Max has this habit of stomping his feet when he's hanging out in the family room, watching TV. He also does it when he's at his desk in his room. For years, he's loved kicking up a storm in the bath for years, but the floor stomping started last fall. "Max, stop stomping!" is a common refrain heard around our house.
I know does it because he likes the sensory feel of it. "He stomps to the music!" Sabrina has noted, which is true—when a movie has a theme song, Max's stomping is right on time, which means he might someday be a great candidate for that off-Broadway show STOMP.
All that aside, the stomping is seriously annoying. It reverberates throughout the house. We have a glass ornament on our bedroom window and the vibrations make it tinkle, along with the chandelier. We've tried to put a pillow beneath Max's feet, but he just kicks it aside. Nothing but foot-to-floor contact will do. Ideally, in the living room; he doesn't like to do this anywhere else.
All that aside, the stomping is seriously annoying. It reverberates throughout the house. We have a glass ornament on our bedroom window and the vibrations make it tinkle, along with the chandelier. We've tried to put a pillow beneath Max's feet, but he just kicks it aside. Nothing but foot-to-floor contact will do. Ideally, in the living room; he doesn't like to do this anywhere else.
"Max, one of these days something will fall and break," I've warned him. Max has just shaken his head. I've let it pass; it's one of his quirks, and it comforts him. I mean, this habit's more intrusive than ones of the past, like when he used to make us write "Max eats spaghetti sauce!" on every picture he drew or when he insisted on sleeping next to a set of plastic purple tableware. Still, I thought, what's the big deal.
Broken stuff, that's the big deal.
Broken stuff, that's the big deal.
A few weekends ago I was sleeping in or, rather, I was lying there wishing I could sleep because Max was stomping away in the dining room. I heard a crash, and ran downstairs. A framed photo had fallen off the wall, and the glass broke. Max was in tears. "Sorry!" he kept saying. "Sorry!"
"Max, when you stomp it makes stuff shake—that's why it fell off the wall," I pointed out. He wailed louder. He promised he wouldn't stomp anymore.
But the next morning: STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP. STOMP!!!!!!!
"Max, you promised you wouldn't stomp!" I reminded him.
"NO!" he announced.
"It's not OK to say 'No,'" I told him. "You are going to keep breaking things."
He got more cautious. A couple of times, after he'd been going at it in the living room, I watched him get up and adjust the two framed pictures that stand on a Singer sewing machine I inherited from my dad. Max was making sure they weren't going to topple over.
But responsible stomping is still stomping, and I figured he was surely going to break something else. Continuous reminders weren't helping. Punishment didn't seem fair: Stomping fulfills a particular need he has. There's a fine line between accommodating your kid with special needs and catering to him, and this behavior fell on the boundary between the two. I can't and won't ever completely understand what it feels like to have cerebral palsy. While I've tried massaging Max's legs in the morning to see if looser muscles make him skip the stomping it hasn't worked, but still: The impact might help his legs, always a bit stiff, feel better.
I sure wasn't going to secure or move every breakable piece in our living areas. I was not up for seeing a behavior therapists just yet, because Max has enough therapists in his life, thankyouverymuch. So I decided to once again let him deal with the consequences (though I did move expensive vases to a secure location at Ft. Knox).
Sure enough, as Max stomped in the living room Saturday morning, I once again heard a crash and a wail. The photo of Sabrina on the sewing machine had fallen to the floor. The glass was intact, but the wooden frame had come apart.
Max was inconsolable for a long time. "I'm sorry!" he said, again and again. He kissed me. He hugged.
"Max, if you keep stomping you are going to keep breaking things," I said. "Are you going to stop stomping?"
"Yes," he promised, between tears.
I super-glued the frame back together. (So much cheaper then a therapy session!) (Not that I'm ruling that out.) (I could probably use some sessions, too.) So far, no more stomping.
Now, if someone has any ideas on how to get Max to quit repeatedly watching the Taco-dile scene in Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs 2, I am all ears.
"Max, when you stomp it makes stuff shake—that's why it fell off the wall," I pointed out. He wailed louder. He promised he wouldn't stomp anymore.
But the next morning: STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP. STOMP!!!!!!!
"Max, you promised you wouldn't stomp!" I reminded him.
"NO!" he announced.
"It's not OK to say 'No,'" I told him. "You are going to keep breaking things."
He got more cautious. A couple of times, after he'd been going at it in the living room, I watched him get up and adjust the two framed pictures that stand on a Singer sewing machine I inherited from my dad. Max was making sure they weren't going to topple over.
But responsible stomping is still stomping, and I figured he was surely going to break something else. Continuous reminders weren't helping. Punishment didn't seem fair: Stomping fulfills a particular need he has. There's a fine line between accommodating your kid with special needs and catering to him, and this behavior fell on the boundary between the two. I can't and won't ever completely understand what it feels like to have cerebral palsy. While I've tried massaging Max's legs in the morning to see if looser muscles make him skip the stomping it hasn't worked, but still: The impact might help his legs, always a bit stiff, feel better.
I sure wasn't going to secure or move every breakable piece in our living areas. I was not up for seeing a behavior therapists just yet, because Max has enough therapists in his life, thankyouverymuch. So I decided to once again let him deal with the consequences (though I did move expensive vases to a secure location at Ft. Knox).
Sure enough, as Max stomped in the living room Saturday morning, I once again heard a crash and a wail. The photo of Sabrina on the sewing machine had fallen to the floor. The glass was intact, but the wooden frame had come apart.
Max was inconsolable for a long time. "I'm sorry!" he said, again and again. He kissed me. He hugged.
"Max, if you keep stomping you are going to keep breaking things," I said. "Are you going to stop stomping?"
"Yes," he promised, between tears.
I super-glued the frame back together. (So much cheaper then a therapy session!) (Not that I'm ruling that out.) (I could probably use some sessions, too.) So far, no more stomping.
Now, if someone has any ideas on how to get Max to quit repeatedly watching the Taco-dile scene in Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs 2, I am all ears.
