Monthly Archives: December 2012

Talking

We had a visit from a new speech therapist last week. One of the purposes of her visit was to assess Henry for an AAC device (an electronic talker). It’s something we’ve been considering for a while, ever since a friend of mine started blogging about her son’s amazing progress using a device called a Vantage Lite, which uses a system called LAMP (Language Acquisition Through Motor Planning). Even though Henry has some speech, there are a number of  reasons why he might benefit from such a device: it could make his speech clearer to others, help him with word retrieval and possibly also help him to sequence  words into longer phrases and sentences.

Henry was on talkative form that day, grabbing the speech therapist’s hand as soon as she came through the door, pulling her into the sitting room and demanding tickles and ‘fast running’. She was obviously quite surprised, saying at one point that she had ‘ been expecting a non-verbal child ‘ and commenting positively about his intonation, imitation skills and obvious desire to communicate. For someone whose child had been described by one teacher at school as having ‘no functional language’ you can imagine this was music to my ears. Her advice was to delay a decision about an AAC device for six months, as she felt Henry may be on the verge of a ‘language explosion’ ( more music, a full symphony orchestra this time). We agreed that there are barriers that he has to overcome: difficulties with word retrieval, some consonant blends and sequencing (syllables and words) but that the main hurdle of old, his motivation to speak, is gradually being overcome by Intensive Interaction. I’ve written before about how his speech is confined to requests, but II is helping to extend those requests and also seems to be encouraging him to comment. We’ve had many repeats of the descriptive  ‘noisy’ I wrote about a few weeks ago and we now also get a running commentary at meal times – ‘chips….drink….sausage….chips’. When he started doing this we responded with a slightly irritated  ‘yes, look, your chips are there’, assuming that he was requesting as usual, but quickly realised that he was telling us, not asking. We now say ‘ Mmm chips, yummy’ and he repeats ‘yummy’ and carries on tucking in.

The speech therapist gave us some ideas for how to further extend Henry’s vocabulary and length of utterance within his narrow range of interests. Some of it we already knew, but had become lazy about: not letting him get away with using ‘toast’ to mean both toast and bread, insisting on the phrase ‘I want X please’ instead of just running to fulfil his single barked commands. Other ideas we had never used, for example, the use of scripts to accompany favourite games and other requests, the labeling (with a named picture) of items around the house. She advised us to ban questions that demand unmastered vocabulary as much as possible, concentrating on giving choices instead.  ‘Is this a sofa or a chair?’ is much easier to answer than ‘What’s this?’  as the correct word can be picked, rather than dredged up from memory (when his most frequent response was not ‘sofa’ but  ‘so far away’ !) Above all, she affirmed the growing confidence I’ve been feeling about Henry’s verbal potential.  The motivation to speak is now there, and we need to work as hard as possible on giving him the tools and the practice he needs to do it.

The video below shows Ellie working on a number of scripts with Henry, attempting to turn ‘blanket’ into ‘come under the blanket’, ‘ noisy’ into ‘Ellie, be noisy’ and ‘tickle tummy’ into ‘I want you to tickle my tummy’ (we’ve since changed this to ‘ tickle my tummy please’). She does this by modelling the phrase, then giving a prompt. It’s early days, but he’s definitely getting there. Happy Christmas everyone.

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Fridays

I’m aware that I focus on the successes in this blog and, in doing so, am guilty of skewing the picture  – giving the impression that all our days are filled with happy interactions and signs of progress. Readers who have children with autism will already know that this is unlikely to be the case. I’ve also come to recognise a strange phenomenon – the more that one trumpets a particular success, the more likely it is to turn round and bite you on the bum. A few days ago I wrote a proud post on Facebook about our successful visit to the shoe shop, during which Henry had waited ten whole minutes to get measured, had submitted calmly to the foot gauge and had only needed minor Haribo bribery to try on two pairs of shoes. The fact that they didn’t have his size in stock was a small irritation: I ordered a pair on the internet to be collected in store and received a text message to say that they were ready to pick up today, Friday.

Fridays have always been difficult since we started home ed. From Mondays to Thursdays Henry has a timetable – child-centred maybe, but a timetable nonetheless. I teach him Mondays and Wednesday mornings, Ellie on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Jackie on Wednesday after lunch. We do home-based activities in the mornings and go out in the afternoons. I wanted Fridays to be different – more spontaneous and flexible ( I can hear parents of autistic children everywhere laughing like drains as they read those two adjectives). Some things would be constant – popping in to the local special school for play time to give him some contact with other children, and a lunch time visit to MacDonalds, but other than that we would look at the weather and decide on the day. I have also to admit that I use Fridays to catch up on jobs that need doing, labeling them ‘life skills’ to make me feel better – posting letters, shopping, returning library books. Collecting shoes…

It doesn’t really work to be honest. More often than not on a Friday afternoon I’m left with a  sense of dissatisfaction, a feeling that Henry hasn’t got enough out of the day. Perhaps it’s because it’s winter: playgrounds are full of cold hard iron; parks grey and mushy. Anywhere offering indoor play is stuffed full of scary two year olds. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not much good at spontaneous and flexible either, at least not when it’s below 5 degrees.

So today we went to school, where Henry played happily. The problems started when we drove to town. It took twenty minutes to persuade him out of the car and even longer to coax him the 200 yards to the shoe shop. The queue was eight people long. At that point I should have turned and left, but, Monday’s success still in mind, I tried to join it. The way he lost control was sudden and frightening in its intensity. I’ve spent the last ten minutes typing different descriptions of how he hit and pinched me and am uncomfortable with all of them – it seems disloyal, somehow, to lay it all out in public. But of course that is what happened in Clarks, under the gaze of what seemed like hundreds of tutting women, who only saw a ten year old boy attacking his mother and probably didn’t register the fact that, in between the hitting, he was crying and saying ‘big hugs’.  I persevered and got to the front of the queue, only to be told I should be in the other Clarks shop. The shoe collecting was abandoned.

I can see many possible reasons why this happened, hindsight being a wonderful thing. I hadn’t put ‘shopping’ on the visual timetable. One of my friends suggested that Henry probably didn’t understand why he was going back to the shoe shop, having only been there a few days earlier. I did explain, but it’s pretty obvious that he didn’t grasp the meaning of  ‘collecting shoes’ or any of the five other ways I tried to explain it. There may have been something about the sounds or sights or smells of the shop today that made him anxious. Whatever the reasons, it left me shaken and Henry sobbing. I was in a dilemma about MacDonalds, feeling that taking him straight away would reinforce the behaviour, yet loath to end the morning on such a negative note. Luckily he walked back to the car cooperatively, though still crying, and even said ‘sorry’, so we went to the drive-through and peace, of sorts, was restored with the first chip. I say ‘of sorts’ because he has not been himself for the rest of the day – heavy-eyed and pale, as if exhausted by the ferocity of his emotions.

Next Friday I will do things differently. I will plan and prepare and read the signs of anxiety better. I’m also wondering how Intensive Interaction practitioners deal with meltdowns. All suggestions will be gratefully received.