Help! For Parents, Grandparents, Guardians, Preteen and Teenagers in the 21st Century: Lets Talk!

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Sometimes I call him little Donald. He is a mixture of us in looks, but his personality is why I call him little Donald. I don't push my thoughts or likes or dislikes. I want him to grow to be his own person. I think is important to give a child room to make mistakes in order to learn. Mistakes build wings so later in life they can fly and go on their own. Let them fall once in awhile. When they do they will learn how to pick themselves up on their own when you aren't around.

If he says no, we listen to him. It's no and we don't try to change it. It's important to let them be who they are. When they're in trouble they will come to you first.


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Don't try to change their opinion. The Obamas, while they had a unique relationship with the media as politicians who were often treated like celebrities, kept their private residence off-limits. Barron got creative in his childhood bedroom, drawing cars and planes, and even a bakery sign, on the walls, so presumably his bedroom at the White House is tricked out to his specifications. We and our partners use cookies on this site to improve our service, perform analytics, personalize advertising, measure advertising performance, and remember website preferences.

By using the site, you consent to these cookies. For more information on cookies including how to manage your consent visit our Cookie Policy. This content is available customized for our international audience. Would you like to view this in our US edition? Would you like to view this in our Canadian edition? Would you like to view this in our UK edition?

Would you like to view this in our Australian edition? Would you like to view this in our Asia edition? Would you like to view this in our German edition? Would you like to view this in our French edition? Press Enter to Search. At first sweep, you could say there's nothing normal going on in the White House. Photos Melania Trump's Best Looks. Well, not really an option here. There must be something about this combination that works. As for the other side — just a guess, but maybe autistic people enjoy being around people who are open and passionate about their feelings?

Too much generalisation perhaps, not statistically-significant, although interesting. Claims to have known she was different since she was a lot younger. So even if that guy is good for her, or the best she could hope for, the culture is to reject him because commitment is inconvenient and why should a woman commit — women were enslaved and oppressed by men for centuries, etc etc. Somewhat of a lie, and yet another example wher it pollutes a good thing. I love my autistic child as a whole. His autism is integral component of his personality and which contributes to making him who he is.

Sometimes, I feel I love him even more because of his autism. His autism makes him even more endearing, sensitive, entertaining, and humorous. We share a very special bond — the bond of autism. I learn something new from this beautiful child every single day! What about people who talk about curing Autism? My now 4yr old son was recently diagnosed and I keep reading people talking about cures. I could be completely in the wrong with my thinking, I am new to all of this I know.

No, Mama, your instinct is totally right. A cure is:. As mentioned above, a cure constitutes completely changing a person. If you look at it from certain philosophical perspectives, that could be considered to be equivalent to killing a person if you define a person as their personality , and replacing them with a new person in the same body.

We only use it to get services or as needed to explain why he does something different. We have raised him to know everyone is different and he has a handicap in some things and is awesome at other things. Let the child show you what they are capable of and let the sky be the limit. The original ABA was invented by a Dr. As you can see, this is definitely flawed. Also, big thanks to everyone commenting on this thread. I get beyond angry when people talk about curing autism!

Hello, yes knowing there are many of us who feel this way about our children and the autism with which they live, is a wonderful feeling. The more we share to others it trickles through, creating a positive and fearless attitude and acceptance to autism. The greatest teachers of all. I write mine from my perspective and experiences with our son, sharing and learning its wonderful x. Hmm, looks like my first comment got lost. ABA also comes from a very troubling place.

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It was invented by Dr. It works on the faulty premise that by modifying the behaviour to become normal, it will eventually change the internal structures to become normal. A person is not an inherently bad parent for trying to do what they see as helping, but based off of the experiences of many autistic people who went through ABA therapy, it does more harm than good.

Good question. It absolutely depends on the child. Are you seeking the therapy in order to enable them to learn new skills, or simply to change their behaviour to something closer to what you want to see?

Now let's talk…

You should never talk about a child while they are in the room, regardless of autism or not. Any child will prick up their ears if you talk about them. If you say negative things about them they will live down to your expectations. I figure it reinforces what I tell them directly if they hear me telling other people how great they are, too.

I was talking to the mother of a troubled year-old not long ago and was well aware he was secretly listing on the stairs. The point is that talking about a person as though they are not there is very disrespectful, rather than whether or not you talk about them in their presence. Talk about them all you want knowing and acknowledging by the way you are speaking that you see them and know they can hear you.

That said, we have an issue, she and I, that she does not want me to share any stories that involve her, regardless of their nature. I get to share stories of my experience of motherhood. They involve my perspective on interactions with my kids. I get to do that. They get to tell stories that involve me. The worst thing is when you have appointments with their consultants and you have no choice, you have to have them there, and it is difficult to explain exactly what the problems are.

Totally agree with Christina feel like such a horrible mum to my daughter when you have to discuss the issues you need support on!! Wish there was an easier solution xx. I hate this too so now I do a report and give it to the nurse to pass on to the doctor to read before we go in. Explaining why I am doing it. My son has autism. People would all be nice to each other. I let him know every day that his mother and I love him. He is loving,respectful,and helpful.

He is 23 now and works with children at the Boys and Girls Club. He never forgets a birthday. I wish I had his memory. I wish I had more time to talk about him but I have to get to work. I could go forever. Thanks again for the article. Thank you, I love do this!

We have always tried not to make assumptions about our son who is now 15, but the assumptions and expectations of others often come into play. Thankfully he can speak for himself and does very well. He has no real major anxieties either. This post was scraped by mymedclinic. Thanks a lot for alerting me! What I am is a man with Asperger Syndrome who grew up with autism, who has also been a primary school teacher AND worked in special education with autistic students in all areas of the spectrum.

I have really enjoyed reading this article and have found it warm, friendly, very informative and thought provoking — thank you. Needs that not everyone else has. Treating your child as if they are the same as everyone else. As a fairly young child, I would hear my mom talk on the phone with friends an family about the son of a family friend who has Aspergers. I was able to relate to this, and asked her if I had autism.

At six years old, this terrified me, and I clammed up about my ability to relate to those with autism until my teens. My parents would always make it very clear to me that I was a bad child for struggling with life the way I did. I had meltdowns, shutdowns. I was told that I must always smile, and be quiet.

This was confusing to me- I could only smile when I felt happy, and felt like smiling. Forcing a smile was difficult, and the results were never satisfactory to my father. I was seen as being stubborn. Out of frustration, I would usually have a meltdown, and was told I was bad. My teachers adored me. But some still had problems with me. They felt that I was not at the maturity level that a 13 year old should be. In other words, my mom inferred to me that I needed to suck it up, and that having added difficulty meant absolutely nothing. Sometime around 17 years old, I revealed to my parents that I thought I had autism for the first time in over a decade.

However, my mom started to accept it more as time went on. She has even talked about it unprompted, and will relate things I do to autism. I feel like a lot of people have a very black and white view of autism. At home it becomes much more evident, even at nearly 20 years old I struggle to take care of myself on the level of a ten year old. Autism was always a comforting label for me, at the time in life when I started to accept that this is who I am.

As a child and young teen, I felt weird, bad, different. Gang up on me and pin me down to listen to me scream and cry. A freak. I hated myself. I suffered with horrible self-image until very recently, and I still struggle to this day. When I started to learn about autism, it was a huge relief. That there were others like me. In fact, interesting side story that I will try to keep short- I apologize for my long-windedness I actually got to see the son of the family friend that made me start questioning if I had autism.

I was We became best friends almost instantly, and later started to date. I have never been able to connect to someone on such a deep level. I feel truly blessed to have him in my life. He explained to me many things I had already come to know. As I enter adulthood, things are slowly getting better for me, as I learn how to manage being autistic, and as others become more accepting of my situation. Anyways, thank you for reading, if you have. I was able to relate to this article a lot, and intend to share it with my friends and family. You make very good points, and I am definitely adding your suggestion to the footnote list.

I feel like I have been given his life because it is so close to my house. What can be done for severely autistic children? The father just looks exhausted. I know how he feels! Perhaps someone can come and watch the young man for a few hours a day, so the dad can get out and get a break.

I sympathize with the young man too, but especially as parents get older, it is even more wearing on them. I love my husband. I hate his diabetes. I love my son. Thank you for a good article. You can wish individual symptoms and problems away without wishing your child was a completely different person. My autistic son is awesome, and his autistic brain is awesome. I love how enthralled he gets with learning lists of new information, and how he can give me lectures on the universe like a little scientist. I love how serious he is, and how straightforwardly he sees the world, and how bluntly honest he can be.

We all wish he could be happier and his life could be easier. If he is autistic, then autism IS who he is, not a disease that changed him. Try this one.

Remembering a Farm Christmas

We agree on every point except that autism must always be present at birth and cannot ever be the result of something gone awry later. And I hope my comment made sense.

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A person loves trains because they love trains. They love dinosaurs because they love dinosaurs. These are their interests. These are common interests for young children all over the world, in fact. When autistic children and adults have interests, we will often engage with them in a way that is influenced by our autism. I think if I were not autistic, for example, I would not have dozens of spreadsheets on my computer for my favorite games. Using spreadsheets is one of the ways I interact with and understand the things that I love!

If I was not autistic, my love would probably show itself in a different way, but I would still love those games probably, because I think those games are fun. This child likes trains because he is autistic and that is an autistic thing to like. I think the point being made here is that the way that the child enjoys trains might involve their autism. Their struggle at school might be caused in part by their difficulties stemming from autism.

But he likes trains because he thinks trains are cool. He struggles with school because lots of children struggle with school, because school is hard. He has a personality and a reason to enjoy things or dislike things or struggle with things. Sometimes when NT people describe everything in relation to autism it starts to sound like they think we are a collection of symptoms instead of a person.

My babies deal with abuse from society on a daily basis and I fight daily to prevent the damage. I have an autistic son who is 8. He is highly verbal and also brilliant. I have tried to be open and honest about the subject of autism, without pushing conversations on him. However, he is clearly uncomfortable thinking or talking about it too much.

What are your thoughts on bringing up the topic vs. Any thoughts? Hi Saffi, First things first, really sorry about the delayed response! Absolutely including the positives! Again, this advice is given without me knowing your son, so please pick and choose the bits of this that work for you and him. Not to go into detail, she gave that a good try, but at age 21 I was finally allowed to go to college on a scholarship, already four years older than my classmates, which obliterated any chance of relating to my age group who were already seniors.

Because in childhood everyone had expected me to learn by osmosis and often remarked on my stubborn refusal to do so, it was my college friends who taught me table manners, how to cross a city street, how to use public transportation, how to go to a movie or a concert on my own, how to actually organize my homework and get assignments completed on time, even how to manage my living space and dress appropriately.

My employment was in order: English teacher, radio copywriter, habilitation supervisor at a sheltered workshop, and finally CAI computer programmer at a medical school. I left each of these jobs, not by my own choice, not because of job performance issues, but because of workplace social issues, finally retiring on disability when I finally began to practice fulltime what before had had to be only sidelines: folk music which had been my love since I was ten, and the more lucrative ghostwriting Despite everything, over the years, starting with college, life continued to get better.

I continued to learn how to be in the world while still preserving my own personality and interests. But some part of the puzzle was always missing. So this past year I began therapy. In all of the lovingly preserved photos of their baby through age 5, I appeared to be totally alone in a crowd. The therapist saw, as I had when I looked at the pictures during my Rehab Admin class on identifying anomolous conditions in photos of children, some sort of autistic in the making.

So we did some simple tests, not the battery for formal diagnosis, but just a few indicators. My parents had been so impressed with the little genius who had stood up in her crib on her first birthday and recited 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 But they never thought to check if I could count. They assumed that was the proof. So on the little questionaire they had assured the school that I could count and knew my alphabet, so was ready 4 months before my 6th birthday for first grade.

What I needed was for the teacher to put five marks beside the five, three marks beside the 3 and then count them to eight. Of course Piaget was unheard of then. But the teacher had an answer for me. Because I knew intellectually that counting was the basis of everything numerical, but actual counting I had never learned to do. Every moment of those days rose up unbidden now and then in my grownup mind as vividly as the day it happened until the therapist and I finally laid it to rest in Finally, most of the trauma has been outed and named.

The flashbacks have actually stopped what a relief. Until I read this article this morning, I thought the next part of the journey would be to write a book that might be helpful But no. So thanks for this article. It has sent me off in a new and better direction. Thank you so much for sharing your story.


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  • Thank you for writing this. As someone who also has aspbergers syndrome-thank you! My mom never actually said she hated autism but she has said she hated seeing me struggle like I have. Thank you for writing this article a friend shared it with me on Facebook , I found it both interesting and useful. As a high school teacher who has worked in several different countries, not a school year goes by without at least one student somewhere on the Autistic spectrum appearing in my class.

    I have genuinely enjoyed working with every single one of them. A few years ago, one of my 14 year old students was finally diagnosed as having Aspergers and we were given a few pointers on how to make her feel more comfortable such as letting her doodle on a little sketch pad when she was feeling anxious , because she was certainly not enjoying school!.

    My ignorance about the layers of who she was as a person meant that my more strict reactions to her stroppiness and agitation made her feel that way! Colds came from being too cold, vomiting always from bad food. My grandmother had strange tall dark bottles of things like alum, castor oil, Mercurochrome, iodine, and codeine cough medicine high up in the cupboards, and drawers of hot-water bottles, enema bags, and scary reusable syringes and droppers.

    Doctors could not do much other than cut and stitch. My father had about seven major operations, most from old football injuries or wear and tear on the farm. But the harvest rarely proved adequate, it seemed. And he did, too. We were born into a square-foot, one-bedroom house, in which the five of us lived until I was eight. Then my father had a grand idea to build by himself a new house next to the existing old one my father had bought our tiny frame house at an auction and had moved it on to our farm. He finished half of the new house— at least up one side to the crest of the planned pitched roof — with three bedrooms and a bathroom, but never completed the second half.

    In his defense: He fell ten feet off the roof and destroyed his arm on the cement. To this day, wherever I am in September, whether in Palo Alto, Michigan, New York, or overseas, I seem to become physically sick at the sight of clouds and rain. It was only when I was in college that I realized how strange my grandfather had been to mortgage his small farm in the early s to send his three daughters to college.

    Two received law and graduate degrees from Stanford. Educational pretension was taboo. Degrees meant nothing if you could not do farm work and fix things. The onus on the college graduate was to prove to others that you were as good as farm workers, not for them to prove that they were as wise as you thought you were. Stupid was not knowing how to weld or to disc 20 acres; smart did mean having read Camus. World War II still loomed large. I was born eight years after its conclusion. My disabled cousin Beldon who suffered brain damage from Dengue fever while serving in the Pacific biked out from town to help during the harvest.

    My father began suddenly drinking late in life, when I was in high school. I enjoyed some of that because for the first time in minute detail he just as abruptly began describing some missions in a B over Japan. Almost every male over 40 in the environs had various war stories.

    I was taught to keep quiet and learn farming from the two hired men, usually misfits who found a home with our oddball family, which many of our neighbors thought we were. Christmas seemed to start in early December, when my parents brought out different ancient ammo boxes of handmade ornaments and first-generation ancestral electrical lights, wired to huge fuses, and patched with electrical tape, that often shorted out and sparked when plugged in.

    We still had to fill brown paper lunch bags with sand and candles, and on foggy nights in December lit them as Christmas beacons along the dirt driveway. Christmas catastrophes never stymied my mother and father, the cooks, and host at huge family dinners. They were amused by holiday disasters. Article Browser Social-Media Censors vs. More articles. Previous articles. Pixabay Where old and young blended together, and diversity was natural, not conscious.



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