A wise RDI (Relationship Development Intervention) therapy practitioner once told me my son would make progress, and I needed to understand that progress wouldn’t be a straightforward trajectory. It would be steps forward and back, measured as a year with 365 days of motion. Last week I was reminded that everything with W, as with all people, is a work in progress. Our old friend impulse control once again shoved its head in the sand, and the results sent my liver into hiding.

One of the key events during the memorable holiday trip where I realized our then two year old had autism was a visit to the Center of Science and Industry. Hubs and W looked up at a unicycle riding overhead in the lobby. When Hubs looked back down, W had disappeared. Only after 10 very freaked out minutes in which angel strangers helped us scout the crowds, and I had imagined the makings of Pervy Pete in every other human at the place, did we hear an elevator bell and run flying to its source. W loved elevators. Sure enough, there was our 2 year old blissfully piloting an elevator, with a worried looking museum employee holding his hand searching for missing parents. The crying woman with hands around her husband’s neck was the obvious bet – yes, he’s our kid.

The next year when W was 3, we spent a wonderful week at PACE Place (www.paceplace.org) in Beaverton, OR. It was a sanity saving week where three therapists worked with us as a family unit, addressing parent understanding and issues, sibling experience, in addition to my son’s behaviors and speech. No other place had focused on our needs as a functioning family. Before we arrived, I filled out the usual buckets of paperwork documenting all the experiences we had had thus far. When asked what areas we specifically wanted to work on with W, I demonstrated my deep autism-related reading by answering with such things as “executive functioning skills” and “pragmatic speech”. Once we arrived, the co-owner Eric read our requests, talked with us about our lives, and said “hmmm…how about something more basic like going to the grocery store without him running off, or walking by a body of water without him jumping in?” Um, sure – that would be good too. We worked HARD that week, made significant headway and left with next steps to keep up the progress. We also received the sage advice to teach him to swim because more than likely, he would manage to elude us and jump into a pool or lake or creek at some time in the future. Impulse control would be a long-term project, so be smart.

As we were warned, impulsivity has been quite the project.  Every year there seems to be a new event or challenge. A short list of W’s impulse actions:

• As a preschooler, W found ant poison previous tenants had, unbeknownst to us, left in the garage. A 6AM thud and scream led to the discovery of W in a pool of sprayed poison with his foot and toes swelling where he’d slid and smashed them into the entertainment center. Luckily nothing was broken. That did lead to us locking him in his room at night.
• A lovely preschool full-reach mural on our living room wall. He even signed it. And I discovered the wonder of Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
• Sharpie murals on the 5-year-old W’s bedroom wall.   Wherein I discovered the limitations of Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
• Dropped swim trunks on many occasions. Calm down crotchety lady – it’s a cute bum. And yes, the younger girl marching & singing, “I don’t have a penis” also belongs to us. They’re a matched set.
• Blue penis (yes, Sharpie again). It only lasted one school week.
• Fire alarm pulled at school. All alarms from that point forward throughout the school had “W don’t” taped above “pull for alarm” signage.
• Fingernail polish – sparkly AND matte. It was fine on fingernails and toenails. It was when it was put all over his face that I had to get crafty to find a non-toxic removal solution. I was also pretty sure I was one of the only moms of a 5 year old boy with a behavioral plan that included him getting his own shoebox of make up and nail polish so he’d leave ours alone.
• Hubs finding an empty Paxil bottle next to smiling and swallowing W. Some moms pull cars off their kids. Me, I discovered I could simultaneously lift my kid in one arm, put my finger down his throat and dial Poison Control whilst running through the house. Nice Poison Control man let me know making him throw up was the worst thing to do in similar future situations. Noted.
• I arrived to find Hubs outside talking to neighbor with W inside. Sure enough, W had turned on the microwave to 2 hours by the time I went inside to check.

But last week, I was feeling smug. W was in middle school and thriving. He had received accolades from special and general ed teachers at the annual IEP. He was signed up to mainstream into more classes next year. His behaviors had lessened substantially (in middle school – go figure) and surely we were traveling on a bullet train ticket out of Impulse Landia. <cue DUH DUH DUUUUUHHH music>

One of my kids’ long-standing favorite books is I Ain’t Gonna Paint No More. IMO, Karen Beaumont and David Catrow can do no wrong when they team up for a book. Unbeknownst to me, my husband had pulled out this old standby to read to the kids before bed. I started to become aware of the reading when I was awakened at 6AM with our house’s version of an alarm clock – my son and his multiple queries of “Mommy, can I paint myself?” <Snort, sniffle, scratch> “What? NO! Dude, what time is it?” His little sister, who somehow at 8 years old still manages to go to bed in her own room and mysteriously appear snoozing happily in our bed between her father and me, groaned “oh, we read that Ain’t Gonna Paint No More book.” Speaking of alarms, if I hadn’t been so groggy I would have heard them ringing in the back of my mind and gone on lockdown drill. What I did, however, was go back to sleep and forgot about it. As any mother of a kid on the spectrum knows, spring break means breaking routine. My kid being one of the sleep issues autism masses, breaking routine means mornings begin anywhere from 1AM-5AM for weeks on end. My brain is a scary place to be at school break time. Those weird women hugging the short bus drivers the day school starts, yep we’re all part of the triple latte mamas club.

Fast-forward to a 5PM text from Hubs: “Well, boy has painted himself in oils. In shower now but not coming off so well. Sigh.” I grabbed my daughter after ballet class and raced home to find this post-shower site:

A boy in oils

I knew my mother’s art kit gift to the kids would lead to some level of…creativity. When I asked Hubs what was recommended online for removing oil paints from skin, he let me know he hadn’t looked but that he had washed W’s feet with ammonia prior to the shower to keep the paint off the bathroom floor. Luckily ammonia isn’t toxic. Oh wait, yes it is. One does wonder how males survived in the wild so long without accidentally lethally injuring themselves and each other on a regular basis. After a liberal rubbing in olive oil, we had a child who was less rainbow-like, and sheets with body-shaped stains Dawn and Clorox 2 will never get out.

And yes, this is the same child who asked for a chainsaw for Christmas and talks about when he’s 16 and starts driving. Only the exhaustion of chronically sleep-deprived parents allows my husband and me to forgo nightly worrying about the future forming in W’s head. And more importantly, what he’s not going to think about doing…until he actually does it of course. Snifters and snark and the realization that there are a few sets of 365 days before we cross that bridge. Those are the tickets to happiness.