When Work Sucks

I love my job.  I love being busy, I love having some responsibility (and a title).  I love being a leader in the office.

But there are aspects of my job that are really just too much, sometimes.  I have quite a background in educational leadership and administration which actually isn’t a far cry from business management.  Simply put, a good leader is a good leader, and good management practices are good management practices.  And it is still easy for me to identify examples of bad leadership and management practices, too.

I work in a culture of blame, and I hate that.  Good leaders use mistakes to help guide people to better work, and to help create better procedures.  Poor leaders point fingers and end up making good workers wonder why they work so hard, or even quit.  Two people walked off the job this Sunday.  Two, of an office staff of six.

Today, I busted my behind, trained two new employees, handled a million phone calls, and even booked some private charters.  I went home feeling pretty good about the productive day I had.  And about an hour after I got off work, I got a phone call from my boss, asking me about something at work which he clearly felt was a mistake I had made.  I had not made a mistake, but in his mind, he had to blame someone, so it was me.  And instead of feeling good about being productive and working hard today, I end up with a sick feeling in my stomach this evening about his perception of my fault, even though none existed.

More and more, every single day is stressful, and that means I have less to give when I get home at night, which is absolutely no good.

Jobs are hard to find.  In five months of searching last year, I got very few calls for interviews, and only one real offer.  Do I consider leaving?  Yes I do.  Definitely on evenings like tonight.

How do I deal with it?  My boys.  I spend time with my family and they make me laugh.  It may sound clichè, but they remind me why I am really on this planet.  It’s not for other people’s kids, and it’s most certainly not to take reservations for boat trips.  It is to love and spend time with my guys.  Yes I need a job to pay the bills, but my job is the small stuff as compared to The Boy and The Man.  Remembering that is how I deal with the rest.

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Behavior Really Is Communication

Behavior is Communication.  This was one of the tenets of autism I learned early on.  I remember sitting in a workshop with my then-husband, who really just didn’t get it, and this was the key piece I walked away with – I already knew it, but the workshop had reinforced it, and I had hoped my then-husband would have an a-ha! moment, but it never came.

The ex has now cancelled on The Boy for his week of visitation next month, and I broke it to The Boy late last week.  He had equated this planned trip to his dad’s to the escape plan of the tank fish in Finding Nemo, and would talk about how he was looking forward to seeing whether or not the escape plan would work.

Well it didn’t.

And at first, The Boy seemed OK.  “I guess the escape plan didn’t work.  I guess we’re stuck in the tank,” he would say.  I knew he didn’t really feel like he was stuck here with us, but that the plan fell through.

As the weekend wore on, and we began to witness more teenager-y behavior (refusal to do things we asked, etc.), it took my mom pointing out to me that this behavior was probably coming from the cancellation of plans.  And I had a Doh! moment.  I should know better, because of that basic rule, BEHAVIOR = COMMUNICATION.

Of course, that explains why he was being such a jerkface this weekend!

It’s still a sore subject, but figuring it out has helped The Man and me gain a little perspective, and retain a little more compassion for him right now.  Sometimes it’s hard to be compassionate to someone who is being a jerkface, but The Boy is still just a kid, and a kid who has been cancelled on again by his dad.

“I knew this escape plan wasn’t going to work.  Do you remember me telling you that before?”

😦

 

 

Autism and Arthur

Last Wednesday, I told The Boy that a hurricane was headed our way, and there was a possibility we might leave town for the following night.  Immediately, I regretted my carefully constructed, nonchalant approach – he was scared.  “A hurricane??” I explained that it was really just a bunch of wind and storms headed our way and that the power may go out, so The Man and I were thinking about heading out of town for a night to stay in a hotel which would have wifi and power, so we could be comfortable until the storm passed.  He visibly calmed until I added that we might pick him up from camp instead of Grammy because we might head out of town directly from there.  Change in routine equals added anxiety.  Oops.  “We’ll see,” I said.

We watched the Weather Channel religiously that night, and started to get anxious ourselves.  It began to move quickly, it began to slightly move inland, it began to look like it was going up to a Category 2 by the time it would hit us, and it was expected to make landfall exactly where we live, which would mean loud scary sounds, and a definite power outage if nothing else.  By Thursday morning, we were sincerely leaning toward heading out of town.  I had to head in to work for a few hours, and then we would make the determination.  Grammy would pick The Boy up as usual, giving us time to board up the shed and make preparations at our place.

After I got home from work, The Man and I looked at each other and didn’t need to say a word.  We packed some things, grabbed the important papers, secured the back door, and headed to pick up The Boy.  Most people in our area head west, but they jack up the hotel and gas prices as you head inland, so we head south, because even though it is into the storm, it’s usually less severe down there and you don’t have to give up your first born for some A/C and a bed.

Well Hello, Arthur

Well Hello, Arthur

 

We headed into bands of driving rain and wind, and pulled into a hotel about a hour and a half down the coast.  We ran up the stairs to our room and began to dry off and settle in.  And then the real challenge began.

The wifi was broken, he said.  When the iPad finally found the signal, it was too slow, he said, and he started to get agitated.  “Let me see your iPad, to see if I can fix it,” I said.  He refused.  He began to pace, and head toward the door.  He put the iPad onto the floor, none too carefully, and even stepped on it.  “I am DONE with this iPad.  We need to sell it and get a new one.  This one doesn’t WORK!”  He went to open the hotel room door, and I had to use my body to block him from doing so – none too easy anymore, now that he is 2 inches taller than me.  “We need to leave.  We need to go home,” he whined, over and over.  Reasoning doesn’t work at this stage, I knew, but I tried it anyway.  “There’s no power at home, let alone wifi, Bud.  Let’s decide on something to eat for dinner.” He would not be dissuaded.

Somehow, we finally convinced him to go with us to get some dinner, maybe we promised ice cream.  I don’t really remember.  His mood lifted as he was able to check out the toilets at the Wendy’s around the corner, the only place that seemed open.

We headed back to the room, where the wifi finally seemed to work well enough for his tastes.  We ate, watched TV, and got a good night’s sleep. In the morning, we returned home to find downed branches everywhere, but our house was  intact, and the power eerily came back on just about the same time as we walked into the house.  He was home, there was power and wifi, and he was happy.  The storm was over.

An Open Letter to the Mom in the Doctor’s Office Today

I overheard your friend (daughter? niece?) reading to you from that questionnaire today, and I took notice because of all of your “no” responses. I immediately remembered those soul-crushing, developmental, yes or no questions, the mix of defensiveness and hopelessness when you begin to understand just how far behind your little one is.

“Does your child point to an item s/he wants? Does your child turn pages of a book independently? Does your child say three words?…”

And on, and on, and on. I heard the tone of your voice change the more she asked. I heard you begin to whisper. I glanced at your face to see if you might cry, but you were holding it together. I guessed the tears may come later when you are alone, maybe before you fall asleep tonight.

And I watched your little one. I watched him smile, and observe the other children playing – he was watching close, but something was keeping him from playing along. He looked at me and made eye contact. I waved and smiled. He smiled bigger and looked to you for reassurance, but you didn’t notice.

I wanted to say, “This tall, gangly boy of mine sitting next to you didn’t do any of that stuff either. We had to use flash cards to teach him words. He didn’t point at anything.  They thought he was cognitively impaired because he played with the toys wrong.  But you know what? He is the best speller in his class and uses words like ‘misheard’ and ‘eclectic’ as an almost-seventh grader!”

I really wanted to say, “These questionnaires are a special kind of torture for us, and you are most definitely one of us. You are not alone.  Don’t discourage too quickly.  Be hopeful, because he needs you to be. I have been in exactly that spot where you are sitting and it is awful, but better days are ahead. Believe in that little boy.”

But I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure I would’ve wanted anyone to do that when I was in your place. Maybe I should have. Instead, I hope you get the support you need through this process, and that you realize quickly that he needs you to just do what you gotta do to get him as close as you can to where he needs to be.

And that there are lots of us rooting you on, even if silently from the chair next to you in the doctor’s office.

My little blond boy, once upon a time...

My little blond boy, once upon a time…

This One or This One?

As part of the “Wishing Away the Autism” debate, one of the posts I read argued that we show too much of a positive side of autism to the rest of the world, and that we need to share more of the horror stories, that we, the autism community do ourselves a disservice by showing the nicey-nice stuff because people are less likely to support funding for research and resources if autism “doesn’t look all that bad”…

Well.

Which is clearer?

Sounds like a sales pitch to me.  I guess I just don’t have patience for anything less than the truth, which is why I share the good, the bad, and the ugly on this blog.  So that others on a similar journey, or even one that is not similar in the least can share in my hope, commiserate with my frustration, and celebrate our milestones right along with us.

We are all people.  When you focus on showing society that autistic children and adults are real people, you will have accomplished something.  No one wants to be sold a bill of goods.  No one wants to see  one side of the story.  So why would we, the autism community, even try to do that?

Write and share your experiences, take those photos and plaster them all over your facebook wall, and bring those kiddos with you everywhere you go.  By doing so, you are showing that our little ones (and not-so-little ones) are a part of society, that they are human, that sometimes they need help, and that in many ways they are just like everyone else.  THAT is advocacy.  Participating in society, carving out a place for them, even where they don’t quite fit.  THAT models for the rest of society how our kids should be treated, THAT will show them why we need funding for research and resources.  THAT tells our own kiddos that they have a PLACE in our society, and THAT creates self-advocates, which is the name of the game.