Don’t hit that bike, don’t hit that bike, I repeated to myself. Learning to drive at sixteen, I worked hard to steer clear of obstacles in the road. But time and again; my vigilance led me to over-focus on that bike, and the car would veer directly toward where I least wanted it to go.
Fifteen years later, the road ahead looked straight and clear. I was happily married, eager to have children, and immersed in my work as a clinical social worker at a non-public school for special education. The students there were so impaired, so unpredictable that they could not be contained in any kind of special program offered by the public schools. This school served children ranging from four years old to twenty-one, from learning disabled to emotionally disturbed to profoundly autistic, from socially avoidant to conduct disordered to bi-polar. Each day held new crises, altercations, interventions, and explosions of
conflicting tempers, pathologies, and pharmacologies: A five-year-old boy with autism charging down the hall, screaming with his hands over his ears, running from something no one else can perceive; a frantic parent calling with the news that her eleven-year-old daughter has been hospitalized for cutting herself; a non-verbal twenty-year-old hurtling his body against the walls of a small office, trying to vent an inexpressible rage.
Barbara Boroson 2 Impact
These children fascinated me. I was challenged by their challenges and open to their possibility. Nothing intrigued me more than finding a bridge to a remote child. My greatest pleasure came in devising new ways to reach and teach these compelling children. Steeped in this brew of disability, I passed my days providing therapy, defusing daily crises, and debriefing combatants. Several times each year I was called upon to train fellow staff members in safe crisis-prevention and intervention. And when all was quiet, I studied case files: brick-thick stacks of evaluations by psychologists, psychiatrists, neurologists, educators, physical therapists, occupational therapists, social workers, and many more. Together the documents painted colorful, albeit one-dimensional pictures of each child, from pre-natal development right through present-day functioning. I read them
all with professional interest, took relevant notes, and filed them away.
And then I became pregnant. My friends expressed worries for me: “Aren’t you scared, working at a place like that when you’re pregnant? What if one of those crazy kids tries to hurt you?” But physical safety was low on my list of worries. I had never been hurt on the job, and felt pretty confident with my personal safety training.Something else entirely had begun to frighten me about working where I did while pregnant. Each day I was coming face-to-face with the myriad things that can go awry in
the miraculous process that creates a human being. All around me I saw fragile, troubled kids whose futures hung like shadowy question marks above their heads. As the weeks passed, I realized I did not feel “other” from them or their families; I did not believe that disability could never happen to my child. In my world, disability was the norm; nearly all the children in my life at that time were severely impaired. Why wouldn’t it happen to my child?
I continued studying evaluations, but now from a new, deeply personal perspective. I focused on the factors that professionals and especially parents posited as explanations for “what went wrong.” Every evaluation suggested another cause for the child’s dysfunction, Barbara Boroson 3 Impact dating back even before birth: “Pregnancy was notable for mother’s use of cocaine in the
second month.” “Delivery was notable for doctor’s use of vacuum extraction.” “Labor was notable for mother’s use of Pitocin/Demerol/epidural.” “Pregnancy was notable for premature delivery at thirty-four weeks… for mother’s use of decongestants during the second trimester… for mother bleeding in the first trimester… for mother’s use of cigarettes/alcohol/caffeine… for doctor’s use of forceps during delivery… for volatile relationship between biological parents throughout pregnancy… for mother slipping on the ice in seventh month… for absence of pre-natal care… for mother’s exposure to Chicken Pox / Fifth’s Disease / Listeria / Salmonella / mercury / lead dust / second-hand smoke / dry-cleaning chemicals / household cleansers / exhaust fumes / asbestos / carbon monoxide / pesticides…” The triggers were endless.
Each evaluation offered me a new worry, so I resolved to shield myself and my child against any prenatally “notable” force. I saw how these children suffered; I saw how their parents suffered. I confronted it each and every day. I would ensure that disability would not happen to my child. I believed my first maternal obligation would be to protect my child from all potential agents of harm. And I believed it was within my power to do so. I focused on avoidance, on circumventing every imaginable hazard: Don’t hit that bike, don’t hit that bike. I was vigilant. I ate carefully and organically, drank only bottled water, kept a distance from colds and illnesses, breathed only fresh or filtered air, and exercised regularly and mindfully. I ingested no pain-reliever or antibiotic; allowed myself no alcohol, no caffeine, no soft cheese, no cold cuts, no tuna. I accepted no Novocain when I had two teeth filled. And I powered through my 28-hour labor with no drugs. Through it all, I felt virtuous and vital and clear of purpose. My eye was on the prize: I would steer clear of each and every risk factor and manage the outcome of my pregnancy.
Barbara Boroson 4 Impact
Finally, after nine months of fastidious safekeeping, our beautiful son arrived. The doctor triumphantly noted the requisite ten fingers and ten toes and made her specious pronouncement: “Perfect!” And so he seemed. As our son grew, I diligently checked off developmental milestones as they were achieved: Eye contact? Check. Sleeping through the night? Check. Rolling over? Check. Using two-word phrases? Check. Wait a minute—what happened to eye contact? While he was a good-tempered and docile baby, our son could often be found frowning in his baby stroller when people peeked in, tiny furrows embedded between his little brows. “He’s contemplating the universe,” I explained lightly, secretly wishing for gurgles and giggles.
While the other two-year-olds in the playgroup were splashing gleefully through the sprinkler, mine was examining the sound a pebble makes when knocked off one step onto another. “He marches to the beat of his own drum!” my parents boasted. Having memorized local roads and highways, my son would go to pieces if we took an alternate route to a familiar place. “He’ll keep us on our toes,” my husband would acknowledge, obligingly turning the car around. But by the time our son was three, we had some real concerns. He didn’t know how to play with other kids. He grew anxious or frustrated whenever anything was new or challenging to him. We needed to keep life routinized and scheduled for him; he couldn’t bear anything unexpected. He clung to us, desperate to be protected from the terrifyingly unpredictable world. He couldn’t count objects, couldn’t make eye contact, and often dissolved into unpredictable, high-intensity meltdowns. We were overwhelmed and exhausted.
In time, it became clear that his many phases and features reflected the multi-faceted hues of the autism spectrum, with undertones of attention deficit and hyperactivity. The doctor said our son’s issues were “likely due to some glitch in fetal development, possibly Barbara Boroson 5 Impact in the second trimester.” He said, “Perhaps you had a virus.” A virus? Uh, no. I did not have a virus.
Today that little boy is 6’2” and nineteen years old. He is bright, chatty, articulate, and funny. He is affectionate and handsome. He has an innate ability to memorize dates and historical events that astounds and confounds. His heart is kind and his spirit is gentle. He is as loving and loved as he is difficult and draining. He can be impulsive, provocative, hyperactive, rigid, and obsessive. Transitions must be scripted for him, until they become as predictable as the movies he watches and recites over and over again. He can be unstoppable as a steamroller, barreling through conversations, laying flat the feelings of others—especially his little sister. He has had periods of incapacitating anxiety. He bears heavily the Special Ed Badge of Membership: a brick-thick stack of evaluations, as weighty as our worries.
Sometimes, in my lower moments or his lower moments, I look at my son and wonder how we got here. One day I feel disbelief: How could this have happened, when I worked so hard to prevent it? Another day I feel bitter: A friend of mine drank soda with aspartame every day during her pregnancies and her kids are just fine. Many days, like most mothers of children with special needs, I find ways to blame myself for my son’s difficulties. In my case I consider whether I was too anxious, too uptight, too worried during my pregnancy—maybe if I had relaxed more, hadn’t been so vigilant, he would have been okay. Had I learned nothing behind the wheel of the car, fifteen years earlier, focusing too hard on what I most wanted to avoid? People have said to me that the universe gives us only what we can handle and that my son was meant for me. They say my son is lucky to have a mother who knows so much about children with special needs, who has (nearly) endless patience, who recognizes what help he needs and where to find that help. And that may be true. But I know another truth: Barbara Boroson 6 Impact My son has taught me lessons of humility and humanity that I would never have learned without him.
During my pregnancy, I had fixed my gaze on that bicyclist by the side of the road: Don’t hit that bike, don’t hit that bike. Somehow or other, despite or because of my best efforts, I veered straight toward it. I hit that bicyclist head-on, and we are both bruised and battered and tangled inextricably together. And so we sit, he and I, by the side of the road, as other cars and bicycles glide easily, carelessly past us. And as we watch that world soar by, we hold each other and love each other and feel deeply thankful that our worlds collided.
Barbara Boroson is a national keynote speaker, professional development provider, and parent consultant on inclusion and Autism Spectrum Disorder. She is the author of the book Autism Spectrum Disorder in the Inclusive Classroom: How to Reach and Teach Students with ASD (Scholastic, 2nd Edition, 2016) and a forthcoming book from ASCD for education leaders.
Please contact her at www.barbaraboroson.com.