Autism Vox

Pilot Parenting

by Kristina Chew, PhD on June 28th, 2007

“Helicopter parent” is a term applied to parents of college students, or soon-to-be college students, who “hover”: They are said to intervene, or rather to interfer, in their children’s transitioning to the independence of college life by making academic decisions (such as scheduling courses), calling administrators regarding grades and roommates, and otherwise “stunting” their “children’s growth.”

My own son is 10 years old and just finishing up 4th grade in a self-contained autism classroom in which he is taught, both at his desk and elsewhere in the classroom or the school building, 1:1 using ABA techniques and with regular pauses for what amounts to a sensory break. (Charlie rides a scooter, bounces on a big purple exercise ball, jumps on a trampoline, lies on a mat with a fleece blanket, goes for a walk.) He walks up to his teachers, therapists and aides, addresses them, and has a short (very short) conversation; he uses a Language Master to prompt him about what to say. When he hears another child crying or signalling distress, Charlie becomes distressed too and (via the reminder of a card) asks “I need a break.” (Maybe a sign of some mirror neuron action?) 10-12 minutes is about how long Charlie can sit at a desk and focus on his Edmark reading program or phonics and his lessons are set up in view of this—-in view of maximizing his learning on his own terms.

I don’t see Charlie as going to college. He is a smart kid, very much cognizant of all around him. He very much struggles to show his smarts on any test: Words and language are hard for him. And even if Charlie could talk better—in sentences and paragraphs and with none of the articulation problems of apraxia—-I suspect that communication would still be a challenge, between his tendencies to over-focus and even obsess, and his different way of being attuned to the world around him. I admit that I had my own struggles of how Charlie’s education would be so very different, and indeed severely “limited,” when he was first diagnosed. I take great pleasure in reading poetry; what if I could never share this with Charlie?

Charlie has shown me other ways of experiencing poetry: He seeks it not in cunningly composed word-orders but in the play of the waves at the ocean. I have often turned to certin poets and poems at very difficult moments—-sunt lacrimae rerum, as Virgil writes in Book 1 of the Aeneid, “there are the tears of things”—and perhaps there is something analogous going on for Charlie who, in the years that he was sitting bored in previous classrooms—-in the years in which his education meant not books but “behaviors”—at the same time, Charlie was learning to ride his bike (two-wheeler, hand brakes) and to swim in the ocean. And the “breakthrough,” the progress, the joy of the past year is that Charlie has himself taken so much joy and interest not only in the things that he is drawn too (the outdoors, the ocean) but also to the things that he is not (reading, writing).

This has happened for Charlie because—-again, this is specific to Charlie’s case—-because, first of all, he is getting older. His development has been delayed—-very much so, in some areas—-but there is a kind of alertness and attentiveness showing up in Charlie these days: He has always run out of the shower dripping wet and dabbed at his eyes with a towel; he recently started to take the towel and dry himself off (and leave the towel, damp and twisted, on the floor). His school program is all about him rather than about the things Jim and I might imagine we think he should be doing: Mainstreaming, which many children more than benefit from and need, does not seem the right thing for Charlie right now. He still receives a number of 1:1 speech sessions a week with a speech pathologist. I email his teacher and case manager a lot, and also his home ABA consultant, plus we speak regularly. We ask too many questions. We make mistakes—perhaps there are some “interventions” that we have tried that have only seemed to help Charlie for a day or two, or only seemed to help him because we wished they would. We keep moving onto the next issue.

In other words, I would have to call myself not only a “helicopter parent” but, indeed, a “pilot parent.” I intervene, ask all those questions, puzzle over phrasing in the IEP, call administrators; I insert myself; I do not just hover, I steer the aircraft to the ground (sometimes the landing gets bumpy), hop out and walk in. I never get tired of doing any of this, or tired of autism: A worn-out pilot who would just like to settle things in the fastest way possible and move on: This is not the parent of an autistic child.

I have been speaking to many parents of late: I recently took on some new administrative responsibilities at the college where I teach and have been speaking with prospective students and, too, their parents. And as I review the requirements for the core curriculum, the possibility of Study Abroad, the course times for Intro to Biology, I have been thinking, These parents are involved, just as I have to be for Charlie.

I do hover but not with Charlie as a passenger, but up in the cockpit, a pilot-in-training; a pilot in the making.

Share This

Related Stories

CT addresses a ‘cliff’ of autism services
Really, Really Loud Noise (2)
Looking Ahead: CT Pilot Program for Autistic Adults
A clarification
Special Needs Daycare Center (!)

POSTED IN: Education, Metaphor, Parenting, Water