The Tao of Jake

On Being the Mother of a “Challenging Child”
By Karen S. Mittelman

I tell myself that only neurotic mothers with shriveled imaginations get their kids to school on time every morning. I see those mothers sometimes, in the supermarket or in line at the post office or the pancake house, so I know for a fact that they do exist. They're the ones who can silence their three and four year olds with a sharp, authoritative stare while my son, at the same age, yelled out loud, tossed Cheerios into everyone's hair with abandon and blissfully ignored me.

Jake is what child psychologists politely call "challenging," a kid with stormy emotions and an iron will that disguises a great deal of struggle underneath. At age three and a half, he was diagnosed with "sensory-integration problems," which means that his brain doesn’t effectively integrate all of the sensory information it receives in the way most children's brains do. Children with SI disorders can be delayed in gross motor development, may be extremely sensitive to touch, sights, or sounds, are easily distracted, and often have difficulty making transitions from one activity to another.

All of those describe Jake as a three-year-old. He was tormented by simple tasks like pulling on mittens, his socks had to be exactly even or they drove him crazy, and he could have a colossal, two-hour emotional meltdown if forced to stop a game of dinosaurs mid-stream.

In preschool, Jake would climb up to the top of the slide and then forget completely where he was. I imagine him up there, staring happily out at the changed landscape, noticing crows rustling in the trees or catching the faraway, urgent honk of a stray goose over the marsh. He is miles from the playground below, from the clump of impatient kids waiting for their turn, the worried teacher repeating, "Jake! Jake??" who later calls me on the phone to say she thinks Jake might be having seizures. "He keeps spacing out."

My husband and I were convinced by teachers, therapists, and the clamor of our own fears that Jake's problems needed our intervention. We investigated epileptic seizures, autism, neurological disorders. We brought him to the hospital for an EEG after a sleepless night, to a strange room where an unkind nurse tried unsuccessfully to attach electrodes to my son's scalp. I have no memory of how we finally got Jake - sleepy, confused, sobbing - to lie still so that the machine could track his brain waves, little jelly-fish wiggles of pen on long green and white paper. Thankfully, all of Jake's medical tests came back "normal."

As he grew into a bright, loving, and independent six-year-old, many of Jake's difficulties faded away. But the "spacing out" and inattention persisted. Jake still has trouble remembering a string of tasks, or paying attention to what the grownups believe he should be attending to. Here’s a typical morning in our house: I'll send Jake to the bathroom to brush his teeth while I race down the hall to the bedroom to pull on pantyhose, blouse and shoes, scan my jacket for food stains, make sure my earrings match and swab on lipstick. Back down the hall to check on Jake. He is swaying in front of the sink, singing to himself and playing with the dog's thick white fur with one hand, head tipped back joyfully, in his own universe. "Jake, what are you doing?" He is startled out of his reverie and shakes his head sheepishly. "Um, I don't know." He can't remember why he is there or what he's supposed to be doing. At age six, my son seems sometimes like a train hopelessly off track.

My husband and I have spent many evenings arguing about how to get Jake back on track. I have endured wrenching discussions with family and friends who believe that we just need to be stricter, to learn to "draw the line." We have tried time outs, rewards, and sticker charts with visual aids. Each new strategy works beautifully for a week or so and then tanks, once the novelty wears off. Half the time, I'm convinced that Bill and I must be the world's worst parents. But the rest of the time - the fifty percent I'm trying to trust - I have a sneaking suspicion that there's nothing wrong with Jake at all.

It's beginning to seem stunningly clear to me that all my son needs is a little more time to let things unfold at his pace. One morning last week, Jake sat on the sofa trying to get my attention as I packed my briefcase for work. "Jake, are your socks on yet, honey? Jake??" I finally stopped in frustration and looked up. "Mom, my lucky penny must really be working," Jake announced from the sofa, a brilliant smile breaking on his face. "I wished that you would stop rushing me, and you did!" It melted my heart. Of all the things a little boy might hunger for - a new puppy, a trip to Disneyland, a hundred ice cream sundaes - my son's deepest desire was to stop being hurried.