Reaching Blake

"He won't connect with you. Autistic children never do."

I didn't expect any rewards from this doe-eyed 4-year-old named Blake, large for his age with a smile that brought its own reward. When we first met, he and I were both starting school — he as a preschooler and I on my first job as an instructional aide after being a stay-at-home mom.

Blake was born a normal, healthy baby. But when he was about a year old, he began to fade away from his parents, Jack and Robin. Soon after Blake began baby talk, his speech completely stopped. He stiffened at his parents' caresses, cried unceasingly for no apparent reason and would not make eye contact. Aside from his mother he virtually shut out all family members, even his father. After many tests and conflicting opinions, a doctor finally said the word that they had suspected: autism. Blake had retreated into his own world.

The professionals said Blake would never imitate, play appropriately or be affectionate. His distraught parents sought every treatment available. When it came to schooling, Robin had two hopes for her son: One was that he would be able to perform in a regular classroom virtually indistinguishable from any other child. The other was simply that he would make a friend.

I was nervous when I arrived on the first day of my assignment to shadow Blake. I'd had almost no formal training and had only my experience as a mother of five to rely on. I had witnessed Blake's temper tantrums. Monica, Blake's guide — whose place I would be taking — showed me how I should address him using prompts.

"Blake, come here," she commanded.

"Yes, Monica," he answered.

"Look at me," she insisted, looking into his eyes. Most of the time he complied. Other times, when asked to sit quietly or join the circle, he looked directly into her eyes — and screamed.

"Want to try it?" she asked me.

"Okay," I answered, but inside I wanted to bolt.

"Blake, come here," I tried to say in a positive tone of voice. He did come over, but he looked at me and walked right past.

Even though his program called for these short, curt sentences, I was uncomfortable with this. After observing the natural way his mother spoke to him, I decided to take my cues from her.

Instinctively, I began to search for ways to get through to him. I found that he had a wonderful sense of humor and gleefully sang all the children's songs. He loved to use puppets with our songs. We sang, "Old MacDonald had a farm, E-i-e-i-o. And on this farm he had a pig, [out comes pig], E-i-e-i-o." At this, eyes flashing, head thrown back, he would laugh uproariously.

His autistic tendencies showed up in his fascination with lining up toys and then standing back and jumping up and down, flapping his hands like a little bird and chanting, "Eeeeeh." I had to stop this pattern by asking him a question or asking him to stop, "No Eeeeeh, Blake, okay?"

"Okay," he answered and then returned to his chanting. Though he did not seem to be upset by these interruptions, he continued to scream and kick defiantly in response to any requests that were contrary to his wishes.

Disciplining Blake was difficult for me, but I followed procedure by placing him in time-out. For a number of minutes he had to kneel in the corner. I knelt behind him as he cried. "All done?" he pleaded. Inside, my heart cried with him, and I prayed, "Lord, please help me to help him." It would take several months of patiently enduring his tantrums, but they would begin to decrease as Blake's world opened up.

In the fall Blake began a year of "practice" kindergarten with the goal of "real" kindergarten the following year. As Blake's skills and enthusiasm for school increased, his behavioral problems decreased. Discipline was becoming easier. I found that I could usually redirect Blake with a positive tone of voice, saving the sharp, negative commands for true infractions.

Praise and encouragement were Blake's greatest motivators. "Good job!" I would say, clapping my hands and all but jumping up and down at his achievements. The delight shown in his eyes and his pride spurred him on to try more. He was beginning to trust me; placing his chubby hand in mine, he let me lead him anywhere. This was the first physical contact he allowed me. Later when he bumped his head at preschool he sobbed in my arms, permitting me to comfort him.

In the beginning, Blake's smile had been my only reward, and I was content with that. Though Blake imitated the other children by putting his arms out for a hug, it was apparent that it was empty of meaning for him. I accepted this as proof of what I was told: Autistic children don't bond. But our relationship was changing. Now he was dancing off the bus with a big smile and coming over to me for a hug, smiling shyly. "Hi, Susie," he whispered. His big brown eyes were looking to me more regularly for security. "Susie, help!" he would call out.

And then came the moment. We were sitting on the rug with the other children when unexpectedly he snuggled into me, putting his arm around my back. He told the girl next to him, "Susie's my friend." Though it lasted only minutes, time stood still for me as I basked in this simple reward for all the months of patience.

I believe that trust was the connecting point between Blake and me. And my life has been infinitely touched by him. I learned through him that virtually all children respond to love and encouragement. If we look for each child's gifts, we will find them. All human beings are worthy of being treated with dignity and respect, whether young or old, gifted or slow.

Blake's amazing progress was nothing short of a miracle. His vocabulary has increased dramatically, and he follows directions from his teacher. He knows the lyrics of most children's songs, all the letters and sounds of the alphabet, and can read more than 160 words. He knows colors and shapes and can count to 200. The screaming and chanting are almost nonexistent. Blake is proving the experts wrong.

God was listening when a mother cried out to Him. To his father's joy, Blake has bonded with his daddy. Recently a new boy entered our class and, to my amazement, Blake asked, "What's your name?" Was this to be his new friend? I pondered what was said to me: "He won't connect with you. Autistic children never do."