We’ll Get To That Other Stuff Later

I vividly remember arguing with our first ABA therapist in the middle of our living room.  It was 7 years ago.  The emotional scars of our diagnosis were still fresh.  I was holding it together… barely. 

I didn’t have the first clue what I was doing, but the boring, disciplined, clinical approach she was using with him just didn’t sit well with me.  I understood the broad concepts of disciplined trials and keeping data, but he was absolutely miserable and a majority of the time spent in the sessions involved chasing him down after he bolted out of the room or keeping him confined in the room to avoid bolting. 

At that time for my son, any social interaction was resisted.  And here was this complete stranger coming into our home, with all of its distractions and comforts, forcing him to perform mind-numbing tasks for completely non-gratifying rewards.  I greatly respected her training and experience and genuinely appreciated her help with my son, but I had to question her. 

“Look, I understand the philosophy and approach you are taking, but I have to question our priorities here.  The very first step in this long road ahead of us, in my opinion, is getting him to ENJOY these therapy sessions that are obviously going to be a huge part of our lives moving forward (I had no idea how true that would prove to be).  If this becomes a chore for him, or worse… torture for him, we are doomed to fail.  The only thing I need from you right now is to teach my son to consider the possibility of temporarily coming out of his own little world and finding pleasure in interacting with another human being.  That’s a low bar, I know.  But that will be the foundation for everything that is to come.  We’ll get to that other stuff later.”

Today my son sat at a table for 45 minutes with a wizard of a therapist.  She coerced him into taking 35 bites of a hamburger (if you know my son, you know what a big deal that is).  She was disciplined.  She was tough.  She was demanding.  She offered him nominal rewards and encouragement and didn’t tolerate any nonsense.  He enjoyed every minute of it. 

He was silly.  He was sneaky (trying to fool her by only biting the bun).  He was a 10 year-old boy.  But he didn’t bolt, or throw a tantrum or even protest.  He said “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me” when he farted.  🙂 

We are now getting to the other stuff and he is enjoying the lessons… because I trusted my instincts 7 years ago and took a stand for my son.