We had been looking for a new bed for Anthony for quite a while. We were given the one he had by a family member, but it was of low quality and never meant as a long-term solution. I had felt badly about it for some time as I put him to bed each evening and watched it sag further under his increasing weight. It was impossible to determine if Anthony was bothered by it since he did not indicate displeasure, but that did not alleviate the nagging feeling that I was deficient as a parent for failure to address it.

We finally saved up a little money and just bought a decent bed set at a thrift store. A monetary Christmas gift from my parents went partially toward bedding, which entailed purple sheets and a Spider-Man/Venom comforter, both purchased on clearance. When we feel good about Anthony, we turn the Spider-Man side up. If not, Venom rules the night!

We made the bed for the first time and had Anthony get in it. I'm not sure if he liked it--he doesn't express satisfaction in a way that we can understand--but he did have a goofy laugh which at least indicates better spirits. That often seems to occur randomly, but we accepted it in this instance as at least being pleased with the novelty. Whether he cares or not, I am happy that he finally has acceptable accommodations.

Anthony likes to remove stickers. We have previously been required to pay a $5.00 fine on a public library book, because he removed the bar-code and we couldn't find it to re-attach. We have had another couple of close calls in that regard as well, so that we start to panic when we realize we have left a book on the dining table or kitchen counter. Taking him to the grocery store is an adventure as well, even if he is not otherwise causing a commotion. He tries to peel stickers off price signs, and can get very upset if we try to stop him; our task then is to try to divert him from noticing the stickers at all.

I had not considered this trait a couple of days ago when I painstakingly planted tomato, pepper, and eggplant seeds in a 72-pellet tray and marked them with taped paper. My wife saved me by pointing out that we should turn the tray the opposite way toward the wall so Anthony would not be tempted.


The next day, though, I wasn't as lucky with another of Anthony's obsessions. I was working again with some seeds, and thought I should go to start his bath water. Anthony sometimes hangs around us for as-yet undetermined reasons, and he was doing so in this instance. Instead of following me to the bathroom, however, he stayed in the kitchen. When I returned, I found that my asparagus seeds, which the seed package instructed to immerse in water for a day, had been poured into the sink. The dumping of containers with liquids is one fetish that I don't see very often, precisely because we seldom have open containers with liquids lying around, and so it had not occurred to me that the asparagus seeds might be victims (I did manage to retrieve most of them). I was far more upset a few weeks ago when he emptied a nearly-full gallon of vinegar I was using for cleaning.

I mentioned a couple of days ago that we have a routine to try to keep Anthony from wetting himself. I find that, on days with less structure, we may forget to have Anthony go to the bathroom at regular intervals, and sometimes we pay for it. Today was one of those days.

Anthony had been hanging around the kitchen as though he wanted something to eat. My wife was cooking, and I was cleaning our rabbit's litter box. As I finished, I noticed that the sock on Anthony's foot was wet. I thought I might have gotten some water on the floor in the bathroom after I rinsed out the litter box, and that he had stepped in it, but that would not account for the extent to which the sock was wet. I looked under his foot at the carpet, which was soaked. I looked at his dark-colored pants and could tell that they were wet also.

I took him back into the bathroom, had him stand in the tub and take off his clothes, ran the bath, and took his wet clothes to the laundry to wash. I also blotted the carpet, sprinkled baking soda to deodorize, and disinfected the bathroom floor.

I sometimes find with Anthony that I am in a no-win situation. My father had come to my house to help me in finishing the basement (or, more correctly, I help him). My wife had taken our other children out for a swimming lesson, leaving Anthony here. I discovered that he had a runny nose. With a normal child, this is a minor issue. With Anthony, it significantly impacts the way we approach things.

We have never been able to teach Anthony to blow his nose. Worse, he wipes his nose with his hand and smears the dripping matter on his face. He also does not understand the necessity of washing his hands. Finally, he touches things. Anything and everything is fair game. So, I did not want him to stay upstairs, particularly around the kitchen. But that meant deciding what to do with him as I assisted my father.

Anthony was in need of a bath. A-ha! A bath would keep him out of the way for a few minutes. Get him some nice warm water, let him relax for a while, come back and take care of him. . . .

Yes, he defecated in the tub again. I knew that was a possibility, but thought it a remote one because it was still morning and this has only happened in the evening previously. Then again, I can't say that I have put him in the bath in the morning and left him there for any length before today. And he didn't go a lot, but the amount doesn't really matter when it's in the water. I still have to remove the material, drain the water, clean Anthony and the tub, and disinfect. I may eventually learn my lesson.


On a lighter note, I was later painting the ceiling with a roller attached to a pole. This seemed to interest Anthony, and that is noteworthy because few activities do. I gave him the pole, showed him how to hold it, and held it up to the ceiling for him. He actually rolled it back and forth a few times. Then, apparently satisfied, he handed it back to me. I called my wife, who by this time had returned, and had him do it again so she too could see it.

I had Anthony go to the bathroom after I came home from work as part of the daily routine to try to keep him from wetting himself. As he removed his pants, I found that he was wearing a diaper under his underpants. It seems his "teachers"--I think there may be a more accurate designation for those who work with special-needs children--were concerned that he might have an accident at some point because he had not urinated in three trips to the toilet today.

I have written about Anthony's inability to have regular bowel movements, and that it sometimes affects his ability to urinate as well. He has gotten back to bowel movements at intervals of about five days, but that is again with stool softeners as we continue to use the medicine, Abilify, that has decreased his violent tendencies. I am starting to introduce another laxative, Miralax, to see if we can get better results. Several people we know, along with Anthony's pediatrician, have recommended it.

Anthony has started to adapt to the Abilify, however. We had heard this might be an issue. He is not nearly as docile as he was the first couple of weeks using it, although he is still a considerable way from frighteningly violent behavior. The doctor that prescribed this has recommended that we increase the dosage by half per day.

One of my greatest desires is to hear Anthony speak. What would he sound like? What would he say? What interests would he have, if he were normal?

Based, I suppose, on these wishes (and the probably-unfounded thinking that the proper connections in his brain could occur at any time), I sometimes have dreams wherein Anthony has the power of speech. These dreams usually follow a similar pattern: He says something to me, I respond, "Anthony! You can talk!" And he replies almost as a matter of fact, "Yes, I can talk," and the dream ends with me being happy.

I had one dream recently, however, that I think was influenced by having seen Awakenings, a movie with Robert de Niro and Robin Williams, many years ago. Perhaps indicating the degree to which that story has remained with me, in this dream I found that Anthony did not want to go to sleep. I asked him why, and he told me that he was afraid he wouldn't still be able to speak in the morning. I was rather concerned because of my newfound joy in seeing my son "back" after all these years, but I knew that going without sleep indefinitely was not realistic. I told him to go to sleep and we would see what happened.

In the morning, he had gone back into his autistic shell.