I hope we all feel encouraged and free to speak in here. However, remember, this is a "public" forum, so be careful in the information you post.
Welcome all! Please feel free to ping other FReepers you know deal with this issue or would be interested in providing encouragement, resources and input.
My son is almost 11, diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome and we're transitioning to middle school in the fall. I'm dreading it, but trying oh-so-hard not to show it since he's anxious enough without my help.
The stupid middle school people invited the incoming 6th graders to a SCHOOL DANCE! They are 10 YO! My son was wanting to go (unusual for him), lots of kids seemed to be going and I fight myself to allow him to be involved in stupid stuff like this so that he isn't shut off or seen as even more dorky because of my opinions.
He asked a couple of "older girls" to dance, they looked at him like he had a disease, and he was crushed. Spent most of the night depressed in the bathroom. It didn't help much that his dad explained that it happens to every guy. I just HATE this!
I was going to find information about "bipolars and special diets", but that's pretty selfish of me...there are so many of you parents with special kids that have other disorders & illnesses. So, I'm going to throw it open for that..... question/thought/discussion topic for today....Has anyone found a special diet that works to help stablize their child's disorder or illiness? (if you are a friend, or family member or if you're a caregiver please contribute what you've found to work)
I think this will be helpful to all of us.
Here's some humor to get you through the weekend. I am taking a much needed respite over night. I will talk to you all on Monday!
These jokes came from absolutelycleanjokes.com
About a year ago my sister, who lives in Virginia, was talking with her four year old son, Brent. He was asking her why all their relatives from Wisconsin talk funny and sound like their noses are plugged up.
"They think we have an accent," she replied.
"But they have an accent, right?", Brent asked. "They talk funny?"
"Everybody talks in different ways" she tried to explain. "To them, we sound like we talk very slow and all our words are d-r-a-w-n out."
His eyes got big, and he whispered seriously, "Oh, no. You mean they hear funny too?"
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A grade school teacher was asking his pupils what their parents did for a living.
"Tim, you be first. What does your mother do all day?"
Tim stood up and proudly said, "She's a doctor."
"That's wonderful. How about you, Amy?"
Amy shyly stood up, scuffed her feet and said, "My father is a mailman."
"Thank you, Amy" said the teacher. "What does your parent do, Billy?"
Billy proudly stood up and announced, "My daddy plays piano in a whorehouse."
The teacher was aghast and went to Billy's house and rang the bell. Billy's father answered the door. The teacher explained what his son had said and demanded an explanation. Billy's dad said, "I'm actually a system programmer specializing in TCP/IP communication protocol on UNIX systems. How can I explain a thing like that to a seven-year-old?"
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A guy goes in to see a psychiatrist. He says, "Doc, I can't seem to make any friends. Can you help me, you fat slob?"
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Three insane men walk out of a mental hospital hoping to escape. The first says, "If there's a high fence, we'll dig under it!"
The second says, "If there's a low fence, we'll jump over it!"
The third says, "Well, we're out of luck, boys--There is no fence," so instead they just went back to their rooms.
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Dr. Leroy, the head psychiatrist at the local mental hospital, is examining patients to see if they're cured and ready to re-enter society.
"So, Mr. Clark," the doctor says to one of his patients, "I see by your chart that you've been recommended for dismissal. Do you have any idea what you might do once you're released?"
The patient thinks for a moment, then replies, "Well, I went to school for mechanical engineering. That's still a good field, good money there. But on the other hand, I thought I might write a book about my experience here in the hospital, what it's like to be a patient here. People might be interested in reading a book like that. In addition, I thought I might go back to college and study art history, which I've grown interested in lately."
Dr. Leroy nods and says, "Yes, those all sound like intriguing possibilities."
The patient replies, "And the best part is, in my spare time, I can go on being a teapot."
A Trucker's Story
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one.
I wasn't sure how my Customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Down Syndrome.
I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their! silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ"; the pairs of white shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with.
I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him.
He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished.
He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other,scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated! surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their Social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.
That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work.
He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Down Syndrome often had heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table.
Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."
"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK" she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is."
Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face.
" What's up?" I asked.
"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."
She handed the napkin to me, and three$20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie."
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving! Me this."
She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply "truckers."
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy.
I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room.
I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table.
Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins.
"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.
Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it.
I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems.
"Happy Thanksgiving,"
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know what's funny?
While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired.
I am "torn" on whether I "buy into" this rule that my daughter's adolescent day hospital program has/had:
They advise the kids that they cannot contact each other outside of group, even once they have completed the program.
Here's why I personally have problems with that; 1) The kids can relate to each other and often times form really great bonds (yes, I understand the "co-dependent" issues too) 2) They trust each other to accept them for who they are and not criticize them or divulge their secrets because they each know equally the inner secrets they hold 3) They know the other person can "understand" them.
I know the therapists concerns are if they go to the other person, they won't go to them...but I think that's poppycock.
Recent case example, a friend from my daughter's group who lives RIGHT by us ran away from home (unbeknownst to me) and ended up at my house. I woke up in the morning and she was here. Long story...but in the end, it was best, she had a place to go, I made sure the parents knew she was safe and she was here and they were glad she had somewhere to go with a loving family and one that could relate to her issues and give her a "safe haven" for a day or so while things cooled down.
Had this young girl not had a place to go where she felt people would understand, she might have turned to the streets, guys, etc.
What do you all think about this "rule" therapists like to impose?????
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