It’s not Dylan who is kicking and screaming, this time, but me: all the way into the 21st century. As you might have gathered I am not keen on the digital world. While colleagues book out laptops for seminars I am still using the laminator and asking the technician for string and stickle bricks. ‘When you answer the item on your module evaluation questionnaire about my use of technology’, I tell students, ‘please remember that twisting cotton into a ball of twine is technology – it’s just been around a bit longer’.
People who know me express surprise that I have a blog: ‘It’s got pictures in it as well’, someone said to me the other day. But if I can see a purpose to technology I will apply myself doggedly until I have figured it out; Living With Autism arose from a determination to share my frustration at Dylan’s poor experience of transition to adult services rather than the desire to blog.
Purpose. Function. Appropriateness. These are terms I use with students when we discuss the use of technology to support learning in schools. I apply the same principles to my own use, I suppose, in that I take no pleasure from technology in itself but only in the affordances it offers. I resist adopting gadgets which I can’t see a role for in my life or from which I think I will derive no benefit. Smart TV, smarter phone, satellite and cable, iPad, iPod, dongles of this and bundles of the other – these might represent wonderful opportunities for others but, I have repeatedly claimed, they are not for me.
I might have a heart of string and a head that thinks in pen and ink but there’s nothing like parenting to challenge me – and being the peripatetic mother of an autistic adult, I am discovering, can lead to some unexpected places.
Last week, for example, I bought an iPad. Nothing extraordinary about that but for my steadfast resistance, over the years, to the idea of a tablet computer. So when I announced that I was going to buy one in my lunch break my colleague’s eye-rings widened in disbelief. ‘Have you thought about a mini?’ she asked once she realised I was serious. It would be wasted on me, I told her.
I only wanted an iPad so I could keep in touch with Dylan; as I have noted in previous posts I have found it difficult not to have daily contact since he moved to residential care. Because Dylan is non-verbal I am reliant on staff for information about him during the week. The telephone, however, is not a mode of communication I’m comfortable with and the evening phone call is often a source of anxiety. So when a member of staff mentioned, recently, that some non-speaking residents keep in touch with their family through Facetime my interest was piqued; I had finally been offered a reason for technology I couldn’t resist.
Although I have never owned an iPad myself I bought one for Dylan when he left school in 2013. He has used it mostly for music and film but recently has been developing new skills during ‘iPad time’ which is scheduled on his programme each week. Apparently this has been going well, with Dylan showing an interest in playing games with staff. It would be great if Dylan could add Facetime to his use of the iPad I told my colleague. ‘You might find your use increases too’, she said as I headed out of the office: ‘If I were you I’d definitely think about getting yourself a mini’.
I did buy one, though not for me. The extra capacity and portability would be ideal for Dylan I decided: I could have his old iPad. So yesterday I rigged up a maybe-system for transferring Dylan’s content to the new iPad mini. My main worry was accidentally deleting the copy of Ariel’s Beginnings I had gone to such lengths to download at Easter. I was also unsure when and how to introduce the idea of a new tablet to Dylan; in the back of my head was the possibility I wouldn’t manage the transfer and would have to have the mini myself instead. So I was hedging my bets a bit; not really telling Dylan what I was doing.
Sunday morning. Dylan hovering. I had promised him a ‘picnic and an explore’ up the next stretch of a river bank we had discovered the previous weekend. I watched with a sinking feeling as the predicted time for the sync extended itself: 15, 17, 18, 20 minutes the dialog box read. Dylan was pointing impatiently to the screen. He wanted me to do something but I wasn’t sure what. He gestured to the mouse. To the scroll bar. To the little cross in the corner. ‘We have to wait for it’, I said: ‘Let’s leave it and go downstairs’.
One the final day of our recent Easter holiday Dylan had tried to use his schedule to tell me what he wanted rather than what the schedule told him we were doing. Now Dylan took this a step further: he fetched some brochures and showed me a picture of a hotel bed. Then he pointed to the programme for his week which I had shared with him earlier that morning. ‘Moon’, he said. He pointed at my computer again and pushed the mouse toward me. ‘Moon’, he repeated. The dialog box read 5 minutes. This would be five long minutes if we stayed where we were, I thought to myself. Dylan looked at me and pointed at his programme: ‘Moon bed’. Ah. So that was it!
Dylan had remembered a conversation from the previous week when I promised to take him to a Premier Inn. He’s interested in this particular hotel chain because of the moon logo; every time we drive past one of their hotels Dylan cranes his neck and tells me ‘moon’ or ‘bed’. Our recent holiday, I assume, has triggered Dylan’s memory of overnight stays in the past and so last week I promised we could do this again. ‘Soon’, I had said. So when the iPad had finished its sync I decided to search for a moon hotel. It was like magic, I thought to myself as I checked the content, how everything seemed to have restored itself. ‘Would you like to take this special iPad with you to the moon Dylan?’ I said.