We're the house with the red pumpkin

When I was growing up, the pumpkins on people's stoops in the fall were orange. Sure, people carved them up into all kinds of designs for Halloween, but the shade never varied. Pumpkins were supposed to be orange, after all.

When I was growing up, kids dressed in costume for Halloween. Yes, they wore all kinds of outfits, but that's what kids on Halloween did: wear costumes.

When I was growing up, kids walked up to front doors, proclaimed "Trick or treat!" got their candy, said thanks and took off for the next house.

When I was growing up, kids in wheelchairs dressed up in costumes but their wheelchairs? Not so much.

When I was growing up, kids with allergies were often out of luck on Halloween.

When I was growing up, you were either Team Candy Corn or you weren't.

A few things about Halloween haven't changed over the years:

People are still Team Candy Corn or not.

It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown will air on TV.

Moms everywhere continue to swipe the peanut butter cups out of their children’s stash after bedtime.

A few things about Halloween have changed over the years:

Kids with food allergies and diabetes can look for homes with blue pumpkins, a sign that alterna-treats are offered there.

Ginormous inflatable black cats, ghosts, skeletons and pumpkins have invaded suburbia.

Now, kids roll around in tricked-out wheelchairs morphed into a pirate ship, boxing ring, chariot, hockey penalty box, ice-cream trucks Pac-Man, the Batmobile and basically anything you can think of thanks to inspiration from Pinterest and help from do-gooders like the Magic Wheelchair.

If you have a child with autism, Sensory Processing Disorder or other sensory issues, your perception of Halloween has likely completely changed over the years: about how Halloween "should" be and how children "should" celebrate it. That's how it's been for me.

I had a kid who didn't want to dress up in costume for Halloween. He just didn't get it, or find it fun.

I had a kid who freaked out at our town's Halloween parade and decided home was where he wanted to be.

I had a kid who needed to wear head phones when he decided to go door-to-door.

I had a kid who grew into a teen who wears a plastic firefighter hat year-round and goes by the name of Fireman Max.

I have a boy who took the pumpkin he picked during a school trip to a farm, painted it red—fire-truck red—and proudly brought it home.

This year, it is the only pumpkin on our front stoop. It's the only pumpkin in our neighborhood I've spotted that's red, or any other color besides orange.

Maybe before I had a child with disabilities, I would have wondered about a red pumpkin in place of an orange one. I might have wanted to surround it with orange ones, at the very least. But I don't think that way anymore.

Having a child with disabilities shows you that children can be very different from others and still be perfectly awesome.

You grow to see that a red-painted pumpkin is as beautiful as the usual one.

You discover that parenting a child with disabilities can be wholly different from the parenthood you expected, yet still be plenty amazing.

Although you never imagined having a red-painted pumpkin as part of your fall display, it looks glorious next to the mums.

How is it possible, you wonder, that you once had such a limited view of Halloween? It took your child with disabilities to open your eyes.

The red pumpkin on our stoop is as unique as my child and yours.

It is who they are, perhaps unaware of or unconcerned about societal norms, and living life on their terms.

The red pumpkin is all about what our children have done for us and those who know them: opened our eyes to the glorious range that is humanity and of course, Halloween.

Whether your child goes to the Halloween parade or parties, melts down at the parade or party and needs to leave or flat-out doesn't go because they're too noisy and overwhelming; skips costumes cause they're itchy or irritating or scary or generally don't feel good, or wears just part of them; does the trick-or-treat rounds in headphones or doesn't do it all; has a parent carry their bucket for them because they can't yet hold it; eats candy or skips it because of a feeding tube or chewing challenges; or walks or rolls around the neighborhood, Happy Halloween—however you do it.

Awesome proof that it doesn't have to be so hard for our children

Max had a fantasy come true this weekend, when he got to ride a fire truck in a parade. And not just any parade. He was in the Tarrytown Halloween Parade, close to Sleepy Hollow (of Ichabad Crane and headless horseman fame.) It attracts some 20,000 people a year, and the fire truck leads the parade. Max was seated inside.

If you have a child with disabilities, then you are used to cajoling, pushing and otherwise doing whatever you can to get your child included in activities and, well, life in general. Over the years, I've finagled Max's way into some activities and have had him outright turned away from others. Then he decided he was going to become a firefighter, and suddenly accommodating him wasn't so hard at all.

The guys at our local station were glad to boost him up into trucks so he could sit there. Three years ago, a couple showed up at our house in his favorite truck on the day of his birthday party, drove him to the place then hung out. They're a great team who respect Max, enjoy chatting with him and like to make him happy.

Max has long had a fantasy about riding a fire truck in a parade. The timing's never worked out for our local one on Memorial Day, because we're usually away. Max used to talk about it a lot; I found this card from 2015 when I was going through his room over the weekend.

Grandpa Michael, Dave's dad, lives in Tarrytown and decided to try and get Max into the parade. He walked into the fire station the other week, explained Max's firefighter aspirations and made the ask. They called back the same day and said yes. Just. Like. That.

There was no red tape, no forms to sign, no minds to change. Nobody asked anything about Max's disability. The fact that it happened so easily was astounding.

Max was out-of-his-head excited. Anytime I mentioned the parade to him he'd giggle in anticipation. I ended up staying home with Ben because we didn't think Ben would appreciate the crowd; Dave texted constant updates.

Max, Dave and Grandpa Michael met Captain Rich at the start of the parade at 5:15 p.m., Max dressed in his trusty fire hat and the official coat our local fire department had gifted to him.

"Do you want your dad to ride with you?" asked Captain Rich.

"No!" said Max.

Fireman Max rode with Firefighter Meagan, who remembered Max hanging around the previous year. Dave boosted Max into the truck and off they went. At times Max looked like he was in complete disbelief, which is what happens when your fantasy comes true. At times, he waved at the crowd.

Afterward, Max called and asked if I'd seen the videos Dave had sent. Oh, yes. A whole bunch of times.

"Did you have the best time?" I asked.

"Yes!" he said, and laughed and laughed.

I felt ecstatic for him. And then, I felt a pang of if only more people were this welcoming.

Max was pretty zonked when he got home Saturday night, but he did have one question he urgently wanted me to answer before he fell asleep:

"Next year, too?"

The Disability Blogger Link-up: It's here for you

What to do if you're new here

This is a place to share a recent favorite post you've written, or read. Scroll all the way down to the bottom of this post. Where it says "Your name" put the name of the blog followed by the title of the post you want to share (or just the name of the post, if there's no room—you get 80 characters).

Like this: Love That Max: Why it's GOOD to talk about our children's differences

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Click "Enter." Leave a comment if you want to say more. Go check out some great posts.

A new app that makes toothbrushing easier for youth with autism and intellectual disabilities

This is a sponsored post; all opinions and excitement are my own. 

A good friend and I were standing in my kitchen last weekend, discussing toothbrushing. Her son, who is 10 and on the spectrum, has regular meltdowns about doing the deed. “Getting him to brush his teeth is our biggest challenge,” she said with a sigh. He’s always resisted it, but he recently lost a tooth and is now more freaked out than ever.

Been there, dealt with that. For years, Max could not stand having his teeth brushed—let alone have his cheeks touched—because of sensory issues. We both dreaded it, him because it did not feel good and me because of the inevitable bathroom battle. As the years passed, though, Max grew more tolerant.

We’re at the point where I typically clean his teeth for him and he lets me—but as with all life skills, I want to encourage independence. Trouble is, Max insists that I keep up my gig as his personal toothbrusher. Now I’ve got excellent inspiration for him to BIY (Brush It Yourself): Colgate's oral-care story cards made in partnership with MagnusCards, a free app with digital guides for people with autism and intellectual disabilities.

The app (for iPhone, iPad and Android) offers dozens of photo-driven storyboards to help master everyday routines and personal care—everything from dealing with a runny nose, using an umbrella, depositing a check into an ATM, calling 911, cleaning up at a food court and even finding a book on a library shelf. Users and parents can also set up their own guides by uploading photos and instructions. “Magnus” means “greatness” in Latin; in the app, he is the helpful red-hat-wearing-cartoon-dude who guides viewers through the steps.

Developed with guidance from oral health experts at Colgate, the five new card decks include Brushing Your Teeth, Brushing Your Teeth with Braces, Flossing Your Teeth with a Floss Pick, Using Mouthwash and Visiting the Dental Office. All were put together with the needs of people with cognitive disabilities in mind, as this video notes—and with the understanding of just how amazing our children’s smiles are.

For starters, I downloaded the app, clicked on the toothbrush “Care” icon and downloaded the cards to Max’s iPad.

The Brushing Your Teeth guide addresses the skill we’re working on, so I had Max try those out. The photos and text are both clear-cut and encouraging.

Max grabbed his toothbrush and swiped away in both his mouth and on his iPad, without my even saying a peep. Insta-win! It was just as I hoped: As resistant as Max can be to brushing by himself, he’s usually motivated by iPad anything. I read the text out loud as Max went through the how-tos, so he could focus on making sure he got at his teeth at the right angles. As we keep using the cards, I’m sure the visual prompts alone will be enough to remind him what to do.

Max seemed pretty darn pleased with himself when he finished. I was pretty darn pleased, too, to see him brushing independently. After he was asleep, I texted my friend with a thumbs up for the app so she could try it with her son.

Once again, I feel grateful for technology that enables Max—and makes my life as a parent easier, too.

For more information, visit Colgate Magnuscards.

Thanks to Colgate for sponsoring this post, for which I was compensated. 

One key way to help your child: Put it out into the universe

"Hi! Can I talk with you?" asked the friendly-looking woman standing with a dog at the end of my driveway.

I'd just pulled our minivan in, and was about to lift Ben out of his car seat. I peered at her. "Do I know you?" I asked.

"I'm your neighbor!" she said, and instantly I realized she was a newbie I'd been introduced to a few weeks back; we'd connected on Facebook. She'd been reading this blog, and had seen the post about my stalking a local group home for adults with disabilities and wondering about what the future held for Max.

Turns out she had a relative with autism who was living in a group home just down the street. Yes, literally just down the street. She explained how parents had pooled resources, hired someone to run the home and started it not long ago. She described the house to me, and offered to put me in touch with the wonderful person running it.

I was grateful, once again, for the options that have been coming my way this last week. After I posted, several Facebook friends shared resources and housing possibilities. I still don't have answers, of course, but I am much more reassured and heartened.

I've always been a pretty resourceful person, thanks to a dad who taught me to DIY everything from looking up info in encyclopedias to fixing a broken cabinet. (One of my most prized possessions is a  brass hammer he got me, with screwdrivers on one end that twist into place.) That resourcefulness kicked into high gear after I had Max, and it's never stopped. The more I ask around about stuff, the more it benefits him. I'm glad to have the blog for that, but I do it with local mom groups and organizations I'm part of, too.

When it comes to raising a child with disabilities, that old phrase "It never hurts to ask" becomes "It always pays to ask."

Ask your child's doctor to send you more information on an issue you two discussed. Ask therapists for suggestions for enabling gadgets for your child. Ask the teacher for extra worksheets that will help your child learn. Ask the school's computer pro for apps and websites that will help your child. Ask a supervisor at the insurance company to address your issues if Jane Shmo rep isn't helping. Ask other parents which treatments have helped their children, which doctors they use, which alternative treatments they've tried. Ask people who run local activities to include your child. Email the expert, author, organization staffer or world-renowned doctor your question or request. Message a stranger on Facebook who also has a child with disabilities, like a mom from Slovenia did the other day when she saw a YouTube video about Max getting stem cell therapy.

If there's one thing I've learned in fourteen years of parenting Max, it's ask, ask, ask, ask, ask. Don't be shy, and don't worry about being pushy. Do it for your child's sake and yours, too—you never know what will come back to you when you toss your questions and concerns out into the universe. You are clearing a path for your child in a world with far too many roadblocks.

Caring is sharing your love for fire stations with your little brother

I didn't have a whole lot of worries about having a third child, other than the overarching "How exactly are we going to juggle another human being?" (After surviving the first six months, we've been fine.) Also: "Will we remember anything from the last time we had a little kid?" (Kinda-sorta, that's why BabyCenter exists). There was, however, one thing I kept wondering about: How would Max react if Ben also got into fire trucks and firefighters?

I had good reason to consider this. Throughout my pregnancy, Fireman Max repeatedly informed me that Ben was going to be a police officer. Read: I am the only person in this household who will be a firefighter. Max takes great pride in his aspirations. I hadn't counted on much sibling rivalry, owing to the giant age gap between Max, Sabrina and their little brother, but I figured if our little guy got into fire trucks, all bets were off.

Then came Ben. My friend Peg got him an adorable fire truck bank. Max groaned a bit but didn't seem all that perturbed. I was astounded. Months later, someone gave us a cute pair of Baby Gap fire truck pj's. "Hey!" said Max, but he said it with a smile. Ben eventually did start liking wheeled toys—particularly busses, but he also occasionally plays with Max's fire trucks. Max has been cool with it.

Max may be a teen who insists that people refer to him as Fireman Max, but all this a real sign of maturity. He is being a great big brother, no matter that Ben likes to torture him by swatting him away when he asks for a kiss.

Sunday afternoon, we were wandering around a neighboring town when Max spied a fire station. He and Dave dashed over as I kept walking with Ben, who needs to stop and examine all objects in his path—potted plants, doorways, steps, dogs, garbage lying on the street.

We arrived as Max was ringing the doorbell and soon enough, a couple of firefighters opened the door to the station and welcomed Max and Ben to check out the trucks.

"Look, Ben!" Max said as he gazed down lovingly. He pointed out the horn. He giggled when the firefighter turned on the truck's lights and Ben said "Light! Light!"

Ben was in awe. Max was gleeful. Me, I just melted.

In other news, Max has scored an appearance in the renowned Tarrytown, New York, Halloween Parade, home of Sleepy Hallow. He will be riding in the fire truck. Oh, yes, he will. Grandpa Michael, who lives nearby, strolled into the fire station and asked, and it is happening.

Next Saturday evening, the rest of our family will stand in the crowd as Max has his big moment; for two years now, he's fantasized about riding in a parade in a fire truck. He'll be decked out in his official firefighter uniform, a gift from our local guys three years ago. I can't even imagine how excited he'll be. And I can't even imagine the look on Ben's face when he sees his big brother ride by.

Why it's good to talk about our children's differences

For many years, I've tried to help people see how in many ways Max is like others his age—he likes to have a good time, laugh, make friends, down copious amounts of chocolate ice-cream, yada yada. Last week, I realized that not acknowledging how Max is different has been doing him wrong.

This epiphany is brought to you courtesy of Thomas Ellenson, writer and performer of the one-man biographical show It Is What It Is, which I saw last Thursday night. Like Max, Thomas has cerebral palsy and uses an iPad for communication. He also uses a power wheelchair. In the show, he emphasized that he didn't want people to only see his wheelchair when they looked at him. "I'm just like you!" he noted, several times. But then, he recanted and said something even more profound: Actually, he said, he is very different than us—but "different is good."

Sitting in the darkness of the theater, I saw the light. En route home and for days after, I kept thinking about what Thomas had said.

When we mainly focus on the ways our children with disabilities are like other people—in the name of helping them and spreading the good word—we deny their obvious differences and unintentionally make "different" a negative.

The spectrum of people's behavior, physical makeup, abilities, talents and basically everything that makes us who we are is as expansive as the world itself. Max does things differently than those squarely in the center of that spectrum, the ways he moves and talks and processes information and learns. But then, who doesn't have variations on what's mainstream, visible or not? Our differences are an essential part of who we are, each and every one of us. "It is our differences that unite us," Thomas noted.

In our drive to get people to embrace our children, in our urgency to encourage parents to teach their children to befriend and include ours, it would serve our children best to talk about all of who they are. Discuss their similarities to other children, but acknowledge what's different, too.

Sometimes, younger children ask me if Max can talk. I've always just said, "Yes, he talks in his own way." That's true. But I could also say, "Yes, he talks in his own way. Because his words aren't always easy to understand, he uses an iPad to help him say what he wants to say." That's true, too—Max's speech often isn't intelligible to those who don't know him, and to ignore that is to ignore a major difference. I wouldn't be doing Max a disservice by pointing out the obvious. Some children and adults are wary of different; in speaking about it, I can help soften the stigma and open dialogues...and perhaps minds, too.

Really, there are no rules. You say what seems right in the situation. You hope your child will someday be able to speak up for himself. But spreading the word about differences makes all the sense to me.

The Disability Blogger Weekend Link-up is up and at 'em

What to do if you're new here

This is a place to share a recent favorite post you've written, or read. Scroll all the way down to the bottom of this post. Where it says "Your name" put the name of the blog followed by the title of the post you want to share (or just the name of the post, if there's no room—you get 80 characters).

Like this: Love That Max: This week, I tried to see his future

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Click "Enter." Leave a comment if you want to say more. Go check out some great posts.

Conversations with a teenager

[Me, pointing to a shirt on Max's dresser]: "Max, do you like the shirt that I got you?"
Max: "I saw it yesterday."
Me: "Yes, but do you like it?"
Max: "I saw it yesterday."
Me: "OK, but do you like it?"
Max: "NO!"

Max [pointing to Ben's food after finishing his dinner]: "I'm hungry!"
Me: "OK, so you want what Ben's eating?
Max: "Yes!"

Occupational therapist: "Max, you have to listen to me because I'm the boss."
Max: "I'm the boss!"
OT [laughing]: "Hey, I'm the boss!"
Max [laughing]: "I'm. The. Boss!"

Me: "Your iPad is almost out of power."
Max: "I know!"

Me: "You have to wash your hands."
Max: "I know!"

Me: "We have a doctor appointment in the morning."
Max: "I know!"

Me: "Max, do you want hair gel?"
Max: "Yes! Las Vegas, too!" [As in, he will require copious amounts of hair gel for his upcoming trip in December to Las Vegas.]

Max: "I'm hungry!"
Me: "So you want more dinner?"
Max: "Milkshake!"
Me: "Um, that's not dinner food."
Max: "Yes it is! It's very good!"

Max: "Daddy and I are going out Friday night!"
Me: "Can I come?"
Max: "No!"
Me: "Aw, come on!"
Max: "No thank you!"

Me: "Max, stand still, I just want to get rid of that pimple on your chin!"
Max: "EWWWWWW!"

Me: "Max, you have to do your homework."
Max: "I'm tired."
Me: "I get it, but you still have to do your homework."
Max: "I'm going to sleep!"
Me: "But Max, you have to do your homework."
Max: "Tomorrow! Bye!"

Me: "Max, have you seen my phone?"
Max: "Yes!" [Trots over to the other side of the room and grabs it.]
Me: "Doh! Max, I am always losing my phone and you're always finding it!"
Max: "I know!"

Max: "What are we doing Saturday?"
Me: "I'm not sure yet."
Max: "What are we doing Sunday?"
Me: "I'm not sure yet."
Max: "What are we doing Saturday?"
[Repeat, repeat, repeat]

Max: "Hey! You wore that shirt yesterday!"
Me: "Yep. I was tired this morning and just put it on."
Max: "Need new shirt!"

Max: "I'm hungry!"
Me: "Would you like some strawberries?"
Max: "Ice-cream!"

This week, I tried to see his future

The question has always been there, hanging over our lives. As Max gets older, it looms larger: Where will he live when he's an adult? Will he go to a group home or some sort of residential facility? What kind of options might exist down the road that aren't available now? Who will look after him the way Dave and I do? Or will Max always be at home with us? A few days ago, I thought I glimpsed a potential answer...but it really wasn't.

Sabrina signed up to volunteer at a local temple for a Saturday morning service for adults and young adults with disabilities. Max had speech therapy, but might attend at some point. Sabrina and I headed over, found the classroom and chatted with the woman leading the service as attendees arrived, middle-aged adults with Down syndrome and intellectual disability accompanied by aides. A lot of them lived in group homes, I found out, run by an organization in our state. 

A young woman walked in wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with "Love Love Love" in sparkly letters. The leader told me that she resembled another young woman who was her best friend and soon enough, that woman arrived and they hugged. They did look alike, and she was wearing the same shirt in a different color. At first, I wasn't sure if they were attendees or volunteers. Later, I found out they lived in a group home together. They appeared to be in their twenties and of all the adults there, they were most comparable to Max in terms of communication and social engagement. I was intrigued. 

Sabrina paired up with a woman who needed help turning the pages of the service book. Minutes later, I left and went outside to the car; I wanted Sabrina to be independent. I sat there and googled the name of the organization, and discovered that they ran 11 group homes, a supervised apartment and supported living arrangements in our area. I was floored. All this time, I never knew.

Turned out there is a group home in our town, an even bigger whoa. It took some digging but I found the address. It's located in a part of town that's fine but not especially nice, and per the Google maps appeared to be across from a park where Sabrina has played lacrosse.  I stared and stared at the photo, as if looking could tell me something. The home appeared to be well kept. But what lay inside?

The window to the classroom was open and I heard the prayers and songs drifting out, enveloping me in hope. I returned before the hour was done and stood in the back. 

One of the "love" t-shirt women was pouring cups of juice for the group. Two attendees, a man and a woman, sat in front of me next to an aide. I watched as a volunteer walked over to the woman, leaned down, grasped her shoulders, looked her in the eyes and said, "We've known each other for a long time. You know I love you, right?" The woman beamed at her. 

My eyes filled with tears and I turned my head to the side. I was overcome with emotion. I wondered if the older adults had family who visited them. I pictured Max as an adult in that room, accompanied by an aide, alone without me. It was too much to ponder. 

I wiped my eyes and turned back to watch the end of the service. The final song was about what God had created each day of the week. A man jumped up to sing it and once again, the voices in the room rose in song, especially ebullient at the end of each refrain: "And it was good."  

Most of the group headed to have lunch afterward. We couldn't stick around but going forward, Sabrina will be there for that and the afternoon program. Maybe Max, too.

On the ride home, I felt compelled to drive by the group home. But we were having a photographer come over for a family photo shoot and Sabrina needed a couple of hours to do her hair and get dressed, because: tween. 

I got there early the other morning. Sure enough, it was right across from the park I knew. I drove into the lot directly across the street, got out of my car, stood there and stared. Nobody was around. It was a gray day. The home's curtains were closed; all I could glimpse was a lit light fixture. The house was pleasant enough. Caught up in my anxiety about Max's future, though, it looked depressing. I thought of those aides in the classroom. Some had seemed warm and nice. Some had appeared to be a bit brusque, treating their clients like errant children, which perturbed me. 

Who would be there to help Max with food prep? To help him take a shower? To talk with him about his interests and engage him? To encourage independence? What friends would he have in a home? Would his therapists go there? What activities would they do? Would he miss us?

I felt increasingly anxious as I stood there. Finally, I got back into the car and drove off to do errands.

Who. 

Knows. 

I've tried looking up the other homes. My search skills are pretty good, but I managed to Google only one nondescript ranch. I'm guessing the fact that they're not easily found is purposeful, to protect residents' privacy but also potentially shield them from small-minded locals who might not appreciate having such a home in their neighborhood. I could probably find more of the houses by asking around, but I think that would be headed down an (even more) stalker-ish, obsessive road that will do me no good.

Finding residential placement isn't easy in our state. I've heard of parents pooling resources, including funding from their states; purchasing homes for their adult children; and staffing them with aides. Or perhaps Max will choose to live at home, and Dave and I will spend our retirement visiting fire stations around the world with him. (Yes, I've mulled over that, too.) In my fantasies, Max is living on his own or with a friend, but I am dubious mainly because of the life-skills help he needs. 

What I do know is that Dave and I will be there, when the time comes, to research the heck out of all possibilities—residences, along with supportive organizations and parents who've been there, done that. We have pushed and fought and paved the way for Max for these past 15 years, and will do the same for housing when the times comes, guided by both his needs and wishes. Hopefully, he will advocate for himself as well. 

What I also know—the common sense that forces that anxiety monster to stop rearing its head—is that Max will be OK. It's impossible to even guess what his capabilities will be as an adult but no matter what, he will still be that charming, cheerful, good-natured yet determined person. He will find his place in the world because he always has. 

To paraphrase that line from the prayer-service song: "And it will be good."

Now I realize what's missing from my life, and it is: parties

Sunday, we had friends over to celebrate Ben's second birthday. Among the afternoon's highlights: Sabrina and other kids taught Ben the "bom bom bom" refrain of "Sweet Caroline," Max ate about one quarter of the cake (no joke), Ben tried our mini trampoline and gave out lots of kisses, and Max and his grandpa brought over a platter of sandwiches to our fire department. That night, as I finished cleaning up, I was on a bliss high. I really enjoy throwing parties, but I hardly do.

Party boy

When we first moved to our house fourteen years ago, when I was pregnant with Max, we were part of a local newcomers' club and one Saturday night we had dozens of people over for a super-fun potluck party. Then we had Max and for the longest time, Dave and I didn't feel much like socializing. As the years passed, we threw regular birthday parties for the kids. On occasion, we'd have families over for holiday celebrations. I hosted end-of-school parties and Girl Scout gatherings. Dave threw a surprise party for one of my birthdays, I threw one for him.

On weekends, we have fun, for sure. Once in a while, we have friends over for barbecues. But we also get caught up in a whirlwind of chores, activities and events for the kids, Max's longtime Saturday morning speech therapy, and oh yes, that most sacred of all things, Ben's naptime. Dave and I get out alone, but we are not so great at making plans with friends because sometimes, anything that takes even just a little extra legwork falls to the wayside.

Last year, we celebrated Max's bar mitzvah, which was one outstanding party. I'm planning Sabrina's for March. I love, love, love these events—how often do you have a whole lot of people you adore all gathered for a happy occasion? Not often enough, I thought as I put away dishes the other night. Usually, it's for those rare life milestones. Lately, though, with so much grim and unsettling news, I feel like we should be living it up a lot more often. There's nothing like a party with friends for having pure fun, and reminding you of how fortunate you are. Also: wine.

So I'm putting a few more things on my to-do list, and they are throw more dinner parties and also get a big crowd of people over for some random let's-celebrate-life blowout bash. I'm not sure when, but it's happening.

Who's in?

An award-winning show about cerebral palsy that's funny (yes, funny)

I've known about Thomas Ellenson ever since I opened the New York Times Magazine's September 12, 2004 issue and read the The Lessons of Classroom 506 about him, his father, Richard, and the inclusionary classroom Richard had made possible. Like Max, Thomas has cerebral palsy. It gave me so much hope for Max that I saved that magazine, and still have it. I connected with the family when I wrote a piece about them for Child magazine—Richard went on to create a breakthrough augmentative communication device—and we've stayed friends (he's now running the Cerebral Palsy Foundation).

Thomas Ellenson's resume is also pretty impressive. He's appeared in several Off-Off Broadway productions, a network TV episode and numerous news segments. And now, he's written a one-man show, It Is What It Is, that he also performs; it won the ONE Festival last spring. I'm seeing it this Thursday, debut night in New York City (tickets are available here), and it promises to be great. Thomas, 20, has an excellent sense of humor. When I asked him to describe himself, he responded, "People say I’m a very talented actor, but a complete geek." Below, his a's to my q's.

Did anything in particular motivate you to write It Is What It Is? 

Yes. When I saw 700 Sundays by Billy Crystal, I thought, wow, it is so brilliant and I love the way he tells people about himself in a way they can relate to. I can do this!

What's the significance of the title? 

Well, we are born with CP. we can’t change it. To tell you the truth, it’s not great. There are a lot of challenges. But we just have to deal with it.

What are some of your favorite parts of the show?

I especially love the end, because after I won the One Show Festival I worked with my friend, the actor and director Christopher Hanke, to rewrite it so it would be stronger and deeper. I wanted to challenge myself to bring even more to my story. Also I love the projections—photos and videos that accompany the show—because they bring so much energy to it, both amplifying my feelings and adding humor. They are designed by my friend, Zach Lobel, who is studying theater at Wesleyan. I also have a good time kind of making fun of some of my friends.

What do you most hope people will take away from the show? 

I hope that people can learn that we are more than our disability. It might be the first thing someone notices, but it is not the first thing that defines me.  I’m 20 and people still treat me all the time like a stupid guy. It’s infuriating. But when I’m on stage, people are looking at me for the right reasons. And they are going to hear about all the things that are important to me. I hope that people take away all the much more important things there are about people, all the other things that really define them.

One description of the show says it "shares the experiences of a young man who wants to let people know that disabilities can actually be interesting and funny." As the mother of a son with CP, I've seen that unfortunately a lot of people consider disabilities sad, not bemusing. They just don't get it. 

We need to make fun of things. Let’s face it: Disability is hard. And I realize that part of it is sad. But if that’s what you focus on, you’re not going to have a great life. And if that’s what other people focus on, you’re not going to have great relationships. For example, my friend, Zach Anner is a very funny guy. He always makes fun of himself on his YouTube channel. We both know that laughing is the key to life.

In my show, I cover a lot of things with humor. The way people look at me. Talking with a speech device. The way people are uncomfortable. I mean, so many people stop me on the street and pray for me. If that worked, how come I still have CP?!?! Instead, why don’t they stop me and ask what type of movie I like – and if we like the same one, maybe we can go together.

Have you had an interaction with someone where you helped change their perception of cerebral palsy? 

My best friends. I met them at my theater group five years ago. They were so scared of me. They didn’t know anything about CP or any disabilities. And then we started working on a scene together. And they quickly got to know me. Now we get drunk and hang out. It’s like with anyone – when you share interests and take time, you build relationships. People with disabilities just so rarely get a chance to do that. Like in school, they are so worried that I get the time to finish tests in things like algebra, that I’ll probably never need again. But no one has ever worried that I have the time to hang with friends.

What key advice do you have for parents raising children with CP? 

Just let them have a normal life. Ask your kids what makes them happy—and then find ways to make sure they can try to get it.

Which actor would play you in the movie version of It Is What It Is?

I don’t want it to be a movie because I think that Hollywood is overrated. These days, if they made a movie about me, they’d have to turn me into a super hero. I’d just rather this stays a play. And, um, no one is playing me, but me!

Thomas will be performing It Is What It Is starting Thursday, October 19 at New York City's Flamboyan Theater, through October 22. On October 23, there is a gala performance to benefit CAT Youth Theater, a free, award-winning, after-school program that helps young people thrive on stage and in life; it's where Thomas got his first training in the theater. Tickets are available here for October 19 - October 22, and here for the Oct 23 benefit performance.

The Disability Blogger Weekend Link-up: Start your engines!

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Like this: Love That Max: Why it's good not to help our children too much

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This is two

Two is attempting to climb on top of/into/onto whatever you can: our dining room chairs, the kitchen table, the sofa, the hallway bench, the piano bench, our stairs, the drawers in the kitchen.

Two is your favorite word being "No!" and your second favorite words being "No way!"

Two is doing laps around the first floor before bedtime, when you are wired.

Two is the adorable way you flap your arms when you run.

Two is being fascinated by buckles of all kinds, bubbles, shadows, childproof locks, doors, cabinets and above all, our powder room toilet.

Two is chucking everything you can get your hands on into the toilet (toy cars, papers, blocks, food and once, your sister's phone).

Two is chucking things into our fireplace and your playpen, too.

Two is refusing to lie down on the changing table.

Two is those curls that pop up on either side of your head.

Two is giving people that cautious look because you get shy.

Two is loving ketchup more than the food itself.

Two is waking up at 5:00 in the morning and then, as you lie in bed next to me, kicking, tossing and turning and trying to put your fingers up my nose, then grinning at me in the dark.

Two is going to sleep with your favorite toy and your bunny.

Two is  singing the tune to the alphabet song but just saying "E I E O I" from Old MacDonald.

Two is pushing my hand away when I try to help feed you because you want to do it yourself.

Two is still looking like a baby when you sleep.

Two is fretting in the car until I reach my hand behind from the passenger seat to hold yours.

Two is reading and rereading your favorite books at bedtime: Trains, Freight Train, Trucks, Ten Little Ladybugs, Goodnight Moon and that one about children around the world.

Two is testing limits: taking a nip or smacking one of us, then kissing us because you know you've done wrong.

Two is calling Grandpa Michael "Gurkle."

Two is sucking your thumb when you feel pensive, tired or upset.

Two is regularly eating your body weight in Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and Cheerios.

Two is attempting to see how many Goldfish and Cheerios you can stick into the slots in your sandals.

Two is being obsessed with choo-choos, trucks and busses.

Two is solemnly saying "Bye, Mommy!" when I leave for work in the morning.

Two is running into my arms when I walk in the door at night and saying "Hi, Mommy!"

Two is holding my cheeks with both your hands when you kiss me.

Two is adoring your big brother...

...and adoring your big sister, too.

Two is pointing out "eyes!" and "nose" and "boobies!" (Mine.)

Two is saying "Uh-oh!" when something falls and "Ewww, doodie!" when you poop.

Two is attempting to brush your teeth but mostly just sucking on the toothbrush. 

Two is shooting hoops in sports shorts that are too big for you.

Two is calling school "cool" and not crying anymore when you go, since you are very excited that they serve cookies there and have a sandbox and bubble machine.

Two is jumping up and down because you've realized you can.

Two is recognizing logos, like saying "Bottie!" (your word for a bottle of milk) when we pass by Starbucks and saying "Big truck!" when you spot the UPS logo.

Two is finding opening and closing the bread basket drawer endlessly fascinating.

Two is asking "What's that?" about everything.

Two is climbing up the slide.

Two is climbing on Daddy when he takes a nap.

Two is repeated trips to the zoo, your happy place.

Two is noticing the letter "b" in books, on boxes and in signs.

Two is announcing "dark!" when night falls.

Two is wanting to eat what's on everyone else's plate.

Two is your little belly that sticks out.

Two is adorable, delicious, sweet, naughty, exciting, fascinating, fun, nonstop.

Two is you today. Happy Birthday, little love.

Everything looks worse in black and white

His motor examination demonstrated diffuse weakness.

His fine-motor skills continue to be impaired.

He has cerebral palsy and tone abnormalities.

I read the the pediatric neurologist's letter about Max's annual visit as soon as it arrived in the mail, like I always do. Sometimes I think that I'd be better off just filing it away, sight unseen, because as is typically the case, I felt pangs of distress when I read parts of it.

This doctor—who's seen Max since he was two weeks old—tends to write a pretty comprehensive letter, which he addresses to our pediatrician and cc's us on. It covers Max's cognitive and physical state. Cerebral palsy isn't just a physical condition; the brain fires messages to muscles, directing them how to move.

I am well aware of every single physical thing he mentioned in his letter. Max has cerebral palsy; weakness, fine-motor challenges and tone abnormalities are no shocker. Max does his best to work around them. He gets a good amount of therapy to help him learn adaptive maneuvers. We use enabling gadgets.

I don't think about the CP much on a daily basis. When he was little, I had a hard time accepting what had happened to him, but Max's evolution and the passage of time helped the grief ebb away. Still, when his challenges are there in front of me, in black and white, I consider what Max has to contend with. The same goes for educational assessments and reports.

These write-ups are not a reflection of who Max is, I realize. But there I was, standing by the pile of mail on our kitchen counter, staring at the words and wishing that movement came easier to him. Which is futile, of course. The cerebral palsy isn't going to change—it's a static condition. At times, Max's muscles may be more relaxed than others but the fact is, he will always have four-quad spastic CP.

The CP is part of who he is.

Whatever pangs I may occasionally have, I want him to embrace the CP.

No, I want him to own the CP.

Max doesn't complain about stuff being harder for him, because he doesn't know any differently. For sure, there are times when he gets annoyed—say, when something falls out of his hands that he was trying to grasp—but otherwise, he takes life in stride. This is who he is.

As parents, we feel our children's every difficulty, big and small. When one of the kids has strep throat, when Sabrina is upset about how a frenemy has treated her, when Ben falls and bumps his head, when Max gets anxious if we're in a loud and crowded place, when anyone is overly tired or bummed out or freaked out or whatever-ed out, I feel them. And so, when I consider Max's physical challenges, I feel them. 

But then I force myself to think back to the advice this very doctor once gave Dave and me about the MRI scans of Max's brain, taken at the hospital a few days after he was born. The white areas on the black film show the damage, the result of the stroke. The doctor told us to store those scans out of reach, to not take Max's medical history to heart and to look at the child in front of our eyes.

I walked upstairs and filed that letter away.

Yesterday evening, I took Max to an event at his school, which is for students with disabilities; teens from a local high school came to hang out, play sports and do crafts together. "It's going to be the best night!" Max told me during the car ride there. He dashed into the gym with a big grin and ran over to friends to say hello. I paused to watch him before I left, but then he spotted me and motioned me to leave. Spy Mom, caught in the act once again.

As I drove off I noticed floodlights on the field across the way; football players were practicing. Years ago, I might have been bummed that Max would never be one of them. But last night, I only felt happy for him.

Crowdsourcing: How do you deal when your child digs in his heels?

"I'm staying!" Max announced, matter-of-factly.

Huh, what?

We had just escorted Ben to his Toddler Time class. Max had the day off for Columbus Day, and he'd been really excited to take Ben to school. Evidently, though, he'd hatched some plan about joining him.

"Max, you can't stay with Ben, this is a class for little kids," I explained.

Logic never works at times like these.

"I'm staying!" Max repeated, more loudly this time.

The teacher looked at us.

"He can stay for a few minutes," she offered.

Tots were just beginning to trickle in. The class has only recently gotten to a point where none of the kids were crying for their parents, and I didn't want Max to disrupt the calm. Because when one kid starts to wail, they all start to wail.

"No, that's OK, we're going," I said, and grabbed Max's arm.

He's almost as big as I am (that is not hard, as I am just shy of 5'2"), and moving him around isn't so easily.

"Max, let's go," I said. "You can't stay. This is Ben's class."

"NO!" he said, this time really loudly. "I'm staying!"

A couple of the kids were staring. Ben was playing with the play kitchen.

"We're going—now," I said.

"I'M STAYING!" he yelled.

And then I literally dragged him out of the class.

"Bye, Mommy!" said Ben.

Max too old for me to be forcibly removing him from a room, but I did not want to risk a meltdown in Toddler Time. We discussed it in the car ride home.

"Max, you know your behavior wasn't OK before," I said. "You couldn't stay in the class. It's just for little kids, not big brothers and sisters."

"ARGH!" he said.

I asked for an apology for the yelling.

"Sorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry," said Max, drawing out the word.

Obnoxious teen? Check!

He looked at me with a wicked grin and cracked up.

I couldn't help it: I had to laugh, too. I knew he knew he was acting out.

"Max, are you really sorry?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. And then: "Sorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry." And he cracked up again.

I still have (obviously) not found a solution for defusing situations like this. When Max gets something in his head, it is difficult to redirect him. It goes beyond stubbornness—it's part of how his brain works. He hatches plans, then assumes that things will go the way he's conjured them up. Threatening to take something away from him or giving him other consequences never does the trick.

At home, distraction tends to work. Yesterday afternoon, when he refused to take his eyes off his iPad for the start of music therapy, I asked if he wanted to create a birthday song for Ben, and he perked up. But when we're out, it's harder to deal when he digs his heels in.

Open to suggestion here, people!

Why it's good not to help our children too much

Early yesterday morning, Max was swiping his finger on his iPad, maneuvering his way around the Neflix menu. We usually go through Apple TV but the remote was missing. (perhaps you've seen it?) and Max knew how to access it through his iPad. It was 6:30 a.m. and Ben had asked to watch Thomas the Tank, one of the most boring TV shows in the history of TV shows.

I thought I saw it scroll by on the screen.

"Wait, Max!" I said. And then I leaned over and swiped, only I messed up and took us to the wrong program.

"Nooooooo!" said Max.

Instantly, I realized I should have asked him if he needed my assistance. I likely would have reached over and done the same if it was Sabrina, but ever since I read something a couple of months ago about not over-helping people with disabilities I've been more aware of not doing that to Max. Titled "Hell-Bent on Helping," the chapter is in Creativity and Collaborative Learning, a book for education professionals. It was published in 1994, yet I felt as if it could have been written today:

One of the biggest challenges teachers face in inclusive classrooms is getting other kids to stop doing everything for the child with disability. Too much help, even when enthusiastically given, is fundamentally disempowering....  

Been there, done that to Max. I have no excuse except that as his parent, I am used to lending him a hand. Max required a lot of help when he was little and I got used to helping him—too used to it. And then, of course, Max got accustomed to Dave and me doing things for him. Many parents of children with disabilities are aware of the school ability phenomenon: when your children do things independently in class that they refuse to do at home, because they are used to being enabled by you. You know, like self-feeding or cleaning up after themselves.

Adults with disabilities are all too familiar with the issue. In her blog post How Did You Get Here?" Or, Why I Wish People Would Stop Questioning My Independence, writer/activist Emily Ladau notes that people regularly rush over to help her get in and out of her van in parking lots, "never once considering the very obvious fact that I clearly got there in my own vehicle and drove there on my own."

An online friend who uses a wheelchair, Lauren, told me a story from her adolescence that's stuck with her. "I made a friend when I was about 15 who while otherwise lovely, did something when she invited me over for dinner that made me cringe," she recalls. "When I asked her to cut up my food for me she said, 'Oh, sure, it'll be good practice for when I have kids!' The takeaway from that I would offer is to always remember that impairments do not make people into infants or children, so please don't refer to us that way. Referring to us like that disables us. Our impairments, whether CP or other, are irrelevant."

This is important for parents of children with disabilities to keep in mind, as automatic and tempting as it may be to help them. I could have waited till Max asked me if he needed a hand with his iPad yesterday morning, or at the very least first asked if he needed assistance before jumping in to do so. This is also key for non-disabled people to consider regarding adults with disabilities. As the authors of the above chapter note, "We must listen to both the verbal and nonverbal messages expressed by someone who may or may not want help. We must use this information to guide our actions and increase our sensitivity. It is often during times that we are hell-bent on helping that we listen least well. We all know stories about people with visual impairments being forcibly 'escorted' over crosswalks by well-meaning pedestrians, what the participants of one study aptly called 'unexpected attacks' of help."

In the afternoon, Max and I put out boxes for recycling. He struggled to hold onto one particularly cumbersome one then dropped it. "Awwwwww!" he said. I said and did nothing. He picked it up again, held onto it for dear life and got it to the curb. Then he grinned at me proudly, one more benefit of letting our children DIY even if they struggle. Our children will never learn independence if we constantly do everything for them—or learn just how capable they can be.

I'll leave you with the memorable words at the end of the chapter:

Every individual is a complex collection of components. Each of us has a variety of interests, skills, capacities and a unique background. We all have different physical physical characteristics, and our own idiosyncratic personalities. 

In our interactions with others, we want most to be understood and seen for who we are, and hope that we will not be judged a face value. However, for individuals who have visible disabilities, being judged at face value is precisely what happens most.

When disability is seen as the largest component of a person, much of what is unique and "human" about him or her will be obscured. When needs and deficits are what we see, we only see what that person cannot do. 

We will not recognize the diverse contributions of those who wear obscuring labels until we move our focus from the disability and look for the complexity and individuality we take for granted in ourselves. Only getting to know a person in all their multifaceted individuality can cause the "huge" disability to magically shrink and assume its real portion—only one facet of who a person is. 

The Disability Blogger Weekend Link-up: Show us what you've got!

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Like this: Will he be the driven one, or the driver?

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Click "Enter." Leave a comment if you want to say more. Go check out some great posts.

Will he be the driven one, or the driver?

Dave got a loaner pickup truck the other day while Toyota serviced our minivan, and Max was gleeful about taking a ride. He loves cars of all kinds, which sometimes has me wondering about whether he will be able to drive when he grows up.

I don't often ponder Max's adult life. There are the big questions about independent living and work that I know better to worry about, because I realize that he and his life will play out as they will, with Dave and me doing whatever is within our powers to help and Max making his own choices. But the driving is something that I frequently ponder, a skill that encapsulates a lot about Max's future.

Max goes back and forth on this. Sometimes, he says that no, he doesn't plan on driving. Some days he tells me that yes, he would like to. I've shown him videos of adults with cerebral palsy driving. Who knows what adaptations may emerge down the road. But even if it is physically feasible for him to drive, will it be within his cognitive realm?

Ah, that perilous habit of peering into the crystal ball of your child's future. Really, it does nobody any good. But I can't help it.

Of course, there is such a thing as Uber, or whatever variations of that will be around in years to come. Max will be eligible for free public transportation for people with disabilities. Also, self-driving cars might be a reality by the time he is in his twenties.

Plenty of people never learn to drive, like my mom. She's gotten along just fine in life, I tell myself. But then, my mom chose not to drive. Max may want to.

I grew up learning how to drive in New York City, and I'm pretty intrepid about it. I still enjoy the freedom it gives me, after all these years. I enjoy the possibilities that open up when you get behind the wheel (carpool excluded). I would like for Max to enjoy the same, but if he can't, there will be other experiences to take their place.

Rationally, I know all this.

But then, when we talk about Max driving, I wonder and wonder. There is no logic when it comes to pondering what the future holds for your child.

"Next car!" Max said, pointing to the pickup after we were back home. As in, next time we're in the market for a car, he'd like us to buy a pickup truck. (Along with a fire engine, ideally.)

I smiled at him.

"Would you like to drive a truck?" I asked.

Max pondered that.

"I don't know," he said.

Yes, that.

5 great games for children of all abilities that also teach skills

This guest post is from Annie Klark and Katie Mann, co-founders of 4th Wall Theatre Company, a mobile operation based in the Detroit metro area for people of all abilities. In the last five years the pair and their team have taught singing, dancing and acting through camp, library, church, school and arts center programs. "In actuality, it's more about making connections, learning life skills, and becoming good friends," says Katie, a certified teacher with a masters in special education (she's the cowgirl in the photo below; Annie's the flower). Their 19 instructors have a wide range of expertise, including theatre performance, occupational therapy and American Sign Language. Here, Katie and Annie share some of the most popular activities from their program to try at home.

All the time, we hear from naysayers: “My child wouldn’t be good at performing or dancing, his attention span is too short.” Even worse: “My child is nonverbal so they wouldn’t be able to act.” Be still our hearts! And forgive our bluntness, but these assumptions are wrong, wrong, and wrong: Theatre is for everyone.

Not only can everyone participate, we have seen the benefit of singing, dancing and acting for thousands of people with disabilities ages 2 to 72. Singing is actually a fun disguise for articulation. Dancing teaches self-expression and grows confidence. And acting? It is the royalty of social skills! What is a play, if not practicing the social convention of conversation: approach someone, stop at this distance, look them in the eye, say something, wait as they say something back. Repeat.

In our theatre classes we've had our students tell us, “On the first day of class I had no friends, now I have forty!” Our personal favorite: “Everyone looked at me because I was good, not because I was different.”

Whether your child is verbal or nonverbal, shy or a ham, we can assure you that theatre has enormous benefits for them. Not only that, it is downright fun. Here are some ideas for easy games that you can play with your child, or with a group, to add excitement to the learning process.

The Freeze

We’re sure almost everyone has heard of the freeze dance! But to make it inclusive for everyone, and a lot more fun, we’ve added our own style to it.

What you need: Some rockin’ jams.
What to do: When the music starts, dance; when it stops, freeze. Our twist comes when people are frozen—we say, “When the music starts, pretend you are a cowboy!” The sillier the suggestion, the better. “Pretend you’re a...."

● Giraffe
● Crocodile
● Hippopotamus with an upset stomach
● Cat who’s had the best cat day of their life
● Prince/princess
● Superhero
● Robot
● On a floor that's really hot, sticky, or squishy
● In a room full of full of noodles, clouds, or water
● Person who moves in slow motion
● Baby
● Caterpillar—then go in your cocoon, wait, wiggle, and emerge as a beautiful butterfly!

Once your actor has the idea, have them come up with their own.

Pass the Hat

This is a 4th Wall Theatre classic! It always brings giggles and surprising moments of bravery. Try it when your child has friends over. Or use it as a prompt to talk to one another in silly voices.

What you need: 4 to 6 six different hats (such as a baseball cap, winter knit, witch's hat, etc.)
What to do: Sitting in a circle, the leader begins by putting on a hat (say, baseball cap), makes a motion (say, swinging a bat) then says a line (“It’s a home run!”).  If the child wants to/can do both the verbal and nonverbal action, great.  If not, great again! Have them gesture at their comfort level. The hat is then passed around the circle and everyone gets to decide what their version of the character would say, and/or what the action would be. They may repeat what the leader said, or come up with a line/motion of their own.  Repeat with as many hats as you’d like.  If only two people are playing the game, it can turn into a skit where they speak to each other as their characters. What a great way to explore responding to emotions!

Mirror

In this came, kids copy the movements of a leader or a partner. It gives children the opportunity to explore their space and bodies, and learn about rhythm. They also practice following directions and taking turns. Plus...it’s fun!

What you need: Nothing—just two people! You can play with your child, or pair up children to play together.
What to do: The two partners should face each other. Assign one as the leader and one as the mirror. During a 30-second timeframe, the mirror must copy (or “mirror”) every movement the leader makes. If the leader raises their right hand, the mirror will raise their left. If the leader stands on their left foot, the mirror will stand on their right.  The movements can get as funny or silly as you’d like! When the 30-second time limit is up, switch roles!  Here are some ideas:

● Touch your nose
● Shake your head
● Wiggle your right arm
● Wiggle your right arm while touching your nose with the other
● Raise both hands up really high then see how small of a ball you can make your body

Rhythm Sticks

Surprisingly simple in nature, this activity has large benefits, including improving focus and attention span and learning to follow a pattern.

What you need: Two rhythm sticks or two wooden spoons. You could also use a percussion instrument, like cymbals or even pots and pans. You can even make the rhythms using only your hands or bodies. Be creative!
What to do: Sitting on the floor, have your child follow you, simultaneously repeating patterns and movements. As time goes on, the patterns can become lengthy and more complex. All students follow the leader and simultaneously repeat patterns and movements. Here are some favorite examples just with clapping.
● Hit the floor with both hands (call it "FLOOR"). Then clap your hands in front of you ("CLAP").
○ Now do  FLOOR, FLOOR, CLAP. FLOOR, FLOOR, CLAP. Repeat.
● Rub your hands back and forth to make that small swoosh sound (SWOOSH), count to four and then hold hands up in the air (AIR) for four.
○ Now do SWOOSH… 2… 3… 4… AIR… 2… 3… 4… SWOOSH… 2… 3… 4… AIR… 2… 3… 4… Repeat.
● Add a high clap!  One that’s over your head (HIGH- CLAP).  It’s harder to do but fun!
○ Try: FLOOR, FLOOR, CLAP, CLAP, HIGH-CLAP, HIGH-CLAP, CLAP, CLAP. Repeat.
● This pattern gets tricker and shorter as it goes:
○ FLOORx8, CLAPx8, FLOORx4, CLAPx4, FLOORx2, CLAPx2, FLOORx2, CLAPx2, FLOOR, CLAP, FLOOR, CLAP, FLOOR, CLAP, FLOOR, CLAP. HUH! (We like to yell on the last one.)

As time goes on, try doing the same patterns louder and louder or softer or softer.  Then try to go as slow as you can or as fast, while still keeping the beat.

Cake Walk

Inspired by musical cake walks at fairs and events, our activity allows a sense of freedom and a chance at exploration. Your child will also practice essential skills like listening, movement, reading, and exploring the space.

What you need: Pre-made notecards with various types of movements written on them. You can also draw characters that children can write out. You'll also need some fun tunes!
What to do: Play the music. Have your child(ren) walk or wheel around a circle of cards and when the music stops, the card that they land on is the one they have to act out.  Everyone participates in every turn, and there is an element of surprise as to which card the students will get. It’s fun to play with a group, and to see which cards everyone gets! Ideas for cards include:

● Meow like a cat
● Do 3 jumping jacks or 3 arms criss=crossed
● Walk like a dog
● Neigh like a horse

If you would like a quicker version of the game, put objects on the floor in the circle.  When you stop at one you have to say something a person might say with that object:

● Ladle (“Would you like some soup?”)
● Soccer ball (“Let’s play!”)
● Stuffed animal (“Do you want a hug?”)

For more inspiration for theatrical games, check out our ebooks at 4th Wall Backstage.