Cool Apps for Autism: Touch Trainer

Posted on November 29, 2011 by FlappinessIs

Touch Trainer is a great app. It was the very first app I chose for our son after making the choice to try an iPad with him. Touch Trainer does one thing - it trains someone lacking in communication and fine motor skills how to properly touch and make a choice on a touch screen. Prior to using this app, our 2 year old autistic son swiped, slapped, and scratched at the iPad. Without being able to point (a common developmental delay for autistic children and a Red Flag), Callum would not be able to use many of the nifty apps designed for him. I started the app and - cue the violins - Callum was mesmerized. I had to show him the first couple of times what would happen when he correctly touched the large square image on the screen. (It began dancing all over the screen to music.) Callum then began to pull my hand toward the iPad to see more of this dancing square. I used hand over hand to make him choose the image for a couple of minutes. I was soon able to pull my hand back to touch his wrist, and then elbow, until he was finally able to do it on his own. (Amusingly, he spent several minutes insisting I touch his other arm, innocently believing that he couldn’t do it without that particular form of assistance.) Within 15 minutes, Callum was able to use a touch screen to achieve a desired result. That is rudimentary communication, folks. Yep, I teared up on the spot. Highly recommended.

Touch Trainer is $6.99 in the App store. You can get it here:

Book Review: Letters to Sam

Posted on November 29, 2011 by FlappinessIs

One of the things I love about being a librarian is finding books I didn’t even realize I had. Yesterday, while perusing the card catalog, I decided to do a search on autism. I came across a book that I undoubtably had bought at some point, but didn’t remember. It is titled Letters to Sam: A Grandfather’s Lessons on Love, Loss, and the Gifts of Life by Daniel Gottlieb. I started skimming it and, many tissues and sticky note bookmarks later, found a real treasure.

When Daniel Gottlieb, a psychologist, was 33 years old, he was paralyzed in a car accident and became a quadriplegic He regained some use of his arms and went about living a full life, continuing his practice and adjusting to his new circumstances. Twenty something years later, his daughter had a child, Sam, who quickly began showing signs of autism. With medical complications from his paralysis that made Gottlieb worry he might not be around much longer and, worrying that Sam might not develop quickly enough to understand what he wanted to teach him, Gottlieb began a series of letters about life, love, and adversity. In his letters to young Sam, Gottlieb shares valuable lessons learned about being different and how to navigate the world. He is honest with Sam about the challenges he faces with autism and honest about his own painful experiences following the accident.

The advice that he gives Sam could come only from someone who understands being different. In a place now where we don’t know what kind of future our two year old autistic child will have, Gottlieb’s instructions on how to be happy in a world that isn’t made for differentness are a beacon of hope for me. I loved the gentle, yet respectful honesty of this grandfather to his cherished grandchild and was encouraged by Sam’s progress as he grew older. Hope is a precious commodity in a family impacted by autism. This wonderful collection of letters inspires hope and reminds me that we will survive what we fear so much right now. Highly recommended.

P.S. Gottlieb has another title that I look forward to reading as well- The Wisdom of Sam: Observation on Life From an Uncommon Child. (Kindle version only .89!)

And So It Begins…

Posted on November 27, 2011 by FlappinessIs

The Right Moment

I knew it was coming. So, it isn’t a surprise. Funny how that doesn’t make it any easier. Having seen relatives raise autistic children, I knew the time was coming when taking our son out in public would become officially difficult. Up until now, I have been able to avoid the stares of others during my son’s tantrums. He was still a baby. Until recently, most people (including those who knew him fairly well) didn’t think he was so different than other toddlers. Many of them were still making the He’ll Catch Up, So Quit Worrying argument. But, as he is getting closer to three, it is becoming more obvious that he doesn’t talk, doesn’t play normally, and emits ear-piercing shrieks when life isn’t going his way.

I got my first Stares From People in Public Who Clearly Raised Their (Normal) Children Better Than Me the other day. We went for our weekly trip to Publix and, for the first time, the cookie that the nice folks in the bakery gave Callum didn’t keep him happy. He began to shriek. And shriek. And, just when we thought it was over, shriek some more. And they all looked up and stared. That stare that speaks volumes and says, “I’d tear his little butt up and shame on you as a mother for not having done it already.” I looked around, and then I knew. The days of blending in are over. We are about to become the family that is a pain to have around.

A couple of days later, my best friend Beverly arrived from Vermont. We hadn’t seen each other’s kids in over two years. We took them to a park. And Callum wasn’t happy. We took them to Wendy’s to lunch. And Callum threw everything within reach off the table. And shrieked for a chicken nuggett - pretty much the only thing left that he will eat. Yep, those days are here.

I’m not ashamed. But I’m sad. I’m sad that he doesn’t know the joys of playing with others. I’m sad that my four year was so desperately happy to have a playmate who actually played with her. I’m sad that I couldn’t sit down for a few minutes and enjoy my friend without following Callum around, who is always busy AWAY from where all the other children are grouped.

But then he found the hammock. I put him in it, and he just melted with satisfaction. And I got some cool pictures - the rare kind that you can’t ever seem to get with a child with autism. Ones with genuine smiles that highlight the little souls we love so, so much. So, for Thanksgiving, I am thankful for hammocks. Hammocks under canopy trees in perfect, breezy weather. And cameras available in The Right Moment.

And for Callum. I cannot imagine life without this precious little angel of a boy.