Pause

When Dawson was 3 he fell in love with a show called Octonauts. The unique character lineup of marine biology experts would work together to solve mysteries for a variety of aquatic creatures. Every show ends with a cute little song that details facts about the highlighted aquatic species and even shows real video footage of the species - a signal that the episode has finished. As soon as I heard the song begin, I could give a verbal cue to tell Dawson we were done when the episode was over, and once the song was complete he knew we were turning the tv off without a fight. 

But real life rarely allows itself to be confined to the time limits of children’s shows, and there would be times when we would have to end Octonauts before the final song. I would give verbal cues to tell Dawson he had only 5 more minutes, but every time we stopped the show prior to the song, we knew we were in for a meltdown. I would attempt to reason with him  - reassuring him that we would come back to it, but as soon as I turned the tv off, he would shut down. It was obvious to me why the meltdowns were happening - he wasn’t getting to hear the ending song. It all made sense, or so I thought. 

As Dawson became more independent, he learned how to handle the remote and knew which function each button controlled. The most important button, of course, was the circle in the middle that had a multitude of functions, all of which were appealing to Dawson. He could select a show, move to the next episode, pause the show, and play the show. The circle button was his access to viewing independence. 

One day as Dawson was diving into an episode of Octonauts, the dreaded reality of time was threatening to cut an episode short. I gave Dawson the usual time warnings, and when it was time, I turned off the tv. He got upset, and then shouted, “No Mom! Not stop!” He grabbed the remote from me and turned the tv back on. Despite my insistence that we were done with tv, he began his episode again, pressed play, pressed pause, then turned off the tv. He handed me the remote and began to transition to the next task. 

I was stunned - what did he do that was different than what I had been doing? 

He had paused. 

As I reflected and analyzed his reaction, I wondered if it was truly that simple - did I just need to pause the show first, and then turn off the tv? The answer became clear as I made it a habit to pause the show before turning off the tv - as Dawson had clearly stated that day, “Not stop!” 

As Dawson became older and his language skills developed, he would still expect us to hit pause before turning off the tv. I attempted to explain to him that if he just turns off the tv while the show is playing, it automatically pauses and picks up there when you return. This was not enough for him, he explained that if I pause before I turn off the tv then he knows it will be right where he left off. And so, we continued to honor the process of pausing. 

As Dawson has grown we have learned to teach him to pause in many aspects and activities in his life. When he is really focused on a LEGO set, but it is bedtime, we pause, and have faith that the set will be exactly where it is in the morning. When he is really excited to tell us about something, but we also need to complete a task first, we pause, and he knows that he will have the opportunity to share after the task is completed. When he is upset and fixated on how something did not go as he planned, we pause, and come back to where we were once we are calm. 

As I continue to better understand the way Dawson sees the world, I am continually reminded of the concrete views and concepts he thrives on. It is in this that I realize, stop is final - done. Pause is a breath, a break, with the opportunity to  return right where you left off. And so, we continued to honor the process of pausing.

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A couple years after this revelation about pausing, I was asked to observe an autistic student and coach their teacher on strategies to support them. The concerning behavior was that when they were asked to stop an activity and transition to the next subject,, they would melt down and rip up the papers near them - particularly if their work was not completed to their liking.

I observed this student for a while, and watched as their body would tense when the time warning was given. Once they heard the words, “2 more minutes” it appeared they were evaluating their work and deciding whether 2 minutes was enough time to finish. I went to the student and gently asked if they were okay if I tried something with them, they agreed, with some apprehension.

On a piece of paper I drew a ‘pause’ sign on one side, and a ‘play’ sign on the other. I showed it to the student and asked if they knew what the symbols meant. They told me, “pause and play.” I used the analogy of a video game - when you are playing, if you press pause, what happens to the game? It stops where it is, and is in that spot when you come back. I shared that we can pause an activity and then when we have the time at the end of the day, we can press ‘play’. 

At that moment, his body tension eased and I was reminded of the moment Dawson shared, “Not Stop!” And so I taught the teachers who worked with this student to honor the process of pausing.

As I have come to better understand how Dawson thinks in concrete ways, I can better understand, empathize and appreciate the lessons he teaches me. And I can apply these lessons when I  also feel an urgency to complete something all at once, but need to prioritize my time.  In those moments I continue to honor the process of pausing.