t know her, however, were understandably thrown off to see such rage over something so minor and wide-eyed whispering ensued. This was the exact reason I try to keep some separation between Skylar and Alyssa’s lives.  Why should Alyssa have to feel embarrassed?

My wallowing was interrupted by the child who requested Skylar say ‘poop’ emerging with the missing bag. “Here you go, Skylar,” she said. “I looked all around and found it.  It’s okay.” I rubbed my eyes in disbelief.  Not only had this particular young lady learned from her mistake to empathize with Skylar, my Alyssa had been the teacher!

Alyssa has shown a knack in her brief life to not only lead Skylar but others, as well, when it comes to matters of autism

When I praised my younger daughter the next day for being such a great role model, she had a response that warmed my heart/troubled me deeply. “Of course, Dad. Skylar’s my best friend and always will be.”

“Don’t say that,” I moaned.  “I mean, that’s great for her, Alyssa, but she can’t give back like you deserve. Be a good sister but you don’t have to be her best friend.”

She glared at me. “Are you saying she can’t be my best friend? That’s not up to you, Dad.”

It was time for another epiphany.  Sure, I had no right to tell her she had to feel responsible for Skylar in any way or devote part of her life to her big sister but I also had no right to tell her she couldn’t. Maybe being Skylar’s best friend/savior was just who Alyssa was and, more importantly, wanted to be.  I realized I’d better back down real fast. “You’re right, Alyssa.  You can be whoever you want.”

Note: I’m now on Facebook. Please visit and like my page at www.facebook.com/diamondisthesky

Alyssa launched “Little Lissy Loom” for a period last fall to make and sell loom bracelets then give the money to charities important to her. It has sometimes bothered me why a kid so little would feel compelled to be so giving rather than just a little kid but I’ve come to accept that’s who Alyssa is.