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One of the reasons why I am so grateful for Khalid’s autism is ABA- Applied Behavior Analysis.  In the context of teaching a child with autism, ABA can be broken down in to two core concepts:

1)      The teaching of tasks from simple to complex

2)      The reinforcement of correct behavior and extinction of incorrect (or maladaptive) behavior

This seems simple enough, but let’s talk about what happened yesterday at Jummah.

A three year old boy was entertaining himself during the Jummah khutba by loudly and aggressively kicking a box of drinking water. The noise (as well as the imminent danger of being hit by a fast-moving box of water bottles) was tremendously distracting to the ladies in masjid.   Because no one was asking the boy to stop, I am going to assume that either his mother was too embarrassed or frustrated to do anything about it, or that he was an orphan who drove himself to the masjid expressly to kick the box around.

I didn’t get to see whether anyone asked him to stop, because Khalid- being overwhelmed by khateeb’s voice over the loudspeaker- actually ran out of the masjid in a panic- barefoot onto the hot tiles, and I had to run after him with Musfira tucked under my arm like a football.  I got him to come back and come into the masjid as far as the foyer, since it was only 114 degrees outside, and we waited there together for the prayer to be over.  I held Musfira, Khalid held his ears closed.

The khutba ended, the jamaat was prayed, and as soon as the salah was finished- the door burst open and that same little boy emerged whining and yelling as his mother dragged him angrily through the doors.

She turned to him, as soon as the door was closed and slapped him across the face- five times, very hard. “Why do you make so much noise! What’s wrong with you!”

Khalid was horrified, he grabbed my arm and said “Momma, why is she hitting him? That’s bad! It’s not good to hit!”

And the little boy bawled and the mother continued to scold him as she searched for him shoes and tried to cram his feet into them.  The little boy’s wailing was echoing off the marble walls in the close, high-ceiling foyer and Khalid was becoming distressed.  The mother was obviously embarrassed and wanted the noise to stop, so she suddenly hugged and kissed the boy and said “There there- good boy- don’t cry- shhh shh…”

And what did the boy do?  He smacked her face.  Several times, and he was swatting at her with both hands, so she hugged him more- and other ladies came into the foyer and tried to soothe him- it’s ok, good boy- don’t cry- there there-

Khalid and I were less than three feet away from the situation the entire time, and I think he and I shared the same sort of confusion.  Wait- I thought he was in trouble for making noise? So she smacked him, but then she said he was a good boy, so he smacked her? But he’s still a good boy? But actually- he’s making even more noise now…

I feel very sorry for that mother- she was embarrassed, frustrated, guilty, and I’m pretty sure she was doing the best she knew how to.  I wished I could have sat down with her and shared what little I’ve picked up about ABA, because from a behavioral point of view, her intervention was a disaster.

First, the boy’s bad behavior is ignored, and since the mother said nothing, kicking the box must’ve been perfectly acceptable masjid behavior, right? All of a sudden, the boy is jerked out of the mosque and given quite a smacking.  So he’s in trouble, but does he know why? Then, his mother apologizes for disciplining him, and in return, he smacks her.  So she hugs him more, and other ladies tell him he’s a good boy for crying loudly and smacking his mother’s face.

How is this connected to the two main principles of ABA?  Point two: The reinforcement of correct behavior and extinction of incorrect (or maladaptive) behavior. Reinforcement is a reward- it’s a thumbs up or a nod or a gold star- it is a response that contributes to an increase of behavior.  It’s not always positive- if a child is bugging you for attention, and you turn and yell at them- then you attended to them in response to being bugged.  You reinforced their behavior.

If a child is screaming for a cookie, and you give them a cookie, then the cookie is reinforcing the cookie.  If a child screams and slaps you, and you give them a hug, then you are reinforcing being slapped and screamed at.

There are, in a nutshell, really only four reasons why people do things.  Seriously- I love this about ABA- only four major ones anyway- and they work for kids, adults, and children with autism as well.  They are:

Escape: I don’t wanna ______________, so I’m gonna _________________. 

Kid: I don’t want to do my homework, so I’m going to cry.

Adult: I don’t want to go to pay taxes, so I’m going to cheat on my forms.

Child with autism: I don’t want to do my flashcards, so I’m going to bang my head on the table.

Access to tangible: I want ________________, so I’m going to _______________ until I get it.

Kid: I want a new toy, so I’m going to whine until I get it.

Adult: I want a new car, so I’m going to steal one off the lot.

Child with autism: I want to go to the park, so I’m going to kick the door until you let me out.

Attention: You’re not looking at me, so I’m going to _______________________ until you do.

Kid: You’re not listening to me, so I’m going to talk incessantly until you do.

Adult: You’re not noticing me, so I’m going to dye my hair green, pierce both nostrils and wear a feather boa to work.

Child with autism: You’re not laughing with me, so if you laugh with someone else, I will cry until you stop laughing and come cheer me up instead.

(True story- Khalid used to sob and bang his head on the floor if we laughed.  So we stopped laughing and would soothe him until his Case Manager told us it was likely to be attention seeking behavior, and instead of not laughing, we should laugh harder.  It worked, Alhamdulillah.)

Automatic: I don’t care what’s going on, I just gotta ____________________.

Kid: It doesn’t matter whether or not anyone can see me, I just gotta pick my nose!

Adult: I don’t care whether you mind, my butt itches.

Child with autism: I don’t care whether or not anyone is watching, I just need to spin in circles.

The appropriate way to respond to behavior is based entirely on its function- or purpose.  Attention seeking behavior is ignored or stopped with as minimal reinforcement possible, and then the child is taught to seek attention in more appropriate ways, and you make sure that child receives all the attention for good behavior and none of the attention for inappropriate attention-seeking behavior.

Escape-motivated behavior is ignored or blocked, and the child is made to follow through with the task that they were initially trying to escape from, and then rewarded for completion and moved on to a more reinforcing task.  You can shorten the demand, but never give up on the demand.

Inappropriate access-oriented behavior is met with blocking access to the desired item, redirecting to calm the child if necessary, modeling of appropriate manding technique (if you want a cookie, say “May I have a cookie please?) and then reinforcement of appropriate manding.  (Good asking, here’s your cookie!)

Automatic behaviors are more complicated to address, and how you respond depends on whether or not the behavior is harmful, destructive, or disruptive- whether it fulfills a vital sensory need, or whether it may be a response to pain or some other internal stimulus.  It also depends on the frequency and intensity, and whether it can be reshaped, replaced, or even successfully eliminated.  This depends on the individual behavior as well as the individual child.

But yeah.  That’s ABA 101- and sometimes I wish all parents were taught ABA, because knowing it has made me a far, far better parent to Khalid (as well as Iman and Musfira) as well as a less frustrated person in general.  I would also like to think that it makes my childrens’ lives easier as well, because the lines are clearly drawn.  If it’s bad, you will know it’s bad- if it’s good, you’ll gets hugs and cookies and hearts and rainbows.  The rest of the world may be confusing and ambiguous and complicated, but Momma is simple.  She doesn’t ignore you for being bad, give you a slap ambush, apologize for punishing you, and then kiss you for smacking her back.

So yeah, I’m not a parenting genius, but I am grateful to Allah that people have sat down and put their big heads together to make a flowchart that any person can understand, and I am grateful to Allah for making me have to understand it.

Please make dua for all parents and all frustrated mothers everywhere.  May that lady’s son grow to be a righteous, well-mannered, loving man who is a comfort to his parents, and coolness to their eyes and a sadqa jaariya for them after their deaths.  Ameen.

The hunt continues to find Khalid a suitable English-speaking school that is autism-friendly, uses sound behavior reinforcement principles (rather than education through intimidation) and doesn’t cost an arm, a leg, two kidneys and your left earlobe.  I’ve been to three schools just today, dragging Khalid and Joy along for the ride and leaving a trail of bemused registrars in our wake.

“Does he know his colors?’

“Yes.”

“Can he recognize letters?”

“Khalid, what does this bag say?”

“Best Salted Cashews.”

People are generally confused by Khalid.  When we go into visually exciting new places, like schools, his attention is all over the place taking in the new surroundings, and the outsider’s first assumption is that the lights are on but no one’s home.  He has to read every written word on every wall and visually digest every shape lovingly cut and unsteadily decorated in glitter glue.   The various registrars and social workers who try to probe him ask him questions without first getting his attention, and as the seconds tick by in silence, I can see exasperation come over their faces as they assume I am exaggerating Khalid’s cognitive abilities just to get him into school.

“So Khalid, how are you?”

-tick-

-tock-

-tick-

“Big, big giant school.”

(The social worker looks amused)

“Stairs going up.”

(The school has an impressive staircase leading from the reception to the second floor.)

“Do you have any friends?”

(I want to kick her for asking this)

-tick-

-tock-

-tick-

“Boys.”

(Now she looks confused.)

I earnestly explain that he’s telling her about his friends- that they’re boys.

“And girls.” Khalid adds after another second.  “And kids.”

“Khalid,” I say nervously, “Can you tell me about your friend Omar?”

“He’s not here.”

“Omar transferred from the school,” I explain again.  “None of the children in his current school speak English, so he hasn’t made any new friends yet.”

“Khalid,” the social worker continues, “What shape is this?”

Khalid looks down at the iPad that she’s pointing to. He’s been using it to play Cut the Rope, and also, to search for walk-throughs on YouTube when he’s stuck on a certain level.

-tick-

-tock-

-tick-

“Rectangle.”

“Very good!” the social worker says, genuinely surprised. “And this?”

Khalid looks to the coffee table.

“It’s a circle.  Like the sun.” He uses his finger to squiggle, in the air, what he means to be the rays of the sun. The he goes back to his own world, reading the walls.  Do not enter.  Push.  Pull.  In case of fire.  I remember- once we were driving back home from Ajman, and the sun was setting in an electric orange ball to the west of Emirates Road.

“Look Khalid, Iman- the sun is going down! SubhanAllah, it’s so big and round!”

Iman says: “Ooooh!”  Khalid says: “Sun is a planet?”

-blinkblink-

Owlie and I took the kids to the children’s museum once, where watched a half an hour presentation on the solar system- once.   This was before Musfira was born, and she’s almost four months old now.

“Actually, the sun is a star.”

“Not a planet?”

“No, because planets don’t give off light. The sun is a star, I think.”

Khalid disagrees.

“Not a star, planet.”

In Khalid’s big-city world view, stars are shapes with five points that exist primarily to be colored yellow.  Dubai has way too much light pollution to see anything other than the moon and the air traffic.  I can see his point of view.  So I offer a compromise.

“Ok Khalid, maybe it’s a little bit like both.”

The social worker says she’ll get back to us.

We pack up and drive off to the next school.  The principal, who I met last Thursday to appeal for Khalid’s admission, is out sick.

“I’ll leave a message please,” I say to the front-desk secretary.  As I’m scribbling what I hope is a friendly, optimistic, and not too desperate-sounding request for a call back, Khalid is taking in the student-made exhibits on traffic safety week.  I borrow the receptionist’s stapler and use it to make sure my business card makes it along with the message.  Khalid’s last school admitted him on the strength of my position in exchange for training their KG department, and I’m willing to make whatever sort of bargains I have to and pull whatever strings I can reach to get him into a school.  I’ve spent hours camped outside of school offices waiting to hound, guilt, impress, and emotionally blackmail whoever I need to in order to get Khalid a fair chance.  I think I’m getting used to it now.  I think I need to order more business cards.

“Khalid, it’s time to go now.”

“I need to fix.”

He’s trying to put the hat back onto the lego victim of a car crash who’s laying on lego street waiting for the lego ambulance to come to his aid.

“It’s alright, I think that’s how they meant the exhibit to look.”

“I like legos.”

Iman goes to school every day and Khalid gets left behind, asking me when we’re going to pick her back up.  Iman’s teacher is delighted that she’s the youngest child in the class and the only one who can already write her own name.  Khalid’s teacher, on the other hand, was openly angry about having to deal with “these kinds of children” when she already has twenty six other children in class she’s supposed to be teaching instead.  The atmosphere on the first day of teacher training for that school was bordering on mutinous, and what was intended to be a workshop on using reinforcement within the framework of ABA quickly deteriorated into an angry argument between the pro-inclusion principal and Khalid’s anti-inclusion (and openly anti-Khalid) teacher.  She walked out of the workshop, returned to argue with the principal in Arabic, and then walked out again.

To her credit, she did come on the second day and exhibited much less eye-rolling.  Today was the third day, and she looked almost civil.  Of course, she has no reason to be mad anymore, because Khalid is no longer attending her class.

He’s been home from school for three days now.  He owns uniforms from two different schools, and when Iman came home in her PE uniform yesterday, Khalid walked silently to his bedroom and came back dressed in his.   He’s honest to a fault, and so sensitive to the world around him but so limited in expressing how much it affects him.  I look at him, with his enormous beautiful eyes and his profoundly hidden profound intelligence, and my heart aches.

“You like legos my Jaan?”

“Yeah. I like it.”

He smiles at me.

“Then I think it’s time to buy you some.”