Wednesday – Attack Of the Killer Sweet Pea
Sep. 8th, 2010 10:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
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You know that your life has taken a turn toward the bizarre when you find yourself debating with your spouse about which classic horror movie most reminds you of your young child.
“Maybe this is all my fault,” I joked, “After all, I’m the one who gave birth to Rosemary’s Baby.”
“No, he’s not Rosemary’s Baby,” my husband said, “He’s more like the one in It’s Alive.”
I frowned. “It’s Alive? Really? Why do you think that?”
“Remember how the babies in It’s Alive only attacked the people who were afraid of them? But their parents loved them unconditionally, so they didn’t attack their parents. With us, he’s perfectly fine. It’s just at school, where they aren’t used to him and he’s not used to them that it all goes to hell.”
“Hmmmm.” I thought about it. “I guess you have a point.”
What really bothered me about him thinking our son was like the babies in It’s Alive was not that they were mutant killers with teeth and claws, but that they were hideous mutant killers. Our son is actually quite cute, beautiful even, when he is not going ballistic. But Jeff is right; he does not go ballistic at home, or with his grandparents. It happens when he is with people he regards as strangers. Strangers frighen him. Jeff asked him how he feels when he starts to lose control, and he answered, Alone. In the crowded classroom, with all the motion and sounds and smells that go with it, he feels utterly alone.
I have spent the last few days Googling like a madwoman, looking for possible answers as to why he acts the way he does. I’m pretty sure what my son is dealing with is some sort of Sensory Integration Dysfunction. He shows 13 of the 15 signs that I read on one list. Another article described what is happens in the brain of child with SI Dysfunction as being put into a state of fight or flight by unfamiliar or stressful stimuli. This would explain why he is either running around the classroom (fleeing), kicking and screaming (fighting), or hiding under the desk in a duck-and-cover position shouting, “Don’t look at me! I’m hiding! I’m invisible! I’m INVISIBLE!”
When the principal called me last week and he was screaming in the background, he grew quite as soon as he heard my voice over the phone. He had me again, if only the sound of me. He was no longer alone. Yesterday Jeff had to go down to the school. He heard our son shouting in the principal’s office as soon as he walked into the front door of the school. When the secretary opened the door, the principal was sitting on the floor with him, holding his hands while he screamed. A heavy wooden chair was flipped over on its side.
“[Sweet Pea], stop it,” Jeff said. Our son looked at him and stopped screaming. He ran toward his father and leapt into his arms.
“If I hadn’t known him,” Jeff told me last night, “If I had been a stranger walking in off of the street observing him, I would have thought I was looking at a severely autistic child. Everything about the way he was acting would have made you think that. But when he saw me, it was over. He was okay.” It still took another 45 minutes for Sweet Pea to calm down completely, sitting in Jeff’s lap and clinging to him while Jeff discussed things with the principal. By the time they walked out of the school together, Sweet Pea was his normal, cheerful self again, chattering and asking questions. I remember from the dark days of daycare that his tantrums trigger an endorphin rush that makes him a perfectly calm, happy angel when they are over and done with.
The school psychiatrist cannot see him until next week.
We’ll see how that goes.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
You know that your life has taken a turn toward the bizarre when you find yourself debating with your spouse about which classic horror movie most reminds you of your young child.
“Maybe this is all my fault,” I joked, “After all, I’m the one who gave birth to Rosemary’s Baby.”
“No, he’s not Rosemary’s Baby,” my husband said, “He’s more like the one in It’s Alive.”
I frowned. “It’s Alive? Really? Why do you think that?”
“Remember how the babies in It’s Alive only attacked the people who were afraid of them? But their parents loved them unconditionally, so they didn’t attack their parents. With us, he’s perfectly fine. It’s just at school, where they aren’t used to him and he’s not used to them that it all goes to hell.”
“Hmmmm.” I thought about it. “I guess you have a point.”
What really bothered me about him thinking our son was like the babies in It’s Alive was not that they were mutant killers with teeth and claws, but that they were hideous mutant killers. Our son is actually quite cute, beautiful even, when he is not going ballistic. But Jeff is right; he does not go ballistic at home, or with his grandparents. It happens when he is with people he regards as strangers. Strangers frighen him. Jeff asked him how he feels when he starts to lose control, and he answered, Alone. In the crowded classroom, with all the motion and sounds and smells that go with it, he feels utterly alone.
I have spent the last few days Googling like a madwoman, looking for possible answers as to why he acts the way he does. I’m pretty sure what my son is dealing with is some sort of Sensory Integration Dysfunction. He shows 13 of the 15 signs that I read on one list. Another article described what is happens in the brain of child with SI Dysfunction as being put into a state of fight or flight by unfamiliar or stressful stimuli. This would explain why he is either running around the classroom (fleeing), kicking and screaming (fighting), or hiding under the desk in a duck-and-cover position shouting, “Don’t look at me! I’m hiding! I’m invisible! I’m INVISIBLE!”
When the principal called me last week and he was screaming in the background, he grew quite as soon as he heard my voice over the phone. He had me again, if only the sound of me. He was no longer alone. Yesterday Jeff had to go down to the school. He heard our son shouting in the principal’s office as soon as he walked into the front door of the school. When the secretary opened the door, the principal was sitting on the floor with him, holding his hands while he screamed. A heavy wooden chair was flipped over on its side.
“[Sweet Pea], stop it,” Jeff said. Our son looked at him and stopped screaming. He ran toward his father and leapt into his arms.
“If I hadn’t known him,” Jeff told me last night, “If I had been a stranger walking in off of the street observing him, I would have thought I was looking at a severely autistic child. Everything about the way he was acting would have made you think that. But when he saw me, it was over. He was okay.” It still took another 45 minutes for Sweet Pea to calm down completely, sitting in Jeff’s lap and clinging to him while Jeff discussed things with the principal. By the time they walked out of the school together, Sweet Pea was his normal, cheerful self again, chattering and asking questions. I remember from the dark days of daycare that his tantrums trigger an endorphin rush that makes him a perfectly calm, happy angel when they are over and done with.
The school psychiatrist cannot see him until next week.
We’ll see how that goes.
