Chris' duckpond adventure

I'm currently working on a series of family recollections for a scrapbook for my mother, who recently turned 85. This is one of them.

It was just a few days before Christmas 1995. The boys were seven and Andrea was about to turn three. My mother and father had arrived from Victoria the day before and I wanted to show them a local beauty spot. I also needed to pick up the ham and turkey we’d ordered from our local butcher, and since the kids had gone slightly feral, I thought I could kill three birds with the one stone.

Everyone piled into the Tarago and we drove to the nearby Punchbowl Reserve. As its name suggests, it is a shallow bowl-like depression and it has been beautifully landscaped. It is very popular with families.

There is a glorious rhododendron garden, sweeping lawn, a duck pond, barbeque and picnic facilities and a recently refurbished play area. I anticipated we would take a pleasant stroll over the lawn to see the ducks, planning to finish up at the playground and then back home via the butchers.

Easy.

Or Not

Everything was quite straightforward until we reached the duck pond, which is half way across the reserve. We didn’t even have a chance to point out the ducks, let alone feed them, when Chris ventured one step too close to the edge and slithered right in.

The pond isn’t excessively deep – perhaps waist deep – IF he’d not floundered around. But by the time I hauled him out, he was completely soaked up to his neck and covered in mud and pondweed.

Thankfully the weather was fairly mild and we stripped him off at the water’s edge but the issue remained; what could he wear back to the car?

I had Nick give him his woollen jumper and Andrea gave up her hoodie for the cause. The jumper was a straight swap since the boys were of a size, but the only thing I could do with the hoodie was tie it around his waist like a little apron or some kind of native lap-lap (since the hood swung between his knees). Modesty was satisfied – sort of – but he looked quite bizarre.

That sorted, it was time to bundle up the wet clothes and get home asap.

But Nick had become bored and decided to explore the picnic area while we were occupied with Chris. The next thing I knew was that he was doing a pretty good mountain goat impression – leaping from one picnic bench up onto the table, down again and over to the next bench. Easy.

Until he missed - and barked his shin against one of the benches.

Now all of our attention was on Nick who, not surprisingly, was yowling in pain.

So then we realised that Chris had wandered off in the direction of the playground. He was making a beeline for the slide and we were too far back to stop him.

You can imagine the looks he was getting from the other children as he climbed bare-arsed up the ladder and lowered himself onto the top of the slide.

I should point out here that this newly refurbished playground had some quite modern features for the time, such as rubberised matting under the swings – and a ROLLER slide.

We could only look on in horror as he bumped down over the cold metal rollers on his bare bottom.

Frankly, it was some kind of miracle that his bits weren’t pinched between the rollers. I suspect he didn’t enjoy the experience, since he made no attempt to go back up.

We finally hustled him and the injured Nick back to the car (where this photo was taken) and agreed that we should get home as quickly as possible, what with Chris half naked and Nick moaning and groaning.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore.

Me from the drivers seat: All right, we know.

Nick in the back seat: It's sore, It's sore (and so on)

Me trying to keep calm: All right, keep quiet about it.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore ( etc)

Andrea in the middle row: Mum, he's not keeping quiet about it.

Nick: It's sore, It's sore.

Andrea (with some ire ) We know it's sore. Now shut up.

Which you have to admit is pretty funny coming from someone who's not quite three years old.

It's just as well we didn't have far to drive.

A brief story about Chris.

My son Chris attends Giant Steps Tasmania, an autism specific school located in Deloraine (a rural community 50 km away.) It was founded in 1995 by a small group of very dedicated and politically savvy parents of autistic children and Chris was an early enrolment, starting in its second year. It had a shaky start financially, but is now growing and extending its enrolment to adults and pre-school programmes. It will never be big, but it delivers a quality program and it came along at just the right time for us. I will always be grateful for that - and for the bus the school finally bought so we no longer had to car pool to get the children to and from school.

Chris was a full-time day student until he turned 19 (in 2007) and then was offered a place two days a week with the fledgling adult group.

This group has grown this year, and we were lucky to apply for and receive additional funding for him to attend three days a week. He spends the rest of the week at the Day support program his group home runs - and comes home for the weekends.

One of the many imaginative (through necessity ) fund raisers Giant Steps introduced was called Sponsor-a-Child and over the years it has brought in several thousand dollars.

Twice a year the students' parents are asked to write a short update about their child's progress and it is sent out to the sponsors in the form of an open letter (with an accompanying photo).

I usually find myself scratching my head to find something to write about, but inspiration came a little easier this time. Here it is - I hope you enjoy it and if it aids in your understanding about living with autism, that's a bonus.


Chris in 1998. A rare shot of him engaging with the camera

Chris in 2010. You can see his Lightwriter on his lap. It's a voice output device and he wears it on a strap around his waist.

_______________________________

Sponsor a child update May 2011

Chris spent the extended Easter break at home this year, and we took the opportunity to have his hair cut and to refresh his wardrobe.

His father took him for the haircut and I drew the short- ish straw: buying the clothes. Not my favourite job after we lost him in town when he was nine years old. But that’s another story.*

The haircut

When Chris was very young we used to put off cutting his hair until it was so long he could barely see through his fringe. Haircutting was such an ordeal for him – and us. He couldn’t stand being draped with the nylon gown, seeing his reflection in the mirror, hearing the sound of the scissors close to his ears or having to sit still while the hairdresser cut his hair. These are not sensations that bother a neurotypical person, but can be very distressing for the Autistic individual.

Inevitably there were some rather lop sided cuts over the years, but these are rare now. He tolerates being draped, so long as his hands are left free. He still looks away from the mirror to avoid his reflection but he finds the buzz of the hair clippers surprisingly soothing. Mind you, cutting around his ears is not for the faint hearted – but his hairdressers have learned to be quick.

This week’s haircut was happily quite painless. I’m told even the hairdresser was smiling at the end.

Clothes shopping

Chris came home with rips to two pairs of pants and his pyjamas, so all needed replacing. He and his brother were of a size not too long ago. But Nick is taller now and can no longer try things on for the both of them. As much as I would have preferred to shop without him, there was no avoiding it this time. I would have to take Chris shopping.

But where to go?

Chris finds going to large stores terribly exciting, but I don’t like taking him there for that very reason. He is distractible at the best of times, but department stores put him into sensory overload with their sheer size, massive displays, bright colours, noise levels and plain busy-ness.

We needed something quieter, less stimulating for this expedition to work, so I opted for a local men’s wear store, which we visited at a quiet time of day.

What a difference it made! Not only did I not have to search the racks for the right style and size, but the staff could not have been more helpful to us. When I explained that Chris cannot manage a zippered fly, they searched and found two elastic waisted trousers that turned out to be perfect for him.

So half an hour later we left the store with everything on our list. It might have cost a few dollars more than a chain store, but the experience was almost … dare I say it, a pleasant one.

When he returns to Giant Steps after Easter, he’ll look very sharp indeed.

* I'll tell that story one day.