the Henry of all Henrys

On Henry's first day at his current preschool, I joked about how long it would take before the director called me about his behavior. Because I knew the call was coming, I just didn't know precisely when.

It came yesterday.

No, they are not throwing my son out of preschool (although we've been reading Harry Potter and the boys are fascinated by the notion of Hagrid being 'expelled' from Hogwarts) but we have, as they say, come to a pass. And we have to do something, now.

I hadn't realized until yesterday just how circumspect I have been here about what exactly is going on with Henry. His current official diagnosis is ADHD; he also exhibits some of the symptoms of children with Asperger's syndrome, and some symptoms of Sensory Integration Disfunction. These last two are the trickiest, as he does not meet the minimum criteria for an actual Asperger's or SDI diagnosis. For whatever it's worth. He has also tested well above age-level on a basic IQ test, which has lead me to encourage more television viewing in a effort to dumb him down (no, not really, but it is tempting).

H is at the very very VERY high-functioning end of the Autistic Spectrum Disorders scale (doesn't it sound so much prettier to describe it as a 'spectrum'? Like a rainbow . . . ). Because of this, I think, we were able to lull ourselves with the hope that maybe he was just quirky! And maybe we could teach him to be less quirky! And that would take care of it all. But when the school called yesterday, it confirmed my growing sense that his quirkynesses are starting to interfere with his life. And mine. And they are causing problems at school. So now we will deal with them in some other way.

So what ARE Henry's quirkynessess? Well, let's see. He is hyper, for starters (a word I hate). Imagine the most energetic child you know on the biggest sugar-high you have ever seen, or think about yourself after three or four too many cups of coffee. That's Henry at his calmest. No, he's not like those kids you see on TV, the ones who are physically out of control and jumping off the furniture and screaming; he is hyper but not violent or aggressive (thank god). But he cannot walk, he MUST run. He cannot sit still, he MUST fidget. When he was a baby we would put him in the bouncy seat and he would rock it until his butt hit the floor. I don't think the seat was intended to do that. His head, his hands, his feet are always in motion. He still, at five, runs out into parking lots without looking. He is constantly crashing into things. Twice in the last two days he has hit his head on the shelf in his closet while looking for socks. The shelves have been in the same place since he moved into this room, three years ago. He will occasionally hit his head on a plate.

He talks ALL. THE. TIME. Not to anyone, which is another one of his quirks, just talking. He interrupts. Repeatedly. Not to join in the conversation, but to tell you whatever it is that is going on in his head, no matter how irrelevant it is to the general discussion. Actual conversations with him are often difficult to follow, as most of them seem to take place in his head and not in the real, interactive world. He repeats himself. If he hears another child say something he thinks is funny, he will say it over and over and over until you want to poke yourself in the eye with a fork or drink until you fall down. This is his idea of conversation. We have been coaching him, giving him scripts to use when he talks to people ('When you see Mimi, you can ask her about her trip. You can say, Mimi, how was Houston? Was the weather nice? And she will answer your questions'). He does fine until you deviate from the script. Then it's all over and he will return to whatever conversation he was having in his head. Or he will just run away to do whatever comes next for him.

He has a hard time, frequently, distinguishing what is pretend from what is real. Charlie, for the longest time, has been able to announce, 'It's not real, it's peetend' when he plays. But Henry still blurs the lines in ways that are sometimes frightening. Like when he INSISTED that he was a superhero and could fly. He will become irrational, like a toddler having a tantrum but with a the complex vocabulary of a much older child. He will do this several times a day. But like all of his symptoms, this behavior comes and goes, in waves. He is more and less hyper, more and less distracted, more and less irrational. Recently, though, he is more everything all the time, and I am more stressed than I have ever been.

I know that some of you are thinking, oh, sure, my child does that. But the combination of all of these characteristics is what makes Henry quirky, in a diagnosable way. One of the most painful moments for me always comes when we run into people I think of as 'adults,' the friends of Wade's parents (not my friends, you see, but REAL grown-ups). We go, quite often, to a lovely bookstore here in town that is owned by the parents of Wade's oldest friend (by 'oldest' I mean 'known longest'--Wade and his friend are both hovering around 40 and 'old' is suddenly a loaded term). This couple have known Wade for over 25 years; I like to joke that they are my reserve in-laws, in case anything happens with Wade's parents. They are always so pleased to see the boys and will ask about school or whatever holiday is coming up or what we are reading. And Henry will fling himself around and not make eye contact and say completely inappropriate things like, 'Look how far I can jump!' while we are in the bookstore, where jumping is not encouraged. And these people, who have a special needs child of their own, are so kind and lovely and it makes me want to cry every single time. Because just once I want my child to have a conversation with these nice people who are so very fond of him and interested in him, without me having to say, 'Hold your feet still, please and answer Mrs. T's question.' Just once.

When Henry was first diagnosed, in June, we opted for behavior therapy. We worked with the psychologist, who guided us as we worked with Henry. One of the reasons I pulled everyone out of day care and school this summer was to have the time to focus on teaching Henry how to be normal, for lack of a better word. Less quirky. He and I practiced having conversations (we take turns! and talk about what the other person is talking about!) and how to be physically appropriate (ask before you hug! hug gently! then let go!). And initially, we could see a difference. Of course, Henry was interacting with so few people--Wade and Charlie and me, Wade's parents, my parents, Leslie and her kids, the girl who taught his swimming lessons--all of whom knew what was going on and were receptive to our suggestions and guidance. And of course I was ALWAYS WITH HIM, to coach him and refocus him. And we thought, hooray this is working!

But school is a different ballgame. I am not there; his teacher has six other kids to attend to and cannot constantly monitor him, keep him on track. And now his quirkynesses are disrupting the classroom and taxing his teacher's patience. And I can understand that, with my whole heart.

I spent most of yesterday morning on the phone, with the school and our psychologist and my pediatrician and a doctor at Children's Hospital and Wade. And in between phone calls I would hide in the bathroom and cry, because Charlie was here with me, watching god only knows what on TV, and I didn't want him to see how upset I was. Because of course what is the most devastating to me is the sense that I have somehow failed Henry, by not doing more sooner, although rationally I know I have not. I just don't want this to be so hard for him. But there it is.

So this week, we're going to meet with the doctors and Henry's teacher is going to talk to his psychologist and she is going to observe him at school. But I think, in the end (and the end is soon, like a few days from now) we are going to put him on some medication. And while I know (I KNOW) that this is the right decision, it is a hard one.

When I tuck Henry in each night, I tell him, 'I love you more than all the Henrys in all the world.' And one night he said, 'Yes, because I am the Henry of ALL Henrys!' And he is, you know. In more ways than he knows.