One of the bad days: after pinching his baby brother Éiden viciously and refusing to do his timeout, Arie is laughing hysterically, crying and screaming out of control. I am trying to hold him still. “Do your deep breathing, Arie,” I say to him.
He pants quickly, defiantly. “No!” he screams. He bucks; he tries to bite me.
“Arie,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster, “If you would just relax your hands and feet —”
“NO!!!” He head-butts me, hard.
I give up. I hand him to his father, who holds him still and whispers into his ear while I go into the kitchen and try not to do something overly dramatic like tear at my hair or cry. In approximately two minutes, they emerge from the living room. Arie apologizes to both of us and sits quietly down to dinner.
I feel utterly useless.
———
By the time my son was diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome this January, I was past the worried phase. The diagnosis was a mere confirmation, and reading more about it was empowering. Arie doesn’t just need a firmer hand and he isn’t a sociopath; he has a neurological disorder—one that many have. The National Institutes of Health estimates that 100,000 Americans have Tourette’s.
We learned some things: teach him deep breathing and relaxation techniques, ignore his tics, understand that when he repeats words and phrases, or has to touch things 10 times in a certain order every single night—no matter how late it is—it’s not to drive us insane. He can’t stop.
But the list of things to keep in mind seems awfully long sometimes: don’t let him get overtired or hungry. Let him blow off steam and don’t take personally how much easier it is for him to become furious than the average 4-year-old. Give him lots of exercise. Give yourself extra time to get anywhere. Above all, remain calm.
———
One of the good days: it’s raining outside. We’ve had a lazy, easy morning. I’ve told Arie repeatedly: “We’re in no hurry. Take your time,” which is the most heavenly thing to say to an obsessive-compulsive 4-year-old—better than “we have ice cream.”
We are snuggling on the couch, watching his little brother play shopping. Arie turns to me and says, “We need some Mommy-Awie time. Let’s go to the zoo.”
So, while Éiden naps, we go. In Discovery Bay, he spends a blissful half-hour obsessively dipping his hands in the shark pool, washing and drying them. He runs around like Harpo Marx, all splayed and silly.
Then we go to the tropical exhibit where we smell everything. He notices minute changes in exhibits; he asks me questions about the animals and answers them himself. We spend a long time listening to hear if the hissing cockroaches will hiss.
They don’t.
When we are standing at the flamingos, Arie has one of his throwing-forward tics and bangs his forehead on the railing.
He rubs his head, looking resigned. In his world, his body cannot be trusted; it has a mind of its own. He’s accepted that he never knows whether he will suddenly fall to his right knee and spin, or begin jumping, unable to stop, or (like now) throw himself forward, heedless of obstacle. My child, who is ordinarily so careful.
He is used to this. The realization nearly kills me.
Instead of dying, I tell him it wasn’t his fault and I offer a kiss, then a magic imaginary Band-Aid. He requests a clear one.
We sit in silence for a while, and then he asks, because he’s starting to get the connection between these things, “Mommy, why do I keep coughing?”
I explain it’s just a tic and he is healthy. I try to sound relaxed and matter-of-fact.
The music in the underground tropical fish tank is dreamy and sleepy. I keep sneaking sniffs of his sweaty little head and hugging him close under the guise of holding him up to see different fish.
We walk slowly and happily out to the car where we carefully belt in the invisible Piglet, Kanga and Roo before Arie climbs into his booster seat.
He falls asleep briefly in the warm car as it rains lushly.
When we get home, Jan is putting dinner on the table. “Did you have a good time?” he asks, and Arie grins up at me, the pink mark on his forehead already faded.
Haddayr Copley-Woods is a mom and writer living in Minneapolis. She knows that for all parents, some days are better than others.
Reader Comments
Posted: Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Article comment by:
Sarah
Haddayr,
Thank you for your wonderful story about your son and his challenges. It seems like you are doing a great job with your kids.
Posted: Sunday, June 04, 2006
Article comment by:
phyllis graves
