Between Shell And School - Part 1

I remember my very first Cedars program. It was held in a playroom with a large mirror I later discovered was a one-way window in the parents' observation room. Our playroom had a red, brown, and orange circular rug and a lot of toys. Shelly, who I already knew, would get on the floor to interact with me for 45 minutes of play therapy. She held up a toy, for example, and said, What's this? Or she asked me to say my name, my dad's name, or her name. I now watch my son's therapists use this same technique and have learned to do it with him myself. Shelly always offered an incentive for whatever task she wanted me to do, a piece of candy, a puzzle, the chance to play with a favorite toy, or maybe just quiet time reading a book with someone. My mom used this same technique at home, but what felt scary and like a chore with her was fun at school. Even though I spent most of my mornings with someone I remember my very first Cedars program. It was held in a playroom with a large mirror I later discovered was a one-way window in the parents' observation room.

Once our individual therapy sessions were over, the teachers read to us and taught us basic things such as colors and shapes, all wrapped around therapeutic tasks. After naptime, we played. I would ride around on a shiny tricycle or climb and run around in their huge blue structure. Then lunch, a visit to the park with one of my therapeutic companions, and then home. This was my academic experience from preschool through kindergarten, the only difference between the two programs was the classrooms. The therapy pretty much stayed the same. The kids pretty much stayed the same. We only had about seven or eight kids in my Cedars' classes, Neil, Beth, David, a bunch of others but we always had a party every time someone's birthday came around. We learned a little more academically each year, but I was still way behind where my son is now at age four. The therapists were not trying to prepare us to enter mainstream society. They were merely trying to get us to stop biting and hitting, withdrawing into our individual private worlds, and avoiding eye contact. I, at least, was never expected to graduate from elementary school, much less high school. These things were not even a remote possibility for me as far as my teachers and therapists were concerned.

I was in good company. As the years went by, I was not the only one who continued biting and hitting now and then. Our teachers always stopped us, but I doubt any of us understood why we acted that way or why we should stop. I know I did not understand how to connect the dots between what I wanted and the best way to get it. I did not even know those dots existed. My behavior was pure impulse with only one goal, affectionate attention. If I could not figure out how to get affection, I certainly knew how to get attention.

I remember one such incident with my Uncle Cary, Mom's youngest brother and a UCLA student at the time. Because Mom and Dad had to leave for work, he came over to the house every morning, made me waffles, and drove me to school. He let me sit up front in the passenger seat, and I really liked that.

On this particular day, we had gotten off the freeway and were stopped at a traffic light. Just as the car started moving again, I threw open my passenger side door. I have no idea know why I did it, but I am pretty sure I had a smile on my face. Cary had to reach across me to slam it shut. Then he yelled.

I suppose a normal kid would have felt terrible for doing something bad or frightened by his uncle's anger. Actually, a normal kid probably would not have opened the door in the first place. But all I felt was sad. I always felt sad when I upset people, it was the only emotional association I could make at that point. I did not play with the door again, but not because I realized I had done something wrong or dangerous. I simply did not want to feel sad again about upsetting my uncle. Cause and effect, action and consequence were not part of my operating system.

Neither was making friends. Friends had never really been a priority for me, partly because my parents and I lived in a 317 unit New York style luxury apartment complex with a doorman, a gym, and a pool. This was before the state barred No Children discrimination, so kids were not allowed to live there, but as the complex's architect, my mom got a variance for me. However, that meant I had no other kids in the building to play with, and I was not encouraged to make friends with any of the kids I saw at the park. That was fine with my mother, she never had any of her own friends over if she had any, which I doubt she did outside of work associates. She did not believe in wasting time with friendships. None of Dad's friends ever came over either. We lived a rather cloistered existence in our upscale, adults only Santa Monica condominium. My teachers and therapists may not have expected much for or from me, but my mom expected me to fit in, be a little man, and conform to behavior suitable for our living conditions and her professional status. She loved me deeply and intensely, and she was not about to accept the notion that I could not behave properly if I wanted to.

I got to be very close friends with Neil and David and loved going for after school play dates. Neil lived in Los Angeles and David in Culver City, so going home with them exposed me to far much more diversity than I could ever get at Cedars or at home. With my mother's attitude about friendships, I felt very special whenever Neil or David was allowed to come play at my house.

Those play times were always after school, never on a weekend. My parents and I had a special, private set of Saturday and Sunday rituals. Dad and I got up every Saturday morning, made chocolate pudding, I licked the bowl, then ate it together while watching Bugs Bunny. Dad never asked me to complete any tasks or act like a little man. It felt wonderful to just be a kid with him and not have to live up to my mom's expectations for a few hours.

Of course, as soon as Mom came home from having her nails or hair done, she yelled at us about the mess we had made. Every week. Mom was very strict, everything had to be clean, everything had to be in its place, everything had to be structured. She always calmed down once the kitchen was cleaned up, after which the three of us went out to brunch before we did the week's grocery shopping.