by Annie | May 20, 2021 | Blog, Uncategorized
Fletcher started baseball last week along with his cousin Ava and his best buddy Quincy. He couldn’t wait. He was excited to get back out there after sports were cancelled last summer, but we had some big nervous feelings on the first day of practice. We talked through what he could probably expect, validated his feelings and did some extra heavy work (thankfully he also had OT right before practice). Once he was on the field, he was totally in his element and settled in just fine.
If we’re being honest, I was anxious before his first practice, too. I wasn’t sure if I should tell his coach about his sensory challenges as I had done in the past, or if I should just wait and see how things played out, giving them the opportunity to get to know each other without any preconceived notions. I opted for the latter. Sensory Processing Disorder plays a leading role in our lives, but it doesn’t define Fletcher. I wanted to give his six-year-old self a little independence and autonomy and a chance to establish new relationships without the overzealous mettling of an anxious, hovering mom who just wants to protect him…from now until forever.
When we arrived, my nerves disappeared the minute I saw the other kids on the field. His teammates were just as active and playful as Fletcher….we were clearly among our people. That feeling always gives me the gift of a sigh of relief, a clear mind and a sense of calm. We were ready to play ball.
Now… let’s be clear. Being the parent of a child with SPD (or any exceptional needs for that matter) typically doesn’t mean dropping your kid off at practice and coming back to pick them up an hour later. In my experience, it’s the constant dance of being present enough to intervene when it’s necessary while knowing when to let situations play out and providing just enough freedom that your child can successfully navigate social situations independently, but not too much that it becomes overwhelming for them. It’s incredibly difficult to prepare for that kind of ambiguity. There are so many variables – many of which are completely out of your control.
The first night of practice went great, as did his second practice from where I was sitting in the stands. Fletcher was attentive, followed directions, was eager to do what his coach asked and was interacting with many of the kids on his team – not just sitting in a comfortable bubble with his cousin and friend.
Towards the end of practice, the kids had to wait in a long line for their turn to try hitting. Attention spans were waning and some were getting a little fidgety. But Fletcher did pretty well there, too. For us, waiting is often really hard and so is anticipation. So I was proud of him for keeping it together.
After practice, Ava came running up to let me know that the mom of another little boy on their team was talking to the coach about Fletcher. Apparently he had playfully put his hands on her son and she was upset. She discreetly talked to Fletcher directly saying “let this be the last time you put your hands on my son” without me knowing and then spoke to the coach about it after practice. Had Ava not mentioned anything, I wouldn’t have even known any of this happened.
I felt compelled to talk to the coach and explain that Fletcher struggles with sensory processing and a part of that includes difficulty understanding boundaries at times. “This is a safe space for everyone,” the coach replied quickly and confidently. While it didn’t mitigate my frustration and hurt feelings, it certainly made me appreciate that Fletcher has a coach who is going to work to support all of the children on his team. That’s a win in and of itself.
Fletcher seemed unphased by this whole scenario despite his cousin being acutely aware of what had taken place. On our ride home, I asked Fletcher general questions to try and get more information on how this played out without imparting my feelings of frustration and anger (with how the mom handled things) onto him. When he finally told me that this mom had talked to him, I asked him why he didn’t tell me. “Because I didn’t want you to feel bad, Mom,” he said.
My friend Amber described it best by referring to my Mama Bear feelings as heart-stabby. I sat in that heart-stabby state for the hours following practice. And I realize it’s because for me, being a parent is so deeply personal. We work so hard at home to make sure Fletcher has the tools and strategies he needs to be successful and he works really hard, too. When I send my child out onto a field or into a classroom, I’m sending a giant piece of myself with zero protection and I have very little control over his environment, his actions or the actions of others. Every single time I’m simultaneously proud, nervous-excited and terrified. Every. Single. Time.
I can rationalize in my head that not all people recognize the varying needs of children, nor do they always have the capacity to be compassionate… and quite frankly sometimes people simply just don’t care if it isn’t their child. What I struggled with the most in this situation is that someone would directly address a child they have no relationship with (and know nothing about) without involving a parent or coach – especially at this level. Fletcher is six.
After a few tears and a little reflection as I worked through the prickly, heart-stabby feelings this situation left me with, here are my takeaways:
Prepare, Prepare, Prepare (children and adults): Team sports can be hard, especially the first few practices while trying to get everyone organized and into a routine. Implementing some strategies can be helpful. I didn’t prep Fletcher for this like I normally would have, as we’re new to the league and didn’t quite know what to expect. Now we know. If I were to do this over again, I’d work with him to develop strategies for what to do during idle time. (Ask someone to play catch, do jumping jacks, run in place, play rock, paper, scissors, ask the coach if there’s something he can help with, etc.) and I’d also spend a little more time working on personal boundaries in that specific environment. Maybe some role playing that includes the notion that knocking someone’s baseball hat might look fun, but most people won’t love it.
Prepping the coach ahead of the first practice may not have eliminated this situation completely, but could’ve maybe given him some things to watch for. So for the foreseeable future, I’ll be making sure adults who work with Fletcher understand his needs. The tricky part is doing so in a way that helps folks see the whole person rather than focusing on areas of struggle. We weren’t quite ready for a “wait and see” scenario. I’m working on a quick at-a-glance that outlines his strengths and areas that are more challenging – kind of like a play card, but specific to his needs. I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with too much information, but also want to provide them with quick access to helpful tips that will promote success on all sides.
Support: We tend to travel in a pack which means signing Fletcher up for activities with a buddy or his cousin, or in this case both. And this situation made me realize that not only does Fletcher benefit from that kind of support, but so do I. I needed Ava there for Fletcher’s sake and I needed my sister and my friend Amber there for me. Find your people when you can and support each other – in school, at home and even on the baseball field. It takes a village. Seriously.
Tune Out the Noise: Team sports usually involve being among other parents and families. Most are wonderful. But there will always be some who for whatever reason just lack compassion, sensitivity, empathy…. I’m learning that while it’s easy to let one negative comment or gesture put a sour spin on an evening – it’s just not worth it. Folks who bring negativity to youth sports simply aren’t my people. That’s not to say that you shouldn’t engage with them If there’s a teachable moment or a positive opportunity to connect. But generally speaking, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to tune out the noise and focus on what you can control and why you’re there. (I’m totally speaking to myself with this one!)
Tools in Your Toolbox: Sports of any kind can be a recipe for sensory overload – loud noises, scratchy uniform fabric, bugs, new smells, uncontrolled temperature, lots of instructions given at once, lots of people moving about. But that’s not to say that it has to be overwhelming one hundred percent of the time and being in the right team environment promotes the development of wonderful skills. Pack plenty of tools in your toolbox (noise cancelling headphones if your child uses them, change of clothing, compression items, a different pair of socks, bug spray, sun screen, water, snacks, fidgets, etc.), make sure your child knows you have them and that they’re able to access tools when needed. Sometimes Fletcher just needs to know that we have a certain thing with us – even if he doesn’t actually need to use it.
by Annie | May 10, 2021 | Blog
I have recently had the great fortune of receiving some well-timed wisdom. Wisdom that I didn’t realize I needed, but the kind that grounded me, held me tight, and reminded me of just how grateful I am to be on this journey even when it’s hard. Mother’s Day feels like an appropriate time to share.
We are in a challenging season as a family. Like many, we’re navigating endless highs and lows and most days feel overwhelming at best. When we allow it to, that feeling quickly steers us off course. On those days in particular, it’s hard to know what to do next, it’s tough to be the facilitators of the strategies our boys so desperately need and even the most menial tasks feel like giant hurdles. Lately, it was on some of my most difficult days that I received love in the form of perceptive insight.
Several weeks ago, I was talking with a former colleague, filling her in on the boys and the general craziness of life, reminiscing about a project we worked on together several years ago. At some point in the conversation with grace and reassurance she paused and said “being a parent is the most important job you’ll ever have.”
She didn’t know that I was struggling to fit everything in and putting great pressure on myself in the process. She definitely didn’t know that I felt like I wasn’t good enough, qualified enough, informed enough or efficient enough. It was a simple sentiment, but one that has stuck with me. And truthfully, it has become a mantra that I say to myself with care when I’m in need of a reminder. Because, she was absolutely right. No matter how hard this journey is, being a parent is without a single doubt the most important job I will ever, ever have. Perspective.
More recently I had some rare one-on-one time with my dad. I was sharing with him the emotional rollercoaster of a recent breakthrough in Max’s speech development and the challenges we’re working to overcome with Fletcher as we navigate the residual effects of pandemic life paired with his sensory needs. The conversation felt heavy. Because I’m completely exhausted.
He compassionately shared that in parenting, he and my mom used two guiding principles – one is the idea of roots and wings and the other is the notion of unfolding, not molding. The latter is particularly significant because neither of our children fits neatly in a box. And they never will, nor do we want that for them.
That conversation with my dad was a gentle reminder that we’re on the right track. That we’re supporting our sweet, curious, and energetic boys as they grow and unfold into the people they’re supposed to be rather than trying with all of our might (likely unsuccessfully) to mold them into who we believe that they should be based on benchmarks, how others have done it, or social standards. There’s no script, there’s no manual, there definitely isn’t the certainty that we are getting this right 100% of the time. But there’s such a significant difference in unfolding versus molding. And I find so much beauty in the idea of our children growing, evolving, and opening in an outward way as they’re ready.
In quiet moments I’m able to feel extraordinary gratitude for the ways that we are supported on this journey. Sometimes that support is simply a gentle nudge of reassurance through kind, thoughtful words. On this Mother’s Day, I’m sharing the recent well-timed wisdom that I received with the hope that you may find love and support in surprising ways on the days you need it the most.
by Annie | Apr 15, 2021 | Blog
Mike is a teacher, but because Wednesdays are asynchronous days for his students he was able to go into work a little late and accompany us on our walk to Fletcher’s first day of in-person school. He is never able to join us for big days like this because of his school schedule. I didn’t realize how much I needed him to be there and you know what? He needed that, too.
Fletcher was all business before school. I was reminded that the time we spent preparing him for this transition was well worth it. Scaffolding for our kiddos with sensory challenges isn’t easy. It means extra planning, extra time, and often creativity. But it’s worth it. Every single time, it’s worth it.
I’m pretty sure Fletcher memorized the visual schedule we updated the day before and was so proud to announce each item that he checked off. Having that control was crucial for a successful morning. His biggest thrill was the discovery that his dry-fit shirt had thumb holes. “I’ve always wanted thumb holes!” Who knew?!
He ate a good breakfast and was excited to get packed up and on our way. A block from school he met up with one of his best buddies and as they walked in front of me I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn’t looking at the tiny little wonder-filled and boundlessly energetic guys I remembered from K-4. A few inches taller, this duo walked with purpose and a subdued gratitude for being reunited. I wasn’t prepared for that.
We arrived on the playground as the bell rang and students lined up, arms full of nap mats, disinfectant wipes and snacks to share – eagerly awaiting their teachers. Fletcher disappeared into his line, barely allowing me to steal a quick side hug. At that moment, I knew we had made the right choice for him. He was so ready. Mike watched him walk down the hallway and into his classroom noting how confidently he marched past the coat hooks and into his new room for the first time this year. We made it.
As we walked away, I couldn’t keep the tears in any longer. I cried most of the way home. And then randomly throughout the day, most often without warning. Sitting in our quiet house, driving to the store, and reading an email from Fletcher’s teacher after school that praised his amazing day and referred to him as a leader in her class (I’d like to take a minute to acknowledge that his teacher managed to simultaneously teach children both virtually and in person today for the first time ever and found time to email me sentiments that she’ll probably never know I needed to hear. Teachers are incredible.) My tears were of sadness and grief, elation and pride…uncertainty, hope, and a year’s worth of plowing through emotions because there simply wasn’t time or space to process them. My tears were a release.
Max took a rare three hour nap after his morning therapy appointments and I sat in our quiet house soaking up the silence for a while. I took in the kind of breaths that completely fill your belly and found myself slowly and intentionally letting them out, savoring the solitude. I was subconsciously inhaling the hope of a fresh start, gratitude for trusting adults watching over my baby boy, and the promise of more balance while exhaling the stress, pain, fear, worry, and constant feeling of being overwhelmed from our most difficult year.
When I returned for pick-up, Fletcher looked three years older. He was organized, regulated, in complete control of his body and following his teacher’s directions intently with his thumbs proudly displayed through his shirt’s thumb holes. I fully expected him to bolt over to me like he had the minute I came into his view last year. Instead I was greeted with a cool, subtle wave and he continued walking in his line to the designated pick-up area. I panicked a little thinking maybe something had happened. His teacher noticed me a few minutes later, complimented his great day and sent him on his way. When I asked Fletcher why he waited in line he replied matter of factly “Because Mrs. H. said we had to stay in line until SHE sees our parents.”
Whoa. I was taken aback by his display of such amazing impulse control. A win in and of itself.
Fletcher ran most of the way home – his little body needing a release after sitting so much. But in between sprints we’d chat. “I missed you, Mom,” he said at one point.
“I missed you, too, but I’m so glad you had such a great day!”
“Did you cry happy tears when you left this morning, Mom?”
“I cried complicated tears, Bud.”
And to be honest, I think I’ll be crying complicated tears for the foreseeable future. There’s so much to unpack from our pandemic year, so much to look forward to, and so much in between. Just. So. Much.
As life begins to open up a little bit, here’s to allowing ourselves to feel and process and unpack. And even cry the occasional complicated tears.
by Annie | Apr 14, 2021 | Blog
The decision to send Fletcher back to school in-person was one filled with agony, uncertainty and hypotheticals. Some weeks, it changed by the minute. We were anything but certain. Is it worth the risk? Do we really even know how high the risk is? Is it worth it for 33 instructional days? Can we hang on and finish out the year virtually? He needs to be with his friends. Wait. What will that even look like? Will he even be able to play with his friends? Ugh, what will this look like? Can he tolerate a mask all day?
Like so many other families, we have been together for over a year with few moments of separation. It was the hardest year for all of us. But the time together oddly felt like a gift. And while most things felt out of our control, we felt a little security with having the great fortune of being able to keep our boys at home. There’s comfort in knowing your babies are safe.
In my gut, I know that Fletcher needs this, and quite frankly so does Max. He has taken a backseat to Fletcher’s needs on many occasions this year and will greatly benefit from more one-on-one time. We ultimately decided that while Fletcher has come a long way this year, virtual learning just isn’t ideal for him. It’s okay in a pinch, but it’s more about surviving than thriving. And after thirteen months, we want him….need him… to thrive.
So here we are. One more sleep until Fletcher returns to in-person school. That means our house was LOADED with BIG feelings today (myself included). We were a tornado of anticipation, nervousness, trepidation, anxiety, excitement, fear, and perhaps even a little hope.
Early in the day, we gathered his school supplies, dug out his backpack, updated his morning visual schedule, got his rollerball of calming essential oils ready (this has been one of his favorite strategies since he was little), and navigated a rollercoaster of emotions.
During the height of one of our least graceful moments I finally said “If we’re having a hard day because you’re nervous about going back to in-person school tomorrow, I need you to know that I’m nervous, too.”
The flood gates flew open and Fletcher began to sob.
I gave him the tightest hug. He melted right into my arms and all I could see was my sweet little boy who was struggling. In that moment the frustration from an intense morning completely disappeared. It was then that I was able to calmly say, “Buddy, this is something we can work through together. You don’t have to do that on your own.”
He articulated that his tummy felt just like it had the day he started K-4 which told me that he was simultaneously excited and nervous and didn’t know where to go with all of that.
Together, we created a plan for the rest of the day. We’d do a practice run of walking our normal route to school, remind ourselves of which door he’ll enter in the mornings and play on the familiar school playground. It’s not lost on me how fortunate we are to live within walking distance of Fletcher’s school.
After lunch we put on our shoes, strapped Max into the stroller, packed a few snacks and I reminded Fletcher to bring his coat. “I’m fine, Mom,” he reassured me. “I’m wearing 3 pairs of pants.” (This is noteworthy because Fletcher dressed himself today and on a normal day it might be odd to wear 3 pairs of pants. Today, however, it made complete sense. I really believe he was trying to find ways to get himself the extra input he craved as he navigated the anticipation and anxiety of heading back to in-person school tomorrow. He chose tighter fitting jogger-type pajama pants for his bottom two layers. That offered him some extra pressure on his legs. Brilliant. We certainly have challenging moments, but this kid is one of my greatest teachers.)
I put two full packages of baby wipes in the bottom of his backpack for our practice walk which provided some extra resistance – or heavy work in OT terms. One mile round trip with that kind of resistance was really helpful in regulating him.
Serendipitously, our usual crossing guard happened to be at his typical post. The familiarity of our pre-Covid interactions with him helped both of us settle into our trek. Fletcher even capitalized on an opportunity to remind Mr. Wayne that he should really use his whistle while crossing people (us). Thank goodness for levity.
While at school, we took a photo of Fletcher standing in front of the entrance he will use and later added that to his visual schedule. He walked around the playground a bit, giving me a tour of all of the designated areas. And then we found our way to the playground. We were the only ones there and that felt like the greatest gift. I didn’t have to worry about masks being up or the kids taking turns with others, Max getting plowed over by bigger kids, or keeping a schedule. I could just be in the moment and for for the first time in a long time, I genuinely played. We did monkey bars (let me tell you, I am not made for monkey bars!), slides, hide-and-seek, tag, climbing and we breathed in cool, fresh air. When we were ready to venture home, magically, we were all relaxed, calm and regulated and suddenly, the big transition back to in-person school didn’t feel quite so daunting.
We finished out our day with OT and on our drive home just before dinner the heavy clouds were painted with giant brushstrokes across the sky – indicative of the dreary weather forecasted for the remainder of the week. In one distinctive spot, however, brightly defined beams of light had permeated the clouds and were illuminating the earth below. At a stoplight I found myself inhaling the deepest breath and slowly, steadily exhaling. In darkness there is always light and in light there are signs of hope. This was my sign. Everything is going to be alright.
by Annie | Apr 12, 2021 | Blog
We began our journey with genetics about eight months ago. In addition to sensory challenges, Max has a large birthmark on his back, a significant speech delay, a minor heart murmur and asymmetry in his chest. While none of these things would be particular concerning individually, the combination could be a sign of something greater. In an effort to determine if he is dealing with something beyond sensory processing disorder, we were encouraged to pursue genetic testing. Anxious to ensure we’re doing everything possible to get Max what he needs, we did just that. (It’s important to note that having a child with sensory processing disorder does NOT mean there is a genetic connection.)
After the initial testing came back inconclusive, they drilled down a little further to find that Max is missing a part of the AUTS2 gene. Mike and I got tested soon after to determine if this deletion is hereditary and decided that if one of us had part of the same gene missing we’d have Fletcher tested, too.
Low and behold, I am the carrier. I am missing a part of the AUTS2 gene, too. When the genetic counselor called to let me know the results were in, she assured me that this wasn’t my fault. That there would have been no way of knowing that I was missing part of this gene and could potentially pass it down to my children unless we had done extensive genetic testing prior to conception. I appreciated her sentiments, but in the midst of trying to wrap my mind around an unfamiliar topic, it honestly hadn’t occurred to me to feel guilty about this. Now, though, I do have moments. Not guilt as though this was something in my control, just fleeting moments of feeling unsettled. Fear of the unknown and a little grief, maybe?
Shortly after my test results came back we got Fletcher tested as well. As with many children with sensory challenges, Fletcher is extremely literal. He struggles with the element of surprise AND anticipation (that’s a separate post all together) so it’s always a balancing act to determine how and when to tell him about something forthcoming. Because there was a needle involved, I decided to wait to tell him until about 2 hours before we had to leave. I thought that would give his brain enough time to organize around what was happening next and what it would involve without hours upon hours of questioning and perseveration.
He does best in situations like this when he has a full understanding of the “why.” So I talked to him about how Max and I were both missing a part of one of our genes and tried explaining genes and DNA to his six-year-old self by showing him photos of gene strands from the internet. He was enthralled and asked questions that hadn’t even occurred to me. I found myself saying “that’s a great question!” And then a lot of “we’ll have to look that up, buddy” followed by “maybe that’s something we can ask the doctor.”
He was nervous, took lots of deep breaths while the phlebotomist prepared his arm for drawing blood. He paused her at one point and used a calm down strategy he learned from Daniel Tiger, told her he needed an extra minute and then finally put on his brave face and powered through. While situations like this are always a bit of a gamble, he did great. The phlebotomist giving him a little control over when she began drawing blood was key.
Afterwards, I suggested we stop at the pharmacy on our way out of the clinic. They have some great little sensory toys and I thought maybe he’d like to pick one out for being such a champ. He found something he liked and we took it to the pharmacy counter to pay for it. Phil the pharmacist politely greeted us in his starchy white coat and before I could respond Fletcher pointed to the rows of pill boxes behind Phil and blurted out “excuse me, is this where all the DNA is housed?”
Phil smiled politely, but looked confused. I explained to him that we were going through genetic testing and he gave Fletcher a sweet glance and a chuckle. Meanwhile, I was given another glimpse into how Fletcher’s brain processes information – it’s fascinating. At six he had internalized our conversation about DNA and genes and made the connection to the pharmacy. It made total sense to me as we were in a hospital setting and the pharmacy is filled with brightly colored boxes, many with logos that from a distance could be mistaken for the drawing of a gene. I could absolutely appreciate how he arrived at wondering if DNA was housed there and loved that he wasn’t shy about asking who he perceived to be an expert.
Fast forward a few weeks. We learned that Fletcher has the same deletion as Max and me. What does that mean? Well… we’re still trying to figure that out. I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved or confused, or indifferent, but I had a lot of questions and could hardly wait to consult our genetic counselor. I heard a lot of “well there just isn’t enough known about this deletion to be able to say for sure.”
Genetic testing is a tricky process. While genes are fascinating, I would be lying if I said this process doesn’t feel daunting and all consuming at times. Mike and I find ourselves wanting immediate feedback, but the truth is, this requires patience and an understanding that sometimes it’s more about ruling things out than it is about finding a definitive answer. Genetic deletions within the AUTS2 gene haven’t been researched extensively so there’s still a lot we don’t know. In an effort to be somewhat proactive with very little direction, I joined a Facebook group about this deletion and try to find as much information online as I can even though we don’t fit all of the criteria associated with this particular deletion.
It’s hard to feel like you’re learning more from your own research than from anything provided by experts in the field, but in moments where I’m not totally overwhelmed, I can also find some level of appreciation for the empowerment associated with creating our own roadmap. Every once in a while I find something online that really resonates with us and there’s comfort in that. There’s also some level of comfort in knowing that we know our boys best. As my aunt reminded me recently, my gut has never led me astray. This process has taught me to always, always trust my mama instincts.
After a really tough week last week filled with a lot of parental emotions around what the genetic component could mean for Max and Fletcher we are grateful to feel grounded again. We are on this perpetual sensory roller coaster with our boys and the added dynamic of genetics felt like a lot, sending us into a bit of a tailspin.
Sometimes while in a tailspin we forget that our relationship needs nurturing, just like we nurture our boys. When it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day and we’re both juggling far more than we have capacity for, it’s easy to forget that we have to very intentionally create time and space for one another. Things feel easier to navigate when we can do it together. And I’m grateful for the reminder.
If you’re reading this and have a kiddo with a deletion within AUTS2, I’d love to connect with you.
by Annie | Mar 30, 2021 | Blog, Uncategorized
I just realized that Easter is this weekend. I knew it was coming, it just hadn’t registered that it was this week – has anyone else lost all sense of time during this pandemic?!
Anyway – one of my favorite ways to bring more sensory-based toys and tools into our house is through gift giving. It puts a fun spin on things that also serve a purpose. Fidgets make really great additions to baskets and stockings, things left by Lucky the Leprechaun, or gift toppers if you’re fancy. We have some favorites that I thought I’d share in case you’re looking for some last minute items for your baskets…here are our top five:
Pop-it : Both of our boys (ages 3 and 6) love the pop-its that my sister bought them for Christmas. They’re great because they are much quieter than bubble wrap and are super portable. They are also easily washed in the sink!
Wacky Tracks: Super versatile, also really portable (I usually keep some in the car and/or my purse), and fun to see the various ways kids put them to use. These are used almost daily during virtual learning in our house – they fit very discreetly in a little lap.
Fidget Ball: This thing is like Rubiks Cube meets Pop-It and it’s as fabulous as it looks. Fletcher loves that it’s round and that he can feel the ball popping from one spot to another while he tries to solve the puzzle.
Arrgh! Ball: The Arrgh! ball is one of our favorite new things of 2021. We learned about them from our craniosacral therapist. They’re super fun because they’re squishy, but they also have a little weight to them which provides wonderful input. Both of our boys love the Arrgh! Ball. A quick note of caution: One that we purchased has water beads inside. Looks super cool and adds a textural element to the ball. However, if you have a child with endless curiosity like we do, they may find their way to the plug at the bottom and figure out how to get some of those water beads out (this definitely happened to us within 20 minutes of owning it, ha!)
Therapy Putty: This putty was one of the first tools we received from OT and remains one of Fletcher’s favorites. The containers come in different strengths depending on the level of input you’re looking for. Therapy putty is a great sensory tool disguised by fun colors and compact containers. (We sent some to school with Fletcher in his backpack when he was just beginning his sensory journey and really struggling. It was used as a “take a break” activity for him.)
Enjoy! I’d love to hear about your favorite fidgets! We’re always looking to add to our repertoire!
