Finding an Obsession We Both Like
By Cathy Bowen
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
By Cathy Bowen
Editor's note: The opinions expressed herein are those of the author exclusively.
“Well, Billy bought a Chevy 40 coupe deluxe, chrome wheels, stick shift, give her gas, pop the clutch” The words of Bruce Springsteen's song, “The Seaside Bar Song,” vibrate through our car as I sit in the school parking lot, waiting to take Ethan, my 5-year-old autistic son, to the front door of his kindergarten class. My
sunglasses protect me from the glare, as well as the curious looks of parents hurrying their kids to class, as they pass our car and its blaring music.
“It's time to line up,” I tell him, as we exit the car. Ethan plays air drums along to the song, a smile spread across his face. The Bruce Springsteen songs with loud guitars and drums are Ethan's latest obsession. Trying to manage the behaviors that surround those obsessions, as well as nurture the positive aspects of them, has become a full-time job for me and my husband, Terry. Along the way, we've learned to extract as much positive family time as possible from these experiences.
It was hard for me to find much of anything positive about Ethan's first love, garbage trucks. Ethan became obsessed with them soon after he was diagnosed with autism when he was three years old. Every Friday morning he would sit by the front window, waiting for the garbage truck to pick up our trash. As soon as the truck squealed away, Ethan would jump off the couch to re-enact dumping the garbage. He would run around the living room, and then squeal to a stop in front of buckets he lined up to resemble trash cans on the curb. Then he would pick up the can and dump it over his head, making a screeching sound that sounded a lot like cans and other trash hitting the bottom of the trash truck.
Soon, Ethan's obsession with trash trucks and cans permeated all aspects of our life. He wanted to play “trash truck” constantly at home, and would cry when we tried to get him to do something else. I would take him to the zoo, and he spent more time peering into trash cans and putting trash in them, than he would looking at the animals. One time I took him swimming, and had to leave with Ethan kicking and screaming in my arms because he wanted to stand next to a dumpster in the pool's parking lot rather than swim.
It was a relief when the “trash truck” obsession faded and the “roller coaster” obsession took hold. It started when we took Ethan (at the advice of his occupational therapist) to an amusement park because she considered riding the kiddy rides a therapeutic activity. She was right - the rides did seem to calm him. I still remember the look of joy on his face when he got off the kid-size roller coaster.
We were hooked. We went to the amusement park almost every weekend until it closed for the summer season. The thrill of the rides, and the fun we had watching Ethan on them made up for the frustration we felt watching him perseverate over roller coasters at home. There, Ethan ran furiously around the house, holding a plastic letter that represented a roller coaster car. He would swoop his arms and make screeching sounds that sounded curiously like trash trucks dumping garbage.
It was on those drives to and from the amusement park that Ethan got into “loud music.” Terry realized Ethan liked music with booming drums and guitars, and soon started scanning the radio stations for the loudest songs. We rifled through our music collection, in search of loud music. The best we came up with was Bruce Springsteen's “Born in the USA” album. Ethan loved it, and requested that we play the album “with the red and white stripes on the cover” every time we got in the car. To add variety, Terry burned a CD with Springsteen's most rocking tunes from his “Bruce Springsteen tracks” collection.
My drives to and from school and Ethan's therapy appointments were filled with Bruce Springsteen, whether I liked it or not. I never used to be a big Springsteen fan, but being forced to listen to his songs over and over again made me pay attention to the lyrics. I began to appreciate Springsteen's songwriting prowess, and actually began to enjoy constantly listening to “Darlington County,” “Downbound Train,” and “The Seaside Bar Song.” The stories that Springsteen sings of guys out on the town, losing a loved one or heading to jail helped me turn off the endless loop of worry over Ethan's autism - the therapy bills, his academic performance, and his ability to make friends and make his way in the world.
Now when Ethan, his little brother James, and I sit in the car and eat our lunch before I drop him off at the autism therapy center he attends, I gladly slip “Born in the USA” into the CD player. Ethan drums out the beats with his hand, and says Springsteen's songs “are perfect.” Watching him happily transfixed by the music while I get my mind off what next hurdle autism will throw our way - I can't find a much better “perfect” family moment than that.
“It's time to line up,” I tell him, as we exit the car. Ethan plays air drums along to the song, a smile spread across his face. The Bruce Springsteen songs with loud guitars and drums are Ethan's latest obsession. Trying to manage the behaviors that surround those obsessions, as well as nurture the positive aspects of them, has become a full-time job for me and my husband, Terry. Along the way, we've learned to extract as much positive family time as possible from these experiences.
It was hard for me to find much of anything positive about Ethan's first love, garbage trucks. Ethan became obsessed with them soon after he was diagnosed with autism when he was three years old. Every Friday morning he would sit by the front window, waiting for the garbage truck to pick up our trash. As soon as the truck squealed away, Ethan would jump off the couch to re-enact dumping the garbage. He would run around the living room, and then squeal to a stop in front of buckets he lined up to resemble trash cans on the curb. Then he would pick up the can and dump it over his head, making a screeching sound that sounded a lot like cans and other trash hitting the bottom of the trash truck.
Soon, Ethan's obsession with trash trucks and cans permeated all aspects of our life. He wanted to play “trash truck” constantly at home, and would cry when we tried to get him to do something else. I would take him to the zoo, and he spent more time peering into trash cans and putting trash in them, than he would looking at the animals. One time I took him swimming, and had to leave with Ethan kicking and screaming in my arms because he wanted to stand next to a dumpster in the pool's parking lot rather than swim.
It was a relief when the “trash truck” obsession faded and the “roller coaster” obsession took hold. It started when we took Ethan (at the advice of his occupational therapist) to an amusement park because she considered riding the kiddy rides a therapeutic activity. She was right - the rides did seem to calm him. I still remember the look of joy on his face when he got off the kid-size roller coaster.
We were hooked. We went to the amusement park almost every weekend until it closed for the summer season. The thrill of the rides, and the fun we had watching Ethan on them made up for the frustration we felt watching him perseverate over roller coasters at home. There, Ethan ran furiously around the house, holding a plastic letter that represented a roller coaster car. He would swoop his arms and make screeching sounds that sounded curiously like trash trucks dumping garbage.
It was on those drives to and from the amusement park that Ethan got into “loud music.” Terry realized Ethan liked music with booming drums and guitars, and soon started scanning the radio stations for the loudest songs. We rifled through our music collection, in search of loud music. The best we came up with was Bruce Springsteen's “Born in the USA” album. Ethan loved it, and requested that we play the album “with the red and white stripes on the cover” every time we got in the car. To add variety, Terry burned a CD with Springsteen's most rocking tunes from his “Bruce Springsteen tracks” collection.
My drives to and from school and Ethan's therapy appointments were filled with Bruce Springsteen, whether I liked it or not. I never used to be a big Springsteen fan, but being forced to listen to his songs over and over again made me pay attention to the lyrics. I began to appreciate Springsteen's songwriting prowess, and actually began to enjoy constantly listening to “Darlington County,” “Downbound Train,” and “The Seaside Bar Song.” The stories that Springsteen sings of guys out on the town, losing a loved one or heading to jail helped me turn off the endless loop of worry over Ethan's autism - the therapy bills, his academic performance, and his ability to make friends and make his way in the world.
Now when Ethan, his little brother James, and I sit in the car and eat our lunch before I drop him off at the autism therapy center he attends, I gladly slip “Born in the USA” into the CD player. Ethan drums out the beats with his hand, and says Springsteen's songs “are perfect.” Watching him happily transfixed by the music while I get my mind off what next hurdle autism will throw our way - I can't find a much better “perfect” family moment than that.
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