DiaryEntries&MagazineArticleTreadway

Diary and Magazine Article Examples:


 * Diary Entry:**

B awoke early and in good spirits - a little hyper. I dropped him off at school.
 * Entry #5 for OT Nov. 6th**

I had to pick B up from school early today. I got a call from his teacher. She said he refused to take his lunch time meds and would not complete his math assignment. He was given the choice of completeing the assignment at recess or call me to pick up and coming home with no television, video games, etc..He would not verbally agree to anything but circled the choice of me picking him up.

When I arrived he was tearful. When I asked what was wrong he said he didn't know. It all came down to the fact that he didnn't want to do his math during recess and was angry about it. His teacher and I explained that he'd made the choice had to accept the consequences. He then started to cry and say no one at the school liked him. He changed that to a particular student. We calmed him down and he took his medication. The teacher gave me additional work for him to do as well to keep him occupied for the rest of the day.

Upon arriving home he started to tantrum and ran away from me. He locked the door to his room so I was unable to get to him. My husband had to come home and unlock the door. He was angry with me for enforcing the consequences of his behavior and lashed out at me. I tried to explain his behaving in this manor would only result in more discipline. My husband was able to calm him down and get him started on his work. He completed 6 pages in the workbook sent home. At the moment he is fine. The math is waiting until my husband can help him.

OT Journal Nov. 14 2009
B changed some meds today. We are watching for any signs of changes in behavior. I forgot to give him his noon medication. Things went well today, he played with his sister all day. My husband and I went out in the evening and the sitter didn't report anything unusual.

B's week of ups and downs
Our week started off as usual; on Monday we were all up at 6am with no problems from anyone. Wednesday our alarm didn’t go off and we woke up at 8:30. I got B to school by 9 and SE shortly after. Around 11am I got a call from B’s teacher he had been and fight and was being dismissed from school for the day. I drove there with my heart in my throat, praying this wouldn’t be our final day there. When I arrived he and his teacher were waiting for me in the lobby. He sat on the opposite side of the lobby from us and would not come to us when we asked. He looked miserable. His teacher showed me the incident report and went over it with me. B and a friend had been innocently playing tag when B put him in a choke-hold, threw him to the ground and punched him in the eye. B then proceeded to call him an expletive and give him a very vulgar directive; he had to be pulled off the child by two other students. I can assure you this not typical behavior for my son. I was shocked and mortified to say the least. I was told he would be able to return to school the following day and was greatly relieved by this news. Now I had to figure out what had caused the problem. I had immediately put in a call to the psychiatrist as soon as I heard there had been a fight he called as we were getting in the car to leave school. He called as we were getting in the car; he prescribed we up the dosage of the new medication 20mg. I trust him so that’s what I did. In the car B was crying, he was embarrassed, ashamed and remorseful. He thought everyone at the school was going to hate him and he was afraid I was going to send him back to the hospital for hurting someone. After arriving home it took me a long while to calm him and allay his fears. I explained that sometimes saying “sorry” wasn’t enough you have to prove it with your actions. I told him that the child might not forgive him right away and that was okay, he would eventually. I also explained that no one at the school hated him or was mad at him they were just worried about him. He eventually calmed down enough to do the work he was assigned and then we wrote a letter of apology to the child. The next day he returned to school and was welcomed with open arms by everyone. I had to go to the classroom to give them extra medication due to the change in dosage and everything seemed in sync. The grandmother of the child is the teacher’s assistant and profusely apologized to her for the incident. She was very gracious and said she understood. I have tried contacting the parents, but they haven’t returned my calls.

The rest of the week was pleasant. He had a great pragmatics class where he made a frozen dessert for Thanksgiving which we’ll be carrying to my mother’s. He was very proud of that and can’t wait to share something he made with our family. OT was great as well we received a great report from the therapist. On Thursday he had talk therapy which he happily complied with. Thursday night he and I talked about prayer, he prays every night. I asked him if he would like me to share with him how I pray. I told him he is always in my prayers; that he and SE are the most important things in the world to their father and me. He said he didn’t know this. His lack of self-esteem is amazing to me sometimes. We just have to be vigilant in affirming our love for him and pride in him. Friday came and went. Saturday he wanted a friend over. We called a few and finally one called us back. He ended up coming over for a couple hours in the afternoon and my husband took them to dinner. B has been invited to his house this afternoon. I’m so pleased for him! He’s so excited he’s been up since 6am waiting. I pray all goes well.


 * Magazine Article**

//By Jeff Stimpson//
 * The Big 6**

My son Alex enters sixth grade this fall. He is 11, diagnosed PDD-NOS, and for six years, counting kindergarten, he’s been in the same elementary school. There they taught him to add a number or two, eat the cafeteria chicken, sit through a movie, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, say his name when asked (so they claim – he hasn’t done it for me), and wish a good weekend to classmates on Friday afternoons. Six years. He may never be in one school so long again, and the time has come for him to leave.

I should feel glad. Any grade seemed like a teasing dream 11 years ago, as my wife Jill and I stood in a neonatal ICU and watched Alex, our first child, live in his plastic box. He’d been born almost three months premature, and weighed 21 ounces – about as much as four sticks of butter, as I discovered in a grocery store one night. His arms and legs were as thick as felt markers, about the size of a G.I. Joe’s. Alex lived in an isolette, a breathing tube down his throat, in a room full of other boxes and other preemies, amid the bells and buzzers of life-support gear. Alex would roll his eyes in there, wrinkling his forehead just like my dad used to, clutching at the tube silently with a perfect tiny human hand.

Eventually we got to hold Alex. First time for me he was still ventiliated; he sounded like a tiny Darth Vader. Alex was featherweight, devastatingly important.

“Jeff, he doesn’t look at me,” my wife Jill would soon be saying. And he didn’t. His eyes flicked over the walls, over his isolette, at the red numbers behind the bells and buzzers, but rarely on our faces. We knew this meant something, but back then we weren’t sure what.

We brought him home in the summer of 1999, when he was one year and two weeks old. He was a plump thing, fattened on the feeding tube they claimed he needed, his oxygen cannula cord dangling behind. Early intervention therapists came soon after too, for feeding, eating, occupational and physical therapy: Alex qualified for the whole, well, spectrum of therapists. Some therapists he liked. Some he ignored, wobbling like a baby Buddha on our living room floor.

One therapist he loved was Ron. Alex always brightened at Ron, who blew bubbles for Alex, showed him how to use the shape sorter, and taught him to just sit and flip the pages of a book. “Hiya big banana!” Ron would always say. Ron was also first to say that Alex’s skill at the shape-sorter would one day turn into an affinity for letters and the alphabet, which it has. We know this affinity means something (is perhaps some key to how Alex may survive in the world after we’re gone?), but we’re still not sure what.

At Alex’s last IEP meeting, three weeks ago, his teacher and his therapists (still the full “spectrum”), Jill and I sat in the tiny chairs and talked about Alex’s future, which begins in September. In speech, they want next year’s still-unknown therapists to work on more listening and comprehension, more uttering of sentences that contain a subject, verb, and object, and using more attributions such as sizes, colors, and shapes. In math, his current teacher wants his future teacher to hit the times tables, more telling time and counting money. In OT, the goal is handwriting that actually hits the little blue lines.

“My little man,” his teacher says.

I was hoping Alex’s current school could make an exception and keep him another year. Better to be with the people who’ve taken you from stop-and-stares to the Pledge of Allegiance when funding dries up. And, regarding other possible schools, Jill immediately ignited at a phrase she heard at one middle school: “We have an expectation of college for our students,” the unit teacher told her. We had never heard anyone say anything like that about Alex before; it was like a strong new scent. But that school has no openings for September. Few schools do.

One that does, however, is Ron’s. His school is our first stop for a tour, where today he is the unit teacher. I round a corner and there he is. He’s greyer (“More dignified,” I tell the man whose business with Alex was once all about bubbles), but otherwise it’s the same spark and firm handshake, the same “big banana!” brand of enthusiasm and professionalism. His school looks a lot like Alex’s current school: the same tiled walls and small-scale bathrooms, the same artwork of construction paper and marker and lurid finger-paint. Alex could fit in here, I think.

Ron presents his staff. I start from square one with people who’ve never met Alex, telling them all the clever cute stuff he does. How he tricked me out of the boys’ bedroom so he could get the cat off Ned’s bed. How he tricked Jill into taking her hand off a doorknob once, because he wanted to make a break for it. How he sometimes bolts, and catching him on the run in Central Park is like trying to catch a dragonfly. How he now says clearly, “I want cookies please!”

More similarities, this time among the students: some rocking, some stimming, wheelchairs parked in the halls. Classrooms sport velcro schedules (“sweeping”; “work time”; “clean up”). Alex will recognize those, I think.

//The classrooms are smaller than in// //Alex’s current school. In one, colored// //cloth covers the fluorescent overheads// //to cut down on distraction. In another,// //students use a computer to read and// //relate the life cycle of the butterfly.// //“Science class,” says Ron. Wow – science// //class!//

//The tone is quieter, the books thicker,// //and it seems to me students are// //expected to keep their noses closer to// //the grindstone. “We’d be happy to have// //him,” Ron says. Before we leave, he// //shows us a notebook with a checklist of// //jobs the older students here perform at// //a local golf course: pick up trash, clean// //tables, stock storerooms. A notebook of// //expectations.//

//Alex could fit in here.//

//Postscript: And how is Alex doing in// //sixth grade?//

//I took him to his new school the day// //before school started. A smart move.// //He charged in like he owned the joint,// //heading right to the bookshelves.// //All we know for sure so far is that// //he loves to get on the school bus and// //that notes have come home saying// //things like “Great day!” and “He even// //ate some of the school lunch!” and// //“We’ve also elected him class leader!”// //Wow. Class leader. It may not be student// //council president in a real high// //school for the typically developing, I// //know, but it’s a nice start. Alex is fitting// //in there.//

//**Jeff Stimpson** is the author of Alex: The// //Fathering of a Preemie and Alex the Boy:// //Episodes From a Family’s Life With Autism// //(both available on Amazon). He and Jill// //podcast about parenting a special-needs son// //at http://jillandjeff.podbean.com, and blog// //at AutismVox (blisstree.com/autismvox).//

-- Characteristics and Criteria:

Characteristics: Criteria:
 * Diary Entry:**
 * First person ("I") or firsthand account
 * Date
 * Feelings
 * Big event(s)
 * Position/stand
 * Reflecting
 * Specific
 * Informal
 * Personal
 * Overview

Characteristics: Criteria:
 * Magazine Article**
 * Author
 * Date
 * Title
 * Topic
 * Effective interview (to get another perspective)
 * Formal
 * Attention-getting picture
 * Useful sources
 * Focused topic
 * Intellectual quotes and statistics