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Parents struggle to maintain routine to avoid outbursts
| Saturday, Mar 10 2007 8:10 PM
Last Updated: Friday, Mar 16 2007 5:39 PM
Only one of Sue Backer's three children remains in bed, wrapped snugly in a blanket at 7:30 a.m. on a recent school day.
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Zach Backer's mind wonders for a moment from the task of putting a puzzle together at the Claude W. Richardson Child Development Center where he attends school. Zach has been diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.
April Brown, an aid at the Claude W. Richardson Child Development Center, looks through a photo album with Zach Backer, who has been diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. Looking through the photo albums is one of Zach's favorite activities.
"Zachary, time to wake up!" she shouts. The 4-year-old, his eyes still shut, puts his hands over his ears.
"Hey, dude, wake up," Backer says, rolling him over so he's facing her. She scoops him up in his blanket and takes him into the living room where she cradles him in her lap. Zach's 5-year-old sister and 2-year-old brother swirl around him, playing. Zach hasn't said a word.
"This guy's my sunflower," Backer says smiling. Zach lies silently in her lap watching "The Backyardigans." "If you rush him, he's bad all day."
Rushing him could be trouble. Zachary Backer, like one out of about every 150 children in the United States, has been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder. That means his brain perceives the world differently than most children. He has problems communicating; he almost never says more than two or three words at a time. Like many autistic children, he needs a predictable routine. All the normal sights, smells and sounds of life sometimes overwhelm him.
A break or change in this morning routine could be too much for him. When Zachary gets overwhelmed, he throws himself face down on the floor and screams. It might look like a temper tantrum, but it's not exactly. It's something he does to calm himself.
"It used to happen all the time," Backer said. "He was frustrated because he couldn't communicate."
It was one of a number of early signs Zach might be autistic.
As a baby, Zach didn't make eye contact with his parents. He lined up and categorized his toys. He didn't talk and was a loner.
"We thought he would grow out of it, or catch up," said Zach's father, Robert Backer.
Eventually, a preschool teacher suggested his differences might be something more serious. At the age of 3, he was diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder.
The Backers went through denial, sadness and eventually acceptance.
"It's a human response to be disappointed. When you see 10 fingers and 10 toesyou all of a sudden have dreams of Little League, Scouts, graduation, a first car," Sue said. "When you get a diagnosis of autism, that whole dream of your life with your child is gone."
Experts agree early intervention is key to helping autistic students, so the Backers put Zach in special education classes both during the day and after school.
Each morning Sue drives Zach to his special education preschool class at the Claude W. Richardson Child Development Center run by the Kern County Superintendent of Schools. Each afternoon, Zach's nanny drives him to the Lori Brock Children's Discovery Center for the Supplemental Autism Program.
Every day Sue walks Zach to his classroom at the Richardson Center. She pretends to chase him through the schoolyard. The small boy with spiky black hair smiles and runs from her through the grass. Once inside the classroom, he puts his tiny backpack in a cubby hole and joins the teacher and four aides at the big table in the center of the room. He doesn't acknowledge anyone in the room or his mother's departure.
Zach begins playing with a puzzle. All the children play with puzzles and toys. They all look just as normal as Zach. The class consists of white, black, Asian and Hispanic boys. Autism is blind to race and is about four times as common in boys as girls.
At first, the preschool classroom looks like any other. Some of the children make noises. Zach sings parts of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" in a tiny voice to himself.
But within about 20 minutes, the difference between this and a typical classroom becomes glaring.
Not one child tries to talk to another. Twenty-four minutes pass before two children even look directly at each other for a moment.
Later on the playground, Zach runs in circles around the colorful equipment. He climbs the stairs and shoots down the slide.
The children zip past one another like planets, each one in his own orbit, not acknowledging anyone else. They're in their own little worlds.
"A lot of times with autism they're not aware of other people around them," said Zach's teacher Amber Wetterholm.
Zach's preschool and after-school programs aim to teach him how to come out of that world.
Lessons throughout the day teach Zach how to answer questions, identify people and tell others what he wants -- things most children learn around the age of 2 or earlier.
Aides give him a photo album filled with pictures of students in the class. They ask him to name the children in the photos. They ask him to perform various tasks with blocks of different shapes, sizes and colors and jot down notes about his progress.
Even snack time has a lesson. The children sit around a table eating sugar cookies slathered in thick, pink frosting. Zach looks at aide Heather Beavers and leans wordlessly toward her.
"What do you want?" Beavers asks Zach. She knows what he wants but is teaching him how to ask.
Zach pauses for a moment and doesn't say anything. He's thinking.
"Juice," he finally answers. "I want juice." She pours him juice.
"Good asking!" Beavers says.
When Zach arrived at preschool only a year ago, he didn't talk at all.
"He's made a ton of progress," Wetterholm said. Zach is smart academically, she said. He just has trouble communicating and socializing.
"He knows who we all are. He can say our names. He's starting to initiate greetings, being able to say 'hi' first and not just mimicking back," Wetterholm said.
The juice lesson pays off later at home.
In the afternoon, Zach's sister Chloe, who's talkative and quick to make acquaintances, plays with and hugs her friends from kindergarten. She describes to her mom what she wants for dinner and asks her parents about Japan after seeing a reference to it on television.
Chloe, who is one year older than Zach, bursts with words, sentences and questions.
Zach is comparatively silent and aloof. He drives a toy car around the home's courtyard. Various children get on and off the back of the car. Zach plays by himself with a toy tent in the living room. At one point, he gets tangled in the tent.
"Mommy, Mommy!" he says.
He walks toward Sue and she untangles him.
Sue is thrilled. A huge smile spreads across her face as Zach walks away.
"He said 'Mommy'!" she whispers. "I'm floored."
Zach doesn't usually acknowledge others around him, let alone call out to them by name.
The Backers have noticed many such changes since Zach started school.
More words. More smiles. Fewer meltdowns.
Each sign of progress brings the Backers a little closer to their new dream for Zach: that he finds his place in the world and happiness.
"Last night he opened the door and said, 'Mommy, I yuv you.' I was just in the middle of the dark crying because my son went out of his way to tell me he loved me before bed," Sue said, her eyes moistening. "You don't forget that because those are the steps you fight months for."