Sorry, I Can't Help It!

I pull into the pick-up lane at the school, scanning the running children for my two sons. I see my youngest, Z, playing tag with some other kids in his class, laughing and yelling the children’s names as he runs away from the child who is deemed “it.” My oldest son, L, who is on the Autism Spectrum , is sitting alone eating his snack, staring off into the distance, as if the children running and laughing aren’t within mere feet of him.

He never turns to look at them or watch their game. He sits and stares. This veteran-special-needs-mama knows what this behavior means … He didn’t have a good day. Something must have happened out of the ordinary. Did he have a substitute teacher, an assembly? The smallest detail in his routine shifting or changing can upturn his world.

I open the window of the passenger side door and yell their names. Z gathers his things and comes running to the car, already recounting important events of his day: “Mom did you know we had extra PE today and I got to play flag football and I didn’t even know how to do it but now I do and it’s awesome!”

Cutting off his story, I yell for my oldest son again, who is still sitting on the sidewalk, staring into space. An impatient parent in the car behind me honks; Z hasn’t taken a breath to stop talking: “My flags were yellow but Jacob’s flags were red. We were on the same team though. I don’t know why we had different colors. Mom—guess what color the other team had?”

I walk over to where L is sitting and kneel down in front of him. His face lights up with a smile and he says surprised, “MOM! You’re here!” as if this is something out of the ordinary. Yet, it is our normal routine.

The children are strapped into their seatbelts and we make our way to gymnastics class. In between Z’s running monologue, I can hear L quietly talking to himself in the backseat. He does this pretty often on “bad” days, mumbling to himself while staring out the window.

Z, who is next to him, yells out of total frustration: "Stop talking like you are in a movie."

L, as if on cue replies, "Sorry, I can't help it."

How often does he have to say that in the course of his day? Apologizing for his mannerisms and for who he is. My heart sinks at the thought of him having to apologize or be made fun of for things that he does that help to ground him and calm him.

It's called Echolalia. Many kids on the Autism Spectrum do it, repeating words or phrases. When L was a year-and-a-half, he didn't talk that much compared to his peers, and as the months progressed and the other kids in our playgroup started to have small dialogue with their parents, L remained at the same level of speech.

I voiced my concern to family and close friends. Many people told me stories of how so-and-so was a late talker, consoling me that some kids just talk later than others. I felt like they were humoring me, patting me on the back and insisting I worry too much.

But the difference was that L could talk; he would recite entire television shows word-for-word after watching them only once.

At the time I was living in Seattle, and once when my mom was visiting us, she was astonished to hear the large vocabulary coming out of L's mouth. Because she wasn't familiar with the exact television show he was obsessed with at the time, she had no idea that he was reciting lines and not actually speaking his thoughts.

Sometimes those memorized lines happen to fit in perfectly in everyday dialogue, other times like "to infinity and beyond" ... not so much.

Once L started weekly speech therapy, we noticed he used his memorized script less and less. He started to form his own thoughts and he finally had his own words.

He's come a long way, but the echolalia is like a security blanket. Some days he needs to do it more than other days. Some days Z plays along and delivers the next line. It's always on my radar when he does it; I make a mental note of the environment, trying to classify what sparked him to fall into it. When I ask him why he does it he typically says, "I can't help it." I imagine it’s like biting your nails, or tapping your fingers on a table during a meeting—It is a physical form of comfort when your world feels a bit off. So why can't society accept that? 

Gretchen Schock is a mom, a writer and a yoga instructor. Check out her creative writings and crafty goodness on her blog, www.CocktailMom.com. Or come to a yoga class and be inspired!