Author Archives: Tanya Savko

About Tanya Savko

My name is Tanya Savko. I am a writer, teacher, and mother of two sons. The "writer" and "mother" elements have been part of my life for quite some time, but the "teacher" title is new this year. My older son, Nigel, was diagnosed with autism at age three, in 1997. Between the ages of three and six he received intensive ABA-based therapy, which I believe was essential to how well he is able to function today. Unfortunately, negative peer interaction in middle school has made it necessary for me to take the leap to homeschooling him. We began this journey in February, 2008. The Teen Autism blog is a way to explore and understand whatever happens next. My younger son, Aidan, is eleven. He is an avid gamer and wants to design video games when he grows up. He is imaginative, sensitive, and compassionate. His Kindergarten teacher remarked how Aidan would always be the first to comfort his classmates if they were hurt or upset. He has mentioned to me several times that he feels like he is the older brother, always looking out for Nigel. I am truly blessed with both of them. I decided at the age of four that I wanted to write books. I have written ever since (although I didn't limit myself to books). My poetry and articles about autism have been featured in several publications, and my novel about raising a child with autism is scheduled to be published later this year. I decided to start the Teen Autism blog as a way to connect with other parents of autistic teens, to gain insight from those who have been through the teen years, as well as to offer encouragement to those just entering them. I welcome your comments, suggestions, and questions. It's good to know we're not alone on this journey.

Some Incredibly Important Trivia

The Scene: A history-loving, trivia-quoting autistic teen is showing his mother the two-dollar bill that his grandmother gave him for Easter. He had just recently watched National Treasure, one of his favorite movies, for probably the twentieth time, so he is full of US history trivia, both from the movie and from research he has done on his own for his Obsession of the Week. The mother, and other extended family members, are accustomed to the autistic teen being a storehouse of information, especially about history and movies, and will often consult his expertise to settle a dispute or answer a question. The guy knows his stuff. And he often likes to quiz his family members on the trivia to see what they know. So he shows his mother the two-dollar bill, pointing out all the Mason symbols and the two different presidents on it, etc.

Autistic teen: Look at this painting on the back. Do you know what it is?

Mother: It looks like the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Autistic teen: That’s right. And do you know who painted it?

Mother: No.

Autistic teen (pauses): Neither do I.

Mother (trying not to laugh): YOU don’t know?

Autistic teen (smiling slightly): I can’t possibly know everything.

One Moment, Please

You would think that your constantly-eating teenage son would come running when he hears the words, “Dinner’s ready!” Especially since you have resigned yourself to only prepare the foods that he will eat because he is thin and needs all the food he can get. So he doesn’t have to worry about coming to the table and seeing something he might not like. Why then, when you say, “Dinner’s ready!” does he growl in response, “That fast?!” This is after the five-or-ten-minute transitional warning that you have learned to always give him. You always say, “Dinner’s in five [or ten] minutes!” and make sure that he hears you, so that he can prepare himself mentally for the transition and finish up what he’s doing. Yet every day, without fail, he will sneer, “That fast?!” when you tell him that dinner is ready, even though he has had his advance notice.

And every day, you model a more appropriate response for him. “Okay, Mom” or “Be right there!” You tell him that he should respond more politely to someone who prepares a meal for him. But somehow the appropriate responses don’t seem to register. He doesn’t get it. For years now, he has said, “That fast?!” in a negative tone, and it just seems to be a habit for him. And you worry about him doing that at any friend’s house where he might actually be invited to have dinner. You worry that in the “politeness vs. difficulty with transitions” fight, politeness will always lose.

But, much to your surprise, the day will come when you will say, “Dinner’s ready!” at his bedroom door, and he, seated at his computer desk, will politely say, “One moment, please.” And you will just about fall over dead from the shock. And when you recover, you will think that he really must be up to something in there to be that polite. So you poke your head in and check, and he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. So you praise him for being polite, but you don’t want to overdo it or that will exasperate him and then he will never be polite again. And you can’t help but wonder if this is just a one-time deal, if he had by chance recently watched a movie that featured that line when a character announced that a meal was being served and the scene was still fresh in his mind.

And the next day when you tell him that dinner’s ready, he says nicely, “Okay, Mom.” And you thank him and then just stand there in the hallway and think, Wow! He’s getting it! And the next day when you tell him he says, “I’ll be there in a minute.” And you start to hyperventilate because he’s been polite three days in a row. And the fourth day, you tell him when dinner’s ready, and he growls at you, and you realize that you had forgotten the 5-10 minute “warning.” So at least now you know that your transitional cue really helped, even though all this time it appeared to not make a difference. The next day, you remember the “warning,” and you tell him that dinner will be ready in five minutes. And he helps.To set. The table. And after you pick yourself up off the floor, you realize that even though he still needs help with transitions, he is finally learning to respond politely. Yeah. He’s getting it.

The First Meeting

Eleven and a half years ago, I attended my first special education meeting for my son, when he was three years old. It was called an IFSP – Individualized Family Service Plan – the precursor to his IEPs. Unfortunately, back then I didn’t think to bring snacks, but I did bring a tape recorder, thinking, for whatever reason, that I should.

I found the old tape and listened to it recently. It was cathartic, of course, knowing how far Nigel has come since then, but it was also very strange to hear my voice from that long ago – expressing my concerns, etc. – when I was so new to the realm of special needs parenting. I sounded so calm and sure of myself, even though I felt completely overwhelmed, had so many questions, and didn’t know the jargon. It was good to hear the confidence in my voice back then, not realizing that it had been there. I surprise myself sometimes.

And Nigel, of course, surprises me too. Last week, he attended his first special education meeting for himself. It was not an official IEP – just a placement meeting for next year – so we did not go over goals or anything like that. Nigel was reluctant to go at first, and for a while I thought that I’d have to go without him. I wanted him to go because this short meeting would prepare him for future meetings, the more intensive ones where we would discuss his goals and his progress toward them. I want him to be an active part of these meetings, to usher him into the realm of self-advocacy. To teach him how to diplomatically make his needs known to others. I tried to convey this to him in terms that he could understand, but in the end, what motivated him to go was the fact that we would need to use a map of his new high school to find the room where the meeting was being held. He has always liked maps, and immediately plotted our route.

Due to an inaccuracy in the drawing of the map, we ended up in a hallway right outside what was probably the band room, just as a loud burst of instruments blared. Nigel, eyes wide, covered his ears and yelled, “Back! We must go back!” As soon as we re-entered the previous hallway we’d been in, I said, “Well, now you know to avoid that hallway.”  “Yeah,” he said, breathless but okay.

We tried a different route and found our way to the library, where the meeting was being held. Nigel saw the Regional Autism Consultant, who has worked with him since the IFSP days, and he seemed to relax. We sat at a table and waited for the rest of the attendees. I was emotional to have Nigel there with me for the first time, and tried not to dwell on the magnitude of it lest I lose my composure. Soon the others arrived – Nigel’s speech and social skills therapist, the high school’s special education coordinator, and one of his teachers for next year (the rest of his teachers will meet the week before school starts for the official IEP).

I no longer record the meetings; in fact, I think that first one was the only one I did. But I’m glad I did so that I could listen to it years later. It was in the forefront of my mind as I watched Nigel sit in his first meeting. And I am quite proud to say that it went very well. The sped coordinator talked with him as an equal, asking him what classroom accommodations he felt he would need, assured him that all sped students get first choice for electives, and told him that he would be checking in with her every day to make sure that things are going okay and that she would help him if he needs any help. His first week, he will have someone help him get to class, and he will never, she said, have to eat lunch alone. Trying not to cry, I thanked her. Nigel, although making no eye contact and constantly scratching his head because he had neglected to take a shower when he was supposed to, answered everyone’s questions, talked about his interests appropriately, and even made a joke. At the end of the meeting, when asked what he thought of attending that high school, he responded, “If this library is well-stocked with H.G. Wells and Jules Verne books, I’ll be fine.” Everyone laughed a genuine laugh, and I stole a glance at Nigel. I could have sworn I saw a little self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oh, yes, my son, you will be fine.

The First Sorry

I have a small scar on my forehead, and every time I look in the mirror and see it, I am reminded of Nigel’s long road to understanding the word “sorry.” Sorry is one of those vague words, like “thanks” or “please.” It’s not a concrete noun or verb, nor the type of adjective that tells something’s size or color. It is impossible for an autistic child to visualize. For a long time, Nigel did not understand the word.

When he was six years old, we had some friends and their two children over for a barbeque,  and Nigel was enjoying interacting with the kids (he has always been social, in spite of the autism). His verbal abilities were quite limited then. They were playing a chasing game, running through the house, and their little boy was chasing Nigel, who was laughing. Nigel ran into his room and slammed the door behind him, catching the other little boy’s fingers in the door. I knew he didn’t mean to, but the little boy was hurt, and I wanted Nigel to apologize. While the other mother was soaking her son’s fingers in a bowl of ice water, I kept telling Nigel that he needed to say that he was sorry. He kept saying “No sorry, no sorry” over and over again. So I took him in his room and tried again to explain it to him, and again he said “No sorry, no sorry.” I spanked him. It pains me to admit that I’ve done and said things to my son that I regret, that I hate myself for doing, in the days before I understood how the autism was affecting him. I told him again, in a horrible voice, “You need to say sorry!” and again he persisted with his “no sorry” mantra. I just didn’t get it. To this day I feel terrible for not understanding him. His verbal skills were so limited then that perhaps he was actually trying to say “I’m sorry” but it came out “no sorry.” And I wish that I’d had the insight to know that then, and to react differently, instead of punishing him for his inability to say something properly.

Just one year later, Nigel and I were out in the backyard playing. He tickled me or something, and I came after him with a playful, “I’m gonna get ya!” I chased him through the side yard, and Nigel, laughing, ran through the wooden gateway, slamming the gate behind him. He slammed it just as I ran into it, and the force of the impact split the skin on my forehead. I saw stars and almost collapsed. I slowly opened the gate and stood there, trying to regain my composure. Nigel came back, took one look at me, and said, “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry, Mom!” I hugged him and told him that I was okay.

“Sorry” is now a regular part of Nigel’s vocabulary, although he rarely puts “I’m” in front of it. Usually he will say, “Sorry about that” or “Sorry I did that” or “Sorry I forgot to do that.” If he didn’t understand its meaning before, he does now, and he readily apologizes for his mistakes. But maybe that’s also because he’s frequently heard it from me.

You see, sorry is a regular part of my vocabulary, too. Even though I accepted the autism diagnosis from the beginning, I didn’t understand all the ways it affected Nigel – the pervasive nature of it – for many years. I’m still learning. I still get frustrated with him. I understand so much more now, but I’m ashamed of my reactions before I understood, when I expected him to do or say things that he wasn’t able to. And so I’ve been saying sorry quite a bit over the years. Fortunately, Nigel’s not the only one who learns things. His mom does too.

Know Thy Mother

 

As most moms do, I have a delightful collection of handmade gifts from my children, dating from pre-school Christmas decorations to middle school woodshop creations. I have hand-painted ceramic plates (one with a lion and one with a tiger), glazed foot and hand print castings, hand-shaped terra cotta pots, various paintings and drawings, a wooden whale key holder, a miniature hand-woven scarf (because full-size would have taken too long, I was told), juice-can-lid magnets, a beaded caterpillar, a popsicle stick picture frame (who doesn’t have one of those?), and a Lego heart. And even though I assure my kids that I still like the handmade gifts the best, in recent years they often like to have the experience of picking out a gift for me at the store and buying it with their allowance.

For Christmas this past year, I made it easy for them and requested candles. Both of them had done many trial runs through check stands before, so they knew the drill, but this was their first time completely unassisted. I told them what part of the store I would be in and told them to come and find me after they had made their purchase. Success! They selected some lovely candles to wrap up for me and even had some money left over for some candy for themselves (not part of the instructions, but, oh well).

For Mother’s Day, I decided to make it a little more challenging and made an open request with some suggestions from which they could choose. I wanted them to have some experience in choosing gifts not just for me, but for anyone in their lives as they get older. “When you get a gift for someone, you need to think about things that the person likes and let that influence your choice,” I told them. I then reminded them of some things I like: candles, little bamboo plants, Snickers, kettle corn, SoBe Black & Blue Berry Brew  – perfect little treats for Mother’s Day. We got to the store and I reminded them where things were, told them to have the gifts double-bagged so I wouldn’t see what they’d bought, and then went to my designated waiting spot. The boys got separated and we ended up looking for Nigel for ten minutes, but that’s less time than it usually takes to find him! Not too bad for the second buying-gifts-alone venture. I couldn’t wait until Sunday to see what they had picked out for me!

As usual, they really surprised me. They both eschewed the edible (or burnable) suggestions and went for something with permanence. Aidan bought a pretty miniature rose plant that’s actually supposed to be planted in the ground. “That way Sheba won’t get it,” he said, reminding me of our indoor cat who has destroyed all of my houseplants. A very wise gift, indeed.

And Nigel? Nigel went for something completely different, remembering something I like that I hadn’t mentioned on the way to the store – tigers. I have photos or paintings of tigers in every room of the house (and one on my arm). Nigel bought a tiger figurine to put on my desk. But what he said as he gave it to me makes it even more meaningful: I got you this tiger to honor your independent spirit. How does an autistic teen see a personality trait like that in someone and link it to their favorite animal? Sometimes he really astounds me with what he is capable of.

I thanked him profusely for his thoughtful – and insightful – gift. He really knows his mom! And you know what? I like these store-bought gifts just as much as the handmade ones. There’s something to be said for a truly thoughtful gift, no matter if you make it or buy it.

The Hood

When Nigel was very little, about two years old, he had a cute little fleece jacket with a “varsity” number on it. It also had a hood on it, and we noticed that he preferred to have the hood up whenever we left the house. When I learned that he had autism and that most of his meltdowns were sensory-related, I came to realize that the hood on his jacket helped to muffle many sounds that he was unable to filter. So as he got bigger, I bought him new fleece jackets with snug-fitting hoods. The one in the photo above is probably his third such jacket, and he was five years old.

He continued to wear his hooded jacket – always with the hood up – when he was in elementary school. The teachers allowed him to, although they encouraged him to remove it while he was in class. It didn’t really matter to me that he had the hood up inside; if it helped to muffle sounds that bothered him, then I felt he should be allowed to have it up. What I didn’t realize was that the elementary teachers were trying to prepare him for middle school.

At Nigel’s middle school, it is against school policy for any student to have their hood up or wear a hat on school grounds. And the noisy halls of that school is where a sound-muffler would be most needed. Whenever I go to pick him up from school, I sit in the foyer near the office to wait for him, and as soon as the bell rings and students begin pouring into the halls, the din is at such an intense level that I have no idea how Nigel manages it. I have suggested to him that he wear ear plugs or headphones in the halls, but he nixes that idea with his “I want to be like everybody else” refrain.

So he abides by the school rule and, every morning when I drop him off, as soon as he steps onto the school grounds, he sheds his hood and bravely walks into the building. I always like to look in my rear view mirror as I drive away, checking to see if anyone follows him to bother him. I used to see kids walk behind him and mimic him or flick him in the back of his neck to get a reaction out of him. He tells me that no one bothers him anymore, but I’m never sure because he has withheld information before because he doesn’t want me to worry. So I watch.

One day last week, I dropped him off and he got out of the car with his hood up, because he likes to wear it when we leave the house in the morning. As usual, he walked toward the entrance, and as soon as he was officially on school grounds, he slipped off his hood and continued on into the building. As I pulled away, I noticed three boys standing off to the side, watching him. They pointed at him and laughed. And then, as I slowly drove by them, one of them actually had the gall to look at my face while he was still laughing. He saw which car Nigel got out of, day after day. He knew damn well who he was looking at. And so, with adrenaline pumping through my veins and a lump stuck in my throat, I glared at him. I glared at that boy who dared to laugh at someone just because he wears a hood every morning, just because he does things a little differently.

And I drove to work with sobs catching in my throat because I realized that no matter what I do, no matter how many Circles of Friends I try to start, no matter how much I write about autism, no matter how much advocacy I do, there will always be people who will laugh at my son and his different ways. This is one of the things I grieve for – knowing that ignorant people won’t give my son the respect and dignity he deserves; they’ll laugh, or worse – harass him. And it burns me. I can be Zen-like about receiving the wrong school book, but not this. This is hurtful. And there is nothing I can do about it, nothing more than what I already do.    

This is one of the hard things about being the parent of a special needs child. No one wants their child, typical or not, to be laughed at. But we parents of special needs children deal with it on a regular basis. We do all we can to stop it, but it still happens. And we know it will continue to. I guess we just need to have the strength to do all we can – and the grace to realize that that’s all we can do. I don’t know. I’m not there yet. It still makes me angry and sad. And I think it always will.

Happy Mother’s Day!

As we moms so often do, I’ll be taking my kids to see a movie that I could easily wait until it’s on DVD to see. But they really want to see it, and so it’s my treat to them. In five minutes we’ll be going to see X-Men Origins: Wolverine, and I’ll try to suffer through the shirtless Hugh Jackman scenes. Take one for the team, you know? So unfortunately I don’t have time to write the Mother’s Day post I’d hoped to write, the one about how much all the moms I know inspire me, how glad I am to know them, and how much they mean to me. All of them – from my mom, to my boss, to my co-workers, to my friends, to my readers, and to my sister, who’s been a mom for a month. Thanks for being there, for showing me the way, for encouraging me, and for just being your wonderful selves. I hope you’ll accept this re-posting of the Mother’s Day post I wrote last year, because I’m on my way out the door to spend some quality time with Hugh Jackman my boys. Happy Mother’s Day to all of you!

Fourteen years ago I celebrated my first Mother’s Day as a mother-to-be. My then-husband gave me a card saying what a wonderful mom he knew I’d be, and my own mom gave me a card with the same sentiment. I think back to the person I was then, not having any idea of the depth of emotion I would experience because of the little person in my belly and the one who would come after him.

Being a mother, autism or no autism, has taught me more about life than anything else I’ve experienced. Just the knowledge that it’s my job, my responsibility, to give these guys all the tools they need to lead a successful, happy life is enough to blow my mind. There are plenty of articles and books out there about how to raise good kids, how to be a better parent, but nothing can really prepare you. You have to jump in with both feet and just trust that you’ll be okay. That you’re going to make a few mistakes, and you’ll run into a few rough spots, but you’ll handle them. You’ll get through it and keep going.

As we moms know, being a mother isn’t always easy but it’s always worth it. We live for the days when we take our kids somewhere that they thought would be boring, and then not only can we tell that they really like it (as we knew they would), but they come up to us and hug us and say, “I really like this place, Mom. Thanks for taking me.” (That was Aidan at a museum last weekend.) And we live for the days when our children receive special awards or when, for the first time, they apologize for their behavior on their own instead of us having to do it (that was Nigel recently). We savor the triumphs, be they large or small, and think We’re getting there. I must be doing something right.

And the day will come when they are on their own. Even those of us with differently-abled kids will go through this change, on some level. I often wonder how I will feel when that time comes. How hard will it be to let go? It’s hard enough for me to let them ride their bikes to the grocery store! But I take comfort in the idea that it will happen little by little, just like how Nigel learned to talk, how he’s learning to be responsible for himself. I also take comfort in knowing that I will always be their mom. Nothing will change that.

So, here’s to all the good moms, like my own (love you, Mom!), and my friends who keep me sane. We need all the support we can get, in all the mothering stages of our lives.

There’s No F in IEP

This week Nigel received his mid-term progress report for his first term back at regular school after over a year of homeschooling. He is receiving an F in math, and I am not surprised. What’s that you say? How am I not surprised? Because a few weeks ago we discovered that the entire time I was homeschooling him, I was teaching him out of the wrong book.

It all started at his IEP last September, when I requested the school-issued math book so that I could teach him exactly what his peers were learning so that he would be up-to-date when he transitioned back into regular school. I also knew that at the end of eighth grade, this year, this month, actually, there would be benchmark testing for his entire grade, including him, whether he was still homeschooled or not. I wanted him to know what he needed to know. The school’s sped coordinator spoke to Nigel’s previous math teacher at the school, and then he, the sped coordinator, went to pick up the math book and brought it back to the meeting to give to me. I thanked him and was very appreciative that the school complied with my request for the book, since they are not obligated to do so.

And since last September, Nigel and I diligently worked through that book every single day, along with working on the other school subjects. I felt certain that we kept up very well, since we made it two-thirds of the way through the book by March, two-thirds of the way through the school year. When he started back at the middle school that month, initially I was more concerned with how he was doing socially and behaviorally than academically. Things seemed to be going well for the most part, and then it was time for Spring Break. After that, I started asking him how things were going in class, and how he was doing in math. I asked him where they were in the math book, if it was near where we had left off with homeschooling. That’s when he told me. “Mom, I found out that was a seventh grade math book we did homeschool with.”

I wanted to scream. “Are you serious?! Are you sure? It didn’t say seventh grade on it!”

He confirmed that was indeed the case. And had I not been so busy with Aidan’s health issues at the time, I would have marched straight into the sped coordinator’s office and let him have it. Or the math teacher who recommended the book. I was angry. I felt like I had wasted Nigel’s and my time and effort and had put him at a great disadvantage for returning to regular school and taking the required benchmark testing. My heart raced and I clenched my fists. I took a deep breath and vowed I would deal with it when I had time. I went home and trundled Aidan off to whatever doctor’s appointment he had.

A few days later, maybe that weekend, I remembered what I had read around the blogosphere about there being no accidents. Carrie mentioned it, and Jess and Pixie expanded on it. I started to calm down when I thought about that. And then Nigel wanted to rent Kung Fu Panda that weekend, which we hadn’t seen yet, and guess what the theme of that movie is? That’s right – there are no accidents. The wise old tortoise master says it several times. And I started thinking that maybe I was meant to receive the wrong math book. Maybe I received it because that was what Nigel needed me to teach him, and what he needed to learn. I realized that no one had intentionally given me the wrong book, it was just a mistake, and I was glad I hadn’t stormed into someone’s office threatening to bestow one of Mama Mara’s Ieppie Awards in the Worst Great Idea category.

And so the benchmark tests are in two weeks. It is what is and what will be, will be. I’m not going to get stressed out over it, and I certainly don’t want Nigel to be. His transitional IEP will be coming up soon, and I’ll be sure to diplomatically let everyone know the reason behind his (very) low math grade, without pointing fingers. And if anyone apologizes for giving me the wrong math book, I’ll surprise them by thanking them. Because I learned a lot from this experience. And not just how to divide fractions again.

Scratch Where It Itches

“But it itches!”

This is often Nigel’s refrain (spoken between clenched teeth) when I discreetly remind him to stop scratching his head. And no, he doesn’t have dandruff. Nor does he have lice, scabies, or any other type of external cause of itching.

The head itching started about a year and a half ago, before he began taking either of his two daily medications. Interestingly, it also started right around the same time that the “adjustments” started. By that I mean the “situating” of certain appendages that seem to become jostled throughout the day. Not having the same certain appendages myself, I’m unable to identify with the need for their frequent “adjustments.” Fortunately, my son’s hand remains outside of his clothing when he makes these “adjustments,” but I often have to remind him to go to a bathroom to do it, especially when we’re out in public. Same with the head-scratching.

“People don’t like to see other people scratching their heads for long periods of time,” I tell my son. “It’s not socially acceptable. When people see someone scratching endlessly, they think they have lice or some type of skin disease. A quick, occasional scratch is okay,” – and here, I demonstrate a discreet scratch –  “but not a lengthy, ‘Bare-Necessities’-type of scratch-fest.”

“But it won’t stop itching!”

Initially I thought that he might have been allergic to the shampoo he had been using, so we switched to a chemical-free, organic shampoo. Then a different one. Then T-Gel. Then we tried various ointments and creams. Heck, we even tried saturating his scalp with organic olive oil for 20 minutes prior to washing his hair, since I had read somewhere that it was a good remedy for itchy scalps. Nothing has worked. Nothing.

I considered the possibility of a food allergy causing his scalp to itch, but his diet hasn’t changed that much in the past year and a half since the itching started. We already tried the GF/CF diet, but Nigel has never exhibited the gut and digestive issues present with GF/CF allergies, nor did he show any signs of improvement when we tried the diet. It could be something not GF/CF-related, but since his daily diet has not changed much, I have no idea what it could be.

One thing’s certain – the itching started right about the time I realized that he was into puberty. So it could be a result of the hormonal changes he’s experiencing. If that’s the case, how long before his body adjusts? How long before his scalp normalizes and the itching goes away? I had learned last year at the Autism and Puberty seminar that I attended that people with autism are prone to Candida, a type of fungus, which can cause itching. However, that is usually accompanied by gastrointestinal issues and other symptoms. Yet again, I am at a loss for the cause of the itching of Nigel’s scalp.

So I’ll just blame puberty. It’s responsible for many other problems we experience around here. And since the average time span of puberty for boys is six years, we’ve got a few more years of rampant scalp-itching to contend with. Any ideas out there other than Baloo’s tree method? Please?

Signs of Teen Autism

This week, the greatest number of page views for this site as a result of an internet search was for my recent post centered around Tigger. He’s one popular cat, apparently. But the second most common search that yielded this website was “signs of teen autism.” I figured that subject warranted a post of its own.

I thought about it and realized that there would be primarily two groups of people who could be typing in that search:

a) either a parent, relative, or teacher trying to figure out a possible explanation for the different characteristics of their teen

b) anyone wanting to know how to recognize autism in the teen years, perhaps because they think they’ve come in contact with an ASD teen in their community

First of all, in the teen years, the signs of Asperger’s and high functioning autism are so similar that many people think that there is no difference between the two. Both have much difficulty with social skills (e.g. random, little, or no eye contact while conversing; random, little or no voice inflection; compromised ability to read facial cues and body language), often exhibit reactions to sensory issues (e.g. being easily startled by noises, covering ears; running away from bees and other flying insects), have a great need for routines and rituals, and exhibit obsessions with particular “specialty interests.” How, then, does one tell the difference between Asperger’s and high functioning autism in teens? The difference lies primarily in the child’s early development of language, although there are other differences as well. In cases of classic – or Kanner’s – autism, language development was very late, labored (took many years), or did not occur at all. My son Nigel falls into this category because his language acquisition was quite late and labored. Asperger’s, by comparison, was nicknamed “little professor syndrome” because the young children observed by Hans Asperger were quite verbal, but they often fixated on certain topics and exhibited some differences in social interaction. Because they can talk, many children with Asperger’s are not diagnosed until later, so the searchers listed above in group a) are most likely trying to identify a teen with Asperger’s.

For the group b) people, THANK YOU for wanting to find out. Thank you for caring enough to take the time to do so. We parents of ASD teens truly appreciate you.  You’ll find some characteristic signs of teen autism listed in bold green in this post (which you probably already figured out, because you’re a smart person for seeking out the information in the first place). You’ll also find some tips for interacting with an ASD teen in my post Getting to Know an Autistic Teen. If you’re looking for signs of autism in teens who are more profoundly autistic, in most cases they will not be mainstreamed in regular school classes, and when they are in the community they will be with a parent or someone else accompanying them. They exhibit little to no speech or echolalic speech. They may also exhibit more reactions to sensory stimuli especially in noisy, crowded places and may make repetitive body movements (spinning, flapping, rocking). Autism manifests itself differently in every person affected by it, so these traits, in addition to those listed in the previous paragraph, may or may not occur and in varying degrees. One thing’s for sure – you’ll find that people with autism at all functioning levels are wonderful, fascinating individuals worthy of your time, interest, and respect.