GLASS CAGE

As told to Gittel Chany Rosengarten

Courtesy of Family First Magazine

     If Mrs. Mamsbach hadn’t been there, or maybe if I hadn’t been paying $450 for the consultation (that’s like $7.50 per minute), I would have indulged in a delicious, warm burst of tears. I sat on her pastel rug with my three children, playing pretend grocery store, so that she could observe our interaction and tell me how proceed with my eldest.

     Eventually, she sent the children out of the room. “There’s nothing wrong with this child,” she said, taking her glasses off so she could better stare at me. “If you’d only relate to Nachy as you do your other children, he would be like your other children. It’s your parenting that’s the problem, not the child.” Her slap took the words right out of my mouth. I signed a check with a quivering pen, collected the kids, and navigated through the blur to the exit.

     Nachy stopped to observe the fish tank in the waiting room, and refused to budge. Still reeling from the pronouncement of my doomed parenthood, I coaxed him softly, praying that talking wouldn’t release the tears waiting to be shed. We stayed there until the other kids lost it and I told Nachy I’m going, whether he joined us or not.

     Nachy. From the time he figured out that his limbs would obey his commands, he became an imperious dictator. He dived headfast from the crib, bumping himself black and blue. He never learned to check if his diving turf was safe. I fastened a net dome over his crib, which he clawed at endlessly. I baby proofed the house but couldn’t Nachy- proof it. He was another species.

     I spoke to him, hugged him, and tried connecting. I looked into his eyes. But his dark eyes were roving searchlights, and when I did catch his gaze and hold it, there seemed to be a thick wall between us. He was isolated from the world, from my words, from my love.

     When the other children arrived, I realized that Nachy wasn’t quite normal – the contrast was too great. Our second child, Mendy, was a happy, lively child, who whooped with delight when the Lego tower fell apart. He crawled over to me and pulled at my skirt. He giggled when I kissed him, cried when he fell, and calmed down when held. He looked at me intently and communicated. He was so normal.

     Often, after a day with the kids, I’d put my feet up and sigh. I’d beg, beg Hashem to please help me raise His child, my Nachy. I’d also unload to my husband. But Yossi wasn’t concerned. “A difficult child. He needs a stronger hand.”

     So I tried harder, felt worse, and nothing changed. Eventually, I persuaded Yossi that we should take Nachy for an evaluation. Perhaps his behavior was symptomatic of something bigger. Perhaps if we knew the why of his behavior, we’d also be able to figure out how to deal with him.

     No, said Mrs. Mansbach. There was nothing wrong with my child. There was everything wrong with me. If I wanted to see a transformation in my child, I had to change myself.

     Hashem, I’d cried, haven’t I changed enough already? Haven’t I become more patient than I ever dreamed? Haven’t I given and given and given, even when my reserves were long depleted?

     When I dried my tears, I was filled with new determination. If I had to become a model mom, I would. I enrolled in parenting classes. I took copious notes, reviewed them, and called the lecturer with questions. I learned and implemented proper communication, reward and consequences, when to let go, how much to demand, and how to stay on top of the situation. But my family remained in their rigid roles. Nachy was the untamed animal he’d always been, Mendy and Srully beloved angels.

     I wobbled between blaming myself and blaming him. In school, Nachy was brilliant, the best student in his class. Not only did he get the highest mark on a test, he completed the extra credit questions, in record time. And yet, something was off. Or was it just my own imperfect imprint on an otherwise unblemished child?

     Be patient, I told myself when he ripped out Mendy’s hair and I removed him, without a word, to cool off in his room. Be loving, I willed myself when he yelled ferociously and broke through the Sheetrock of his bedroom wall with his kick. Be fair, I bit my lips when each of my children picked a treat and he vacillated for so long, I felt he shouldn’t get anything.

And yet to my parents, he was a delight. “He’s like an adult in seven-year-old body”, my father marveled, listening to Nachy lecture about volcanoes. It was his latest obsession.

     At first, I needed in the praise--finally, someone had something good to say about my tearaway son. Then I realized that Nachy sounded like an adult because he had no thoughts of his own: Everything he said was replay of something I’d said in conversation to Yossi or a friend. Nachy wasn’t mature--he was an accurate recording device. If I played dollhouse with the kids and took the doll family on a trip, I knew he’d go on trips- to the same zoo- until I showed him another way to play. Imagination absent, he could play and memorize facts and know and act mature, but there was nothing of his own.

     Although Nachy was adored, things were falling apart. There was the jealousy. He envied his siblings their toys, their sitting near me, their new nightlight they got. “You love them more than me” he said. It wasn’t true: I gave Nachy more of myself than was possible. But it was true: Nachy’s place in my heart was surrounded by thick scars. His accusation stung. It was as if Nachy sat alone inside a glass cage, looking out. The people outside played, laughed, lived. He reminded alone.

       One day, Yossy came home early. I was depleted after a day of dealing with the kids, Nachy prominent among them. Today, he’d twisted Mendy’s arm because he’d dared change Nachy’s puzzle cube. He decided that the foyer was a raceway for his bike. He read out loud (and I do mean loud) and grated on everyone’s nerves. He didn’t eat dinner because the chicken touched the ketchup on the plate. By the time Nachy hopped out of bed for the fourth time, I was done. I yelled. Yossi walked in.

     Is this how you talk to him?” Yossi was repelled. “No wonder he’s so overwrought.”

     I cried bitterly at the unfairness of it all. How many times had I bit my tongue today? How many times had I given a loving reply when I wanted to flee, run away from home, leave Nachy behind? And the one time I let slip, I was censured.

     But, the one time Yossi took Nachy out to the grocery store opened his eyes to what I contended with. Yossi returned, and imitated Nachy’s young, boyish voice. “Grocery man, tomatoes don’t belong next to red peppers because both are red.”

     I motioned to Yossi to be quiet--Nachy stood behind him in the doorway. Yossi was beyond caring. He raised his voice and in a whiny pitch I knew all too well, mimicked, “I want candy. No, not this one. I want sour fizz. I WANT SOUR FIZZ!

     I watched Nachy’s face, strangely unaffected by his father’s insults. I snapped.

“Stop ruining him!” I yelled.

     “You can’t ruin damaged goods!”

     “Can we talk about this later?”

     But yossi was too distraught to heed me. “And Mr. Baum asked me what chinuch this son of mine is getting. I’ve had enough.”

     We decided to take him for further evaluation. The result was conclusive: Asperger’s syndrome. On receiving the diagnosis, we called a medical referral agency.

     “Anyone can slap a label on a child. I don’t want you to use that name, I want symptoms,” the secretary said.

     That women gave me oxygen. I felt that she was someone who cared for my child.

     We were advised to try DIR/Floortime, a form of play therapy that helps develop normal, emotional interactions. Often, I role-played situations with Nachy, and we worked through issues he faced. The session was videotaped, enabling the therapist to play it back for me and zoom in on Nachy’s eyes and facial changes, showing me where he displayed emotion, reaction, and connection. As I learned Nachy’s emotional range, our relationship developed.

       It was hard going, But slowly, slowly, I started seeing changes. At least now we were heading somewhere. The new direction freed me up to take stock of my family; in particular, my relationship with my husband. Nachy’s difficulties were quantified, defined, and his difficulties were not my fault. I became more emotionally available for my husband, able to sympathize when Yossi took Nachy to shul, only to have him stare into a stranger’s face or remain stuck at a construction site for 40 minutes. I understood how he felt.

     We spoke candidly about the frustration each of us felt when the other resorted to impulsive responses. We resolved to offer each other support, instead of condemnation.

     I was more at peace than I’d been since Nachy’s first birthday. But like every magic feeling that comes fleetingly, recapturing it was challenging. I’d wake up to a chair bang and a shriek. Another day with Nachy would begin.

     During my next pregnancy, Yossi offered to take over traveling to therapy appointments. By now, he saw what change it had wrought in Nachy, and he was eager to help. With Yossi doing the DIR sessions, he became more in tune with Nachy, as well as with my needs. Our partnership knotted tighter.

     It was then that I had time and energy for creating new pathways to Nachy’s heart. I focused on acceptance. In five minutes, it will be 4:30 and Nachy will walk through the door, I told myself. You know that the tranquility will be shattered. Take a deep breath, Prepare.

     The door flew open. Nachy trampled on a book and knocked into the wall with an angry yelp, “You didn’t prepare my snack with a napkin folded in half over it. You only did it for Mendy.” And Mendy received the brunt of Nachy’s anger. A quite house turned into a subway station.

     I accept. I told myself. I accept my Nachy. I love him. I know he needs things exactly how it was programmed into his mind. I know that he can’t release his frustration effectively. I accept him this way.

     That Shabbos, as if cued by my internal work, Nachy took a giant step forward. “You know why I’m wearing the cotton tzitzis instead of my Shabbos wool? He asked. “I saw the woolen tzitzis hanging in the laundry room. You didn’t have time to iron it. So I put on my cotton one instead.”

     “You’re being flexible.”

     It was a moment, a precious moment. The glass cage lifted. I reached in and folded Nachy’s small frame into my arms.

Nachy’s mother has established a support group and can be contacted through Mishpacha Magazine.