Last week James needed his hair cut. A simple enough task you might think, but in James’ case it is one of very many tasks that require a routine to be known, and more importantly rigorously followed, in every aspect. You see, James is autistic, has learning difficulties, epilepsy and anxiety disorder.
Firstly, there is the location: he sits on the wooden bench in our hallway at home. Then there is the identity of the ‘barber:’ me, ably assisted by Clare (his mum) who keeps all of the clippings out of his face. Then there is the ‘distraction:’ James’ iPad, fully loaded with films, his favorite YouTube clips (currently roller-coaster rides) etc. Finally, there is the clipping process itself—Grade 4, by the way, for any aficionado’s—which involves starting at the back, then the front, and finally the most difficult and suspense filled part of all—around the ears.
James has his hair cut like this about four or five times a year. As long as we keep to this routine, all is fine. Any change would be enormously difficult for him, and therefore for us. I have visions of him going in to school with Grade 4 at the back and front but long at the sides over his ears!
The reason I share James’ haircut story with you is to illustrate that routine and familiarity are fundamentally core to the coping mechanisms of many children and young people with additional needs, particularly—but not restricted to—Autism, ADHD and other similar conditions. So often, this is misunderstood by adults, or just plain missed, with awful consequences for the child/young person.
I heard a story this week of a young person with ADHD who, in order to cope with change, needed to stand in the doorway of a room he was entering or leaving and tap several times on the door frame. He did this wherever he went, including at school, but often 30 pupils trying to leave the classroom for their break together were not interested in waiting for him to complete his routine, and would push him through the doorway. As a result, he lashed out in desperation. This was interpreted as violent behavior, and he was excluded from his school and sent to a Pupil Referral Unit for young people with violent behavior issues.
Now imagine if the school staff had been better trained. If they had had a system where that young person could leave 30 seconds before everyone else, or leave after everyone else—whatever worked best for him—so that he could complete his routine. If they had understood why he needed to do that, if they had understood other ways in which he coped with change, with a busy school full of pupils and noise, with the overwhelming of his senses on a daily basis, perhaps there could have been a better outcome for him and for the school, and a better strategy than sending him to a Pupil Referral Unit.
The opportunities to make good or bad choices regarding children and young people with additional needs or disability exist in our church-based work as well. I remember a youth leader being put through to my phone one day whose opening line was, “I’ve got this boy in my group, he’s got ADHD and he’s a nightmare. What can I do to exclude him?”
