The Family Room

Vocational services for adults with autism

I spent the earlier part of this week in Phoenix, where I attended the dedication of a room at a brand-new vocational center for adults with autism. It's part of the Southwest Autism Research and Resource Center (SARRC), and it gave me a peek into what's possible when people think broadly and imaginatively about what it takes to serve our community.

The center, called the Opus West Vocational and Life Skills Academy, provides training in daily living skills, vocational skills, as well as job readiness and placement services for adults with autism. Everything was conceived to support the students while maximizing their learning opportunities: a technology center, a rec room, "The Loft," an apartment-like series of rooms for socializing and life skills education, a kitchen and a garden where the students can grow vegetables which they will eventually harvest, make into soup and sell locally. There's even a "touchdown" area with tiny cubicles meant to help the students practice telephone conversations. It's a dream--quite literally--come true.

Closest to my heart, and the reason I was there, is a classroom called "Camilla's Crew," in which the staff offers vocational training to people with autism. The teachers assess the clientele--their strengths, preferences, challenges--and then work with them to develop the types of skills that will help them land and keep a job. 

Camilla is my cousin, and she'll be 14 this year. She's lucky to have this resource, which was developed on a foundation of so many collective years of experience, love, learning and success.

Stretch your normal

[Scene: ISAAC is at home with ANA, his nanny. She is trying to get him to eat his carrots.]

ANA: Isaac, papi, have a carrot!

ISAAC: No.

ANA: Isaac, come on these carrots are so good! [Eats one]. Mmmmmm!

ISAAC: Ana likes the carrots, Ana can eat the carrots.

And here we are. He walks into assembly at school now, completely untroubled. Months ago, he refused to go near the place with its linoleum floors, bright lights and deafening clamor. The anxiety is still there, as is the elevator obsession, joined by a new companion: buses.

These days, I awake as often as not to a recitation of our municipal bus lines. It's part of the deal, our special interest, if you will. It doesn't faze me too much--I remember my grand passion for escalators at that age--but then the world has a way of intruding into our snug little cocoon.

The world loves norms, doesn't it?

*

When my mother died, a part of me watched with detachment as I moved through the stages of grief--frequently all at once. But one thing people don't tell you is that your friends and acquaintances move through those stages with you as well. They have a timeline too.

They begin with shock, as we the bereaved do. Then kindness (sometimes distancing). Food is brought, hugs given, long weepy monologues patiently listened to. Assurances--"whatever you need..." are made. But then, at some predetermined yet mysterious moment, there is a shift.

You are supposed to be better. You are supposed to be back to normal. Because--let's face it--we humans are made profoundly uncomfortable by variations from the norm.

But the truth is that the bereaved accommodate as well. We try to pass. We pretend to feel better. We pretend to be back to normal. We simmer with anger. Or we express that anger.

Because then we have two things to battle: the grief, and the illusion that the grief is gone.

And this is where we are, in a way. As my boy matures, behavior that was passed off lightly at two or even four is now so much more evident. When he is overcome at school and lies on the classroom floor, or when he refuses to exit the elevator, demanding yet another ride, the climate shifts, and everyone has to accommodate themselves to this departure from the expected.

They want him to be normal, because, you know, it's so much easier.

But here's what I've learned. My normal has stretched to accommodate a lot more than it used to. And with that comes a certain serenity about what is happening at any given time. 

So here is my advocacy project, my challenge to you and to the people around you. If you really want to make a difference in my son's life and the lives of people like him, challenge that unease you feel. Provoke it. Stretch your normal.

Free Association

There's something about this kind of writing that seems sto express the way the brain works. I started this weblog back in February 2007, at a point when Isaac's speech had really begun to kick in and we were in about eighteen flavors of crisis about what it all meant. 

He liked to spin a lot then, and would often twirl or demand that his father or I pick him up and spin him around. "He never gets dizzy," people would marvel, as if he had accomplished something special. "Yeah, that's actually not so great," I'd say if I was in the mood for a little Sensory Integration 101.  "It means his brain isn't fully receiving the signal that his body is moving." 

Isaac doesn't spin much anymore, and when he does, he gets dizzy much more quickly. Those pathways--some of them, anyway--have found each other. 

I read an article by Stephen Johnson in today's Wall Street Journal about how E-Books will change the way we read, and I can already see so many of these patterns in the way I communicate.  I might be writing about Isaac and thinking about how, lately, he loves bus-riding, and it'll remind me of Ben and his recitation of all the Thomas trains. 

Or I'll be thinking about Nik and his unexplained pain, wondering why the medical world has so much trouble tracking down the source of something so powerful and debilitating. Or what GP or Leelo is doing today. Link, Link, Link.

It takes me on a journey, and if you're game, it brings you along for the ride, even if you don't choose to get off at every stop. It's not a hike; it's a meander, and you never know exactly where it'll lead.

And so, as I see my own world increasingly linked, I see evidence that my son's brain is developing associations as well; some good, some funny, some not so good. I see the unexpected joys in his particular neurological arrangement, and the pain as he crashes against his anxieties over and over again. They're always mostly the same, and sometimes a little bit different.

As J. remarked last night, Isaac is increasingly able to work through his feelings and come out the other side. It may not always be pretty, but bit by bit, those linkages are giving way to new and finer strands and tendrils and fronds and branches. More paths, more possibilities; the power of a network unfolding.

Like Johnson, I won't ever be able to give up the discipline and pleasure of a straight read through a big book: it's who I am.  But I can't help wondering whether there will be some evolutionary impact to this brave new link-rich world, and if we, and our kids, will be the better for it. 

Postcards from France

We had friends over last night, and talked, you know, about things.  One of the odd paradoxes we discussed is the fact that children on the spectrum (most children, actually) crave a sense of structure and like to know what's coming next. At the same time, our kids have a particular tendency to become anxious about transitions, even if they are transitions to something they dearly want.  So it is sometimes a delicate balancing act, the act of telling. Or you can call it by its real name: a crapshoot.

So I, uh, didn't really tell Isaac that we were going to have dinner guests. When the doorbell rang, he became a bit agitated, naming his regular babysitters in near-chronological order and insisting that it wasn't them. And it wasn't.

We set up the kids in Isaac's room with trains, cars and books, and, after a while, left them to play in proximity if not actually together. After a while, I heard a familiar pound-pound-pound down the hallway. One rosy cherubic face popped in, grinned, then another. Then pound-pound-pound down the hallway again.  And back. "We're chasing us!" Isaac crowed, clearly delighted with himself and his companion. I was so bowled over at the spontaneity that I couldn't have cared less about the pronouns. 

It didn't last long (which the downstairs neighbors probably appreciated), but it was progress. Oh, and I made Kung Pao Chicken.

*

If you're looking for two beautiful things to read this week, I recommend Paul Collins' piece in Cookie about how to include a child with autism in your birthday parties, and my friend Kristen's piece about what lies beyond awareness.

Off to the kitchen. Grandpa and Nonna flew in today from the East Coast (they hit the jackpot; it's a gorgeous 76 degrees here) and I am about to crack open a bottle of Albarino and make shrimp with snowpeas for family dinner. 

P.S. If you're wondering what the heck the title means, check out this post from MOM-NOS. Classic.

Here We Are

A year ago, I sat on a plane on the first day of Autism Awareness Month and watched five straight hours of CNN coverage. I remember being deeply impressed by the commitment of the CNN staffers, some of whom had children on the spectrum themselves.  

One segment was about a center in Qatar for children with special needs. A few weeks later, I received an email from a woman who'd read one of my posts. She lived in the United Arab Emirates and was concerned about her son; so much so that she contacted a stranger in the United States for advice. 

I didn't know where she was exactly, but I told her about the Shafallah Center in Qatar. To this day I have no idea whether they were able to help her, or if she even contacted them, but it reminded me of how small the Internet makes the world. With so little really known about autism, our kids' lives are deeply affected by information passed from one of us to another: in a word, folklore.

Here we are again: it's Autism Awareness Month, and we're going to be hearing a lot of folklore in the next 30 days. It'll be the usual drumbeat of causation theories, therapies, inspiring, grim and sensationalist stories and semi-celebrities flogging their books on Oprah. 

Makes you want to check into a hotel, throw a blanket over the TV and sleep for a few weeks, doesn't it?

*

Tonight as I tucked Isaac into bed, I couldn't stop thinking about the onslaught of autismania we'll be seeing this month. I looked down at Isaac as he sleepily clutched his stuffed bunny, and I thought if people really understood the incredible strength and beauty and humor of our kids, how hard they work, what the world looks and feels and smells and sounds like to them, we wouldn't have to spend so much time fighting for awareness, and beyond that, acceptance.

Enough Rain Man, enough sensationalism, enough scary and irresponsible stories. Enough. You've heard of autism: now look at the kids.

Here's mine. He'll be six this summer, he loves buses and pizza and reading and climbing, and he laughs when he learns new words.

Now. Tell me about your kid. Your brother or sister. You.

If you are on Twitter, I invite you to post a photo of someone you love with autism. At the end of the post, tag it  #waad (for World Autism Awareness Day) and #hereweare.

Here we are.

Some dark places, and a call to action

"It's getting light blue," Isaac commented idly as the first wisps of light began to peek through the window shades.  He hopped down off the bed, picked up his copy of Knuffle Bunny, and began to read. "Not so very long ago, before she could even speak words..." He read the book straight through, gazing intently at the pictures, and I let the music of his voice drift over me; rushing sometimes, stopping momentarily as he turned the pages back, carefully examined the pictures, and read them again.

"Why is Trixie upset?" I asked him at a certain point. He ignored me and kept reading, his attention fixed on the book.  "Isaac, look at me," I said, my voice a little louder than before. He looked me in the eye. "Why is Trixie so upset?" I asked again. "Because she lost her Knuffle Bunny," he replied calmly, and went back to reading.  

*

I first heard about the Ann Bauer article on from some friends on Twitter. "Sick to my stomach," one wrote, "Shaking," and I clicked over to see what everyone was talking about.  "For years I thought of his autism as beautiful and mysterious. But when he turned unspeakably violent, I had to question everything I knew," read the introduction, and I felt a heavy dread gather in my stomach.

Let me get this straight, so there is no misunderstanding. 

Autism is nothing if not mysterious, and it is as impossible for me to untangle my son's autism from who he is as it would be to imagine him a girl, or a teenager, or your child, or anyone other than he is now at nearly six years old. I do think his autism is beautiful because it's part of who he is, how he appreciates a pratfall, loves the music of words, devours books, tenderly kisses his stuffed bunny before bed.

And despite the fact that he's gentle and happy and bright, I would be lying if I told you I didn't wonder sometimes where this all will lead, and if he'll be okay.  I'm his mom.  It's my job.

Honestly, though, I worry less about him than I do about you. Well, probably not you exactly, because you're here and you're reading and, if this isn't your first visit, you know a little about our story.

I worry about the world, and people's conflicted and often hostile reactions to autism. Dennis Leary, are you listening?  

I worry because, if you read the comments to Ann Bauer's story, they start off compassionately, and then understandably begin to question, and then, slowly veer into judgment. They question her credibility, her reliability, her motives, even her sanity. Several people, who grossly overestimate the economics of online publishing, accuse her of trying to make a buck off her son.  And then they become ignorant and cruel and outright frightening, so much so that Salon actually ended up closing the comment thread. 

I worry because when you say "autism" some people turn ugly, and, what's worse, they feel justified in doing so. 

Ann Bauer did a brave and risky thing: she told a personal story that she knew would shake us up, and shake us up she did. And amid the praise for her bravery and candor, there was far too much blame and mud-slinging and ugliness. 

She didn't deserve that.

Whatever it is, to whatever dark corners our questions lead, whether this turns out to be one family's painful story or something else entirely, whether we are confident or slightly worried or frankly shit-scared, we need to listen.

We need to rally around the people who speak out, most particularly when their stories are the ones that are most unbearable.  Even if we leave with more questions than we had before. Even if it makes us sick to go to those dark places because that's what happens to other people who (we would like to believe, wouldn't we?) somehow deserve it.

We owe it to our kids--and to the adults on the spectrum who deserve our understanding and respect--to be better than that.

We need to be better than that.  

We need to be BETTER THAN THAT.

Whose disability is it anyway? Ask Aimee Mullins

I found this link over at parent hacks, one of my favorite haunts. It's founded (curated, you could say) by Asha Dornfest with a great deal of care and humor.  (Asha always finds the best stuff.)  

Today it's a link to a video from the TED conference; a talk by actor, model, athlete and activist Aimee Mullins on the nature of power, disability, art, poetry and prosthetics. 

It's a masterpiece.  Two of my favorite tidbits:

"Pamela Anderson has more prosthetic in her body than I do. Nobody calls her disabled."

"Poetry matters. Poetry is what elevates the banal and neglected object to the realm of art."

Intrigued? Watch it here.

All content and images courtesy of TED.

Life's rich pageant

The two-year anniversary of this blog was about a month ago, and it passed me by entirely. But I found myself thinking about it this morning as I watched Isaac play happily with Mario Kart on the Wii.  We've come a long way.  A few mile markers:

- He can play independently now, at least for a while

- His language has exploded. It's still not at age level, and it can be a bit eccentric at times, but it's miles ahead of where he was

- He can play interactively with us for a good long time

- He's showing interest in other kids; talking about them, trying what they do, even responding and playing sometimes

Yesterday, while trying to con us out of too much snack, he explained to us that "if I eat too many crackers, my tummy will be disappointed."  Indeed.

And where it all leads is anybody's guess.

*

You know that Chinese proverb (or maybe it's a curse?): "may you live in interesting times"? Let's say we are in an "interesting" behavioral phase.  One moment, Isaac is reflective ("I feel upset because I don't want to go to school").  The next moment he is in a full-scale red-alert tantrum because he wants to go into the girl's bathroom.  He's clearly able to reason and understand consequences, but sometimes the impulses are just too strong for him to bear. Is it the pressure we exert as parents? Or is it more of an internal battle?

Jordan was musing a few weeks ago about the difficulty in discerning "typical," age-appropriate behavior from what we all affectionately refer to as "spectrum stuff."  She's a speech and language pathologist (ie a speech therapist) and the mother of two typically-developing kids, but her practice consists of a lot of kids on the spectrum. She says:

"One of my professional responsibilities has been to help parents sort out which of their child’s behaviors are 'typical,' i.e., often occurring in the development of neurotypical kids, and which are more atypical.  To be honest, this isn’t a conversation I ever seek out, but it does come up fairly often when parents attribute very typical things as 'disordered' or 'autistic' and then I step in with some developmental information that generally provides a sense of relief to worried parents."

She had a question about one of her sons, and a friend pointed her to a couple of books entitled, Your-Eight-Year-Old-Outgoing and Your Four-Year-Old: Wild and Wonderful by Louse Bates Ames, Ph.D. of the Gesell Institute of Human Development.

Despite the age of the books (they were originally written in the 70s), Jordan found the eight-year-old version useful.  Now let me just say right now that since Isaac's diagnosis (when it became clear that we were going to need another map entirely) I have fled from any book that purports to explain typical child development.

But I trust Jordan and it had been a long time, so I thought I'd check out the five-year-old version. The title?  Your Five-Year-Old: Sunny and Serene. 

Uh, not so much. 

Here's an excerpt:

"In his determination to do everything just right, he may ask permission for even the simplest thing and will then beam with pleasure as his mother smiles and says, 'Yes, you may have an apple, dear.'"

Wrong and wrong.  But I kept reading until I got to the section on age five-and-a-half to six (Isaac is 5 1/2) and nearly choked on this bit:

"Not yet a full-fledged Six, nevertheless the child of five-and -a-half shows an all-too-great readiness to disobey, to go against what is asked or expected of him. And he doesn't always do this gently. "Brash" and "combative" are the adjectives that mothers use in describing this child, and all with good reason."

And this:

"Five-and-a-half is characteristially hesitant, dawdlng, indecisive--or at the opposite extreme, overdemanding and explosive."

Well hellllloooo, gorgeous.

Any of you with spectrum kids will know this--aloofness, rage, anxiety, clinginess--all these things can look downright pathological when you have a child with a diagnosed difference. It's tempting to put any extreme behavior into that bucket. But typical kids? They do weird stuff too. They dawdle, they demand, they retreat, they explode.

Back before we were sure of a diagnosis, we used to wish we had a "control child" that we could compare against: is this normal? Or is it spectrum? But now we know: we'll never really know. It's all woven together into a rich tapestry of Isaac-ness that is perfect in its own way, and impossible--and futile--to untangle.

My new hero

Check this out. And then show it to anyone who still thinks the word "retard" is funny. 

Irregular verbs

"Guys, can I have some milK?" Isaac asked as he wandered into our room this morning. More and more, he's taking on our colloquialisms. He's a fierce mimic too; I can hear the sounds of the playground when he comes home in the afternoon. "isaac, it's time for your bath," I'll say innocently. "NoooOOOOOOooooo," he'll whine, and I'll wonder where the characteristic down-up-down of the childish whine originated. Is it universal? Do kids in Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Finland, Japan whine like that?  

It's all good, but oh the limit-testing.  We were lucky early on that Isaac reserved his most engaged self for us; seems that comes with a large side order of opposition too. And now he's overtly trying to game us; after some particularly unlovely behavior this morning, he tried to grin himself out of an apology. Later, J. reminded me how developmentally "good" this is, and he was right. 

We're also a little flummoxed by the way he's learning language. In some ways we can see him applying the linguistic rules he's learned: "I bringed my car outside," he proudly announced to J. this morning, and there was a brief discussion of irregular verbs. "It doesn't make any sense," J. said, "but that's how it works." 

And that's our lesson for today: there's a lot that doesn't make any sense, or has its own peculiar logic, and maybe, if we're lucky, will be revealed one day.

A short history of croup

This morning, Isaac lay with his head in my lap as we read Knuffle Bunny together. "I want the sick to go away," he said, his hair damp to his forehead. 

He's been getting over the croup, which he's had just about yearly since he was a baby. The first time, we rushed him to the emergency room in a panic and watched helplessly as he vomited the medicine the doctor administered to reduce the inflammation in his tiny trachea.

By the second time, we were veterans. We asked for the shot first, and spent hours crouched in the steamy bathroom as he barked and strained for air. 

By the third time, he was wise to the drill and screamed from the moment we entered Urgent Care. The doctor flapped helplessly (and in fact rather agitatedly) around him as I explained that his complete and total non-compliance was a combination of fear, fever and autism. She understood the first two, was completely flummoxed by the third.

This time, we managed to avoid Urgent Care altogether, hunkering at home for the duration. Ana, Isaac's lovely new nanny, came to spell us so we could return to work, taking him for rides in the cool air.

And this morning, war-weary and cabin-feverish, he lay his head in my lap and sighed.  His language has expanded so dramatically that, for the very first time, we could actually have a conversation about being sick. 

"Do you want me to help you make the sick go away?" I asked him. "Yes," he whispered, his head soft and damp in my lap. "Okay, sit up and open your mouth." He did. 

I pretended to pull the sickness out of his mouth, then his ears, then his nose, his eyes and--yes, for comic relief--his bottom. I waved my hands and rolled it all up into a pretend ball. "Okay, let's blow it away," I said, and we huffed and puffed and blew it away together. "Feel better?" I asked. "Yes," he whispered, his dimple flashing, and he snuggled closer.

He's on to me, I know, but in that one moment I think we both felt a little bit better.

Three circles

ISAAC is playing Starfall on the computer.  DADDY wanders in, talking to his father on the phone.  DADDY puts the phone up to ISAAC's ear and says, "Isaac, say hi to Grandpa."

The following is an unedited transcript of the conversation:

ISAAC: Hi Grandpa!

GRANDPA: Hi Isaac! What are you doing?

ISAAC: I'm on the computer.

GRANDPA: Really? What are you doing on the computer?

ISAAC: Playing.

In Floortime terms, Isaac is now capable of so many circles of communication that we can barely count them. But real conversation has been a harder hill to climb. He's never said anything more than "Hi" on the phone before. And now we have three circles. Three complete lovely round circles: my new favorite shape.

*

Tonight in the bath, I tried out our new conversational skills.  As they say on 24: "The following takes place between 7:09 pm and 7:10 pm":

MOMMY: Isaac, what did you do at school today?

ISAAC: I sat on the rug.

And there you have it. A five-year-old teenager. At least he didn't say "nothing" and put on his headphones. 

Free Workshop on Floortime and DIR

Lisa D Faria, a licensed clinical social worker who works with children with autism, sent this along and I thought I'd share. Please pass it along to anyone you think might benefit. 

Free Parent Workshop on Floortime™ & the DIR® model – San Jose, CA Sat., Feb. 28, 2009, 10 am -12:45 pm. Sponsored by The Creekside School. Parents of children with Autism or other special needs are invited to learn how to meet, reach, and promote your child's social-emotional-cognitive growth using Floortime, a developmental play-based approach. Speakers include Lisa deFaria, LCSW, Faculty, Interdisciplinary Council on Developmental and Learning Disorders, Yana Peleg, PhD, Children’s Health Council, Lynette DiLuzio, SLP, Director, The Creekside School, Moira Sullivan, M.S., OTR/L and Matt McAlear, Easter Seals, P.L.A.Y. Project, Santa Clara. Reservations strongly encouraged, as space is limited. To register please call Anne Ernst at 408.933.8910 or email: info@creeksideschool.org (*Adults only. We regret we cannot provide childcare at this event.)

Peaceful

I lay in bed at night, soothed to sleep by the sound of crickets and the occasional owl. "HOO Hoo. Hoo Hoo," it would call night after night, familiar music through my bedroom window. 

Sometimes I would hear coyotes keening through the brush. One would start to yowl, then the others would join in and--just as suddenly--fall silent. 

It was peaceful in my bedroom, at least on the nights that I couldn't hear my parents arguing. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, butting up against the scrubby hillside and all its rightful inhabitants. Every day at around dusk a squirrel would come down the hill and drink from our pool, his tail twitching anxiously at the slightest breeze. Sometimes we'd find the odd garden snake on the front steps. Once we found a baby rattler, and, not long after, a large hairy black tarantula making its leisurely way through the ivy.

It was wild and utterly ordinary, and it's the image I conjure when I'm looking for a sense of peace, my inner compass.

*

J. and I made the decision to raise Isaac in the city early on. Both kids of the suburbs, we loved the idea of being able to walk anywhere from our front door, or hop on the bus at a moment's notice. We loved the diversity, the parks, the energy of city life, the variety of things to do.

But I can't help feeling a little melancholy that the sounds that soothed me as a chid--the hum of wildlife going about its daily business--are not available to him. Instead he falls asleep to the neighbors' conversation on the deck below, to diesel buses and police cars and babies crying and dogs barking in the distance. 

*

We recently began introducing the concept of peacefulness to Isaac. His understanding of emotions grows day by day; yesterday, he informed me solemnly, "I was grouchy before, but now I feel happy." And so beyond happiness--a state that he guards intensely--lie other more nuanced feelings: excitement, fear, worry, surprise, and now, peacefulness.

"Do you want me to rub your back?" I asked him not long ago as we completed our nightly bedtime ritual. "Yes," he whispered, his face buried in the sheets.  I rubbed his back in slow circles, whispering to him, and told him that this was what peaceful feels like: when your breathing is slow, and your voice is low, and your muscles feel loose and heavy as you drift closer to sleep.

"Do you feel peaceful now?" I asked, my voice a whisper. "Yes," he said, and closed his eyes.

Bring on the Andrews!

Way back when we were first wading through therapies and diagnoses and endlessly picking little laminated icons off the floor, I remember thinking how overwhelmed and exhausted we felt every time someone suggested something new. 

PECS never sat well with us, in retrospect, I think, because so many of Isaac's auditory processing challenges are situational. That is to say, his receptive language is fine at home and in quiet places, while he has a much harder time in loud, chaotic environments or when he's upset. So while it may have been essential for the classroom, it usually felt unnatural--and like overkill--at home.

The truth is we resisted a lot of suggestions at first but ended up trying just about everything sooner or later. I remember saying snidely to J. one day that developmental pediatricians should hand out two things to newly-diagnosed parents on the way out of the office: a prescription for antidepressants and a lamination machine.

Because if you are a parent of the child on the spectrum, there is only one absolute truth: everything having to do with autism must be laminated. 

 

Social stories, while they seemed really smart in theory, seemed overwhelming in practice. Find images that your child can relate to, add text to them, bind them together and...what?  A book every time we need to do something new? It's enough to make you want to stay inside all day and bolt the door.

We're way past that now, and I have enough perspective to see that, without really noticing, we now weave social stories into pretty much everything we do. Isaac loves and responds to them, and we rarely if ever need pictures anymore to reinforce the story.  He likes to hear them, embroider them, add silly variations. He asks for them when he's upset or nervous or excited, and he sometimes even tells them himself. It's as natural as conversation, if conversation were, in fact, natural. 

But there's another piece here too. Isaac loves our family photo albums. When he was a baby, I remember seeing a craft project in one of the parenting magazines (inspiring in that Martha Stewart way: impressive, while leaving you with the vague sense that you have failed as a parent, even before you've started). It involved making a mobile out of photos so your little darling could go to sleep with the faces of beloved family members dangling overhead. I never made that mobile, but I did go out and get a bunch of little brag books, which I brought to work in the days after I returned to work to try to retain some continuity with my new, and still unfamiliar, mother self.

Isaac has discovered and fallen in love with these books, and he takes great pleasure in pointing out the pictures of "Baby Isaac," Mommy, Daddy, and his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. To this we have added pictures from school for a bit of social reinforcement.

"Who's this?" I asked the other day as we looked at a picture from last year's preschool class. "That's Andrew!" he told me excitedly. "And this?" I said, pointing to another child. "That's Andrew!"

"Really, Isaac," I asked. "Are ALL the kids in your class named Andrew?" I pointed to each one in turn. "Andrew, Andrew, Andrew, Andrew and Andrew?"

He laughed so hard he started to hiccup, and since then he has insisted that we refer to him as Andrew. 

"Isaac, it's time for bed," I said tonight.

"ANDREW it's time for bed," he replied calmly, grinning at me sidelong: his father's grin.

So I complied, marveling at how a simple story about going to school has meandered its way into a game of pretend, and how right it is that he is now becoming interested in exploring the meanings of routine and friendship and family and identity.