Image credit: Photo by weesen on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

Yesterday, I took my kids out to the park and watched my son, long and lanky, swing his way to the top of a climbing structure formed from a maze of ropes. Like many autistic individuals, mastering motor skills can be a challenge for him. He was late to walk and it took months of assistance before he could learn to use a playground ladder. Now he jumps and hangs and grasps in a way that's astonishing to me and is the result of hours of single-minded and obsessive climbing. His hands are roughly calloused, as if through a lifetime of heavy labor, from spending the entirety of his recess time each day hanging and swinging, monkey-like, from various ropes and bars.

My daughter Janie, like any younger sibling, has been tagging along after him almost since she was born. The walking that had taken him so long to learn, she mastered confidently without ever stopping to crawl and she was behind him on those playground ladders, making her way up the rungs without having to be guided hand and foot, time after time, like her brother. So, when she saw him reach the top of the structure, even though he was older and his ascent was born of years of practice, she was determined to do the same.

He had tromped off, sweaty and tired, to the car with my husband as she wavered, unsure of the of the best path up through the maze of ropes to the top. She would climb up for a bit, then find a point where she was stuck, too small to reach the next handhold. She'd try going straight up again, only to find herself again in the position of having to back down. Finally, she called out, "Mama, can you help? I can't figure out how to get up."

I stepped closer and could see a path, something like a spiral staircase, by which I thought she could make it, slowly and indirectly revolving around to the top. So, instead of straight up, I told her to go sideways a bit. She did. The next big step up she'd have to take was straight in front of her, and I pointed to it. She made a grasp and missed. I could see (too late) that she'd have to go sideways again a step to get closer, but instead, focused on the goal I'd pointed out, she leaned further forward, lost her balance, did a spectacular flip around a rope, scraping her arm as she went before deftly catching herself.

I felt terrible. In trying to help and figuring things out for Janie, I hadn't made her journey easier; I'd made it more precarious. I'd jumped further ahead of her than she was ready to go. I'd forgotten that although she learned to walk or climb a ladder more quickly than her brother, they both had to learn to put one foot in front of the other or one hand over the next. I'd gotten caught up in the goal, rather than trying to be with her where she was in the process.

And it struck me that this was so much like my tendency to help other people in other areas, the helping that's tied to my codependency. I focus on the goal: newcomers want to sweep past the anger and hurt and I want to help sweep them there. Sometimes I can see a path, one that looks promising or like one I followed. And rather than letting them be where they are and climb as far as they are ready, I point them on a little too far ahead, in a direction that's actually not the right one for them at all. If Austen got to the top of the play structure, Janie will too. It took practice for him, and it will take practice for her. And it will take practice for me to help her (and others) in a way that respects both where she wants to go and where she is now.