So you know how we made sure to have a very lowkey Thanksgiving and also to keep things real simple and understated for Charlie’s birthday, a holiday involving days off from school and an event that has been known to cause Charlie some serious consternation? In 2008, both of these days passed well and quietly for us, largely because we strove to make them Super No Big Deal in the biggest way.

So you think I’d have applied the same tried and true formula to Christmas and New Year’s.

Granted, since we take a 3000 mile airplane trip from New Jersey to California, and (as we traveled on Christmas Eve day, due to Charlie’s having his last day of school on December 23rd) no sooner had we landed and gotten to my parents’ house then we all got into a rented minivan and drove a couple hours out to the Sacramento area to my uncle’s—-due to this, Charlie was doing a lot more (energy-wise, social-wise, transition-wise) in one extremely long day than he often does in a week. The next day, being Christmas, meant that we went to the cemetery, then lunch in Chinatown, then relatives came over, then we went up to my aunt’s house—-and the next day, one of my relatives invited us and several family members out to a big Chinese dinner—-and then the next day, we took, or rather attempted to take, Charlie to Target, only this Target was one he’d never been too and was in a two-story building with mod-metallic-architecture—–

You get the picture. It was totally newness and super over-sensory overload, with a couple dashes of lots of food of a rather rich, holiday feast nature, and several switches from this activity to that event and the result was:

A very big stomachache, in a literal and figurative sense, leading to literal and figurative headaches and some rather erratic moments when Jim and I found ourselves flying after, and flinging ourselves (again, literally and figuratively) upon our boy.

We’ve been saying “nope” to social engagements (with the exception of a lovely afternoon of conversation and camaraderie with friends and their super great kids and a very attractive trampoline; Jim spent the day hiking with Charlie and walking him all over the neighborhoods around my parents’ house); have been all suddenly aware of how many echoes and sounds my parents’ house (it has all hardwood floors) resonates with, and also the height of the ceilings in some of the rooms and the way the space is sectioned up; have been adding up all the greasy sweet (gluten-free, actually, but greasy nonetheless) treats Charlie ate too much of the first two days; have been noting, yes, he is still sleeping in the little single bed my parents bought for him when he was, oh, a toddler. We’ve been making sure that Charlie does all the things he knows how to do at home—setting the table, stripping the sheets off his bed, carrying bags—out here.

And, I appropriated my mom’s calendar and x’d out the days of December that have passed, and pointed out the date we’ll be back in New Jersey. It’s actually a calendar that I made for her (courtesy of iPhoto software). Charlie looked at the boxes with the x’s and then started to turn the pages of the calendar. I pointed out shots of him sitting in the black chair he always slumps in after school; the cheap and study IKEA carpet that never seems to be crumb-free; the kitchen in our condo where he gleefully chomped on half a watermelon; and, of course, the ocean where he surfed and boogie-boarded last summer. Charlie’s eyes brightened up at all this.

No place like home for the holidays.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I write fairly frequently here about Charlie growing up. Of course, he’s not the only one around here getting older: It’s my birthday today, and I’m 40.

Fout-ohmygod, as one my mom-blog-friend puts it. Like the narrator in T.S. Eliot’s poem, I grow old, I do grow old, and I actually do roll the bottoms of my trousers (ok, pants), because I’m too lazy to get out a needle and thread and hem them.

My mother did teach me to hem, years ago, and it really is years ago, due to this birthday thing. She taught us the basics; I think my first “creation” was a pocket made of fabric from the scraps of the Halloween costumes and jumpers and curtains and pillows she used to make. She put together a sewing box for my sister and me and I remember trailing behind the two of them as we wandered the rows in the fabric store. I loved seeing all the prints and patterns and colors and running my hands over the bolts of material, and always had to steal a long look at what I thought was an infinite array of buttons, snaps, rickrack, ribbon, and “notions.” When I was around 7 or 8 and my sister, sewing boxes in had, took the AC Transit bus to the big town a couple miles away (we were living in what was then a very brand new suburb) and took lessons at a Singer sewing store. I was mildly terrified of the needle on the machine going through my finger and didn’t advance beyond making an awkward wrap skirt from a Simplicity pattern.

The reason we were taking AC Transit to the sewing lesson was that my mother had gone back to work and it was just my sister and me for many hours in the long, hot summer days. The once a week sewing class broke up the time (most of which we spent, quite contentedly, reading books). A year later, we moved back to Oakland, where my father’s family is from (and where he, my sister, and I were born). The sewing machine, cover clipped securely on, sat in a corner of the downstairs room where my dad had his desk, or in an unfinished storage area.

My mother also used to needlepoint and my sister took this up, and still does (the green dragon under the words “Charlie’s room” still hangs on a wall by his’s window). I didn’t think about sewing till I was in graduate school and on my own, and, finding that I really didn’t want to have to roll up the bottoms of my pants, I asked my mom to teach me how to hem, again. I did a few pairs of pants with her, yes, “helping” to even things up—-ok, sometimes my mom, who is just a bit shorter than me, would just pin up the pants, pack them up in her luggage, hem them at home in California, and send them back to me. I probably got more care packages while I was in grad school and living in my own place than when I was in a dorm in college, and felt a bit ridiculous when finding myself really looking forward to see what kind of cookies she’d saran-wrapped in pairs.

So much for me “growing up” and being “independent.”

These days, she still sends the packages (my dad was quite thrilled to discover those flat-rate shipping postage boxes). Now there’s stuff for three and, in the latest sent two weeks ago, two pairs of pants, carefully hemmed, for Charlie, who seems to have reached a stage of his life when pants grow shorter overnight and when he and Jim can pretty much share t-shirts and socks. (And when the three of us were briefly confused the other day about whose black suede slip-on shoes were whose; Jim’s appeared only slightly bigger than Charlie’s.) I not only still don’t hem pants, but work is very busy, and taking care of Charlie, and talking and thinking through things with Jim, and everything …..

But I know I could hem pants if I had to. I still have a sewing box outfitted with needles of different sizes and different colors of thread and scissors and a thimble (though I did misplace the box for awhile in one of our moves). I don’t have to roll up the bottoms of every pair of pants, having finally found some that more or less are the right length, but I like knowing that I could if I had to. In the occasional times when I’ve sewed a button that fell off a sweater or one of Jim’s shirts, or tried to patch the lining of my coat pockets, I’ve found the activity of sewing—making the knot in the thread and moving the needle and thread in and out and in and out—focusing and, while not exactly relaxing, soothing in the repetition.

And then, my wardrobe has of late been a bit over-supplied in khaki and ripstop pants and jeans, some with elastic waists: The pants Charlie was wearing last year are pretty much the right length for me.

40 years old, and wearing hand-me-ups from a not-yet-adolescent boy.

Such are life’s lessons when you know you’re older, and you’re trying, very hard, to be just a bit wiser, especially when you know you get to spend the years to come (40, 41, and counting) with your two very, very best friends.

(But how long will Jim have a few inches on Charlie—there will be time, there will be time.)

Neurologist Oliver Sacks wrote about animal scientist professor Temple Grandin as an “anthropologist on Mars” and she has referred to herself as an anthropologist from Mars“—-last night, we went to Mars.

Ok, it was Mars 2112 on 51st and Broadway in Manhattan, a “space-themed restarant” that is (according to its website) a “spectacular mingling of fantasy and reality, a 35,000-square-foot, bi-level, multi-dimensional, immersive environment that catapults travelers to a completely new world.” That is: A below-ground restaurant in midtown Manhattan with the usual kidfood and a lot of glowing red lights emanating from the floor via grills and out from behind some clearly synthetic Mars-sort of rock formations on the walls, and a couple of Martians making the rounds (getting their photos taken with kids and teens).

Mars was indeed beyond the orbit of our usual places to visit, at least on a Friday night. We’d been invited to a birthday party for a turning-11-year-old—it’s been awhile since Charlie was last invited to a birthday party and we were eager to go. I suspected the, ahem, “atmosphere of Mars might be on the over-stimluating side, due to noise, lights, the sounds/beeps/etc. emanating from the video arcade. But like I said, it’s been awhile since Charlie was invited to a birthday party and his whole face perked up at the mention of those magic words.

Getting there was extra-arduous as it was pouring rain and traffic was at a standstill on numerous spots on the highway. We made our way in mist and slippery roads to Jersey City and parked the car and, with the birthday girl’s present wrapped in Charlie’s rain coat, made our way to the PATH train. We met up with Jim outside of Radio City Music Hall, amid lies of people all getting distracted looking at the lights (it’s Christmas season for sure, at least in regard to decorations) and the shop windows. It was unseasonably warm and the rain gradually let up.

Mars 2112 turned out to be pretty much as anticipated, certainly in the noise department. Charlie followed Jim in amid the glowing red lights and the staircases amid the Mars-rock walls and past the Cyperport where the video arcades beeped and twinkled. He sat at the end of a long table where some 20 kids were eating White Castle-like sliders and fries and making an incredible amount of noise (not for any particular reason, other than that they were kids at a birthday party in a space-theme eatery). When kids wanted to squeeze past Charlie, he moved over as they directed. He wasn’t so sure about eating those little burgers; his smile was generous when the cake (well-candled) was brought out, and happy singing commenced. When everyone raced off to play video games, Charlie remained at the table, quietly attentive and nibbling at the fries as Jim and I talked to the birthday child’s mother and some friends.

“He reminds me of my brother,” one woman said, her eyes on Charlie who was carefully eating some fries and ketchup. She told me, years ago, her parents had taken her brother to clinics and tried to find out “what” he had; of how he’d been institutionalized when he was younger than Charlie is now; of what happened—-the institution is not there anymore—-there’s a reason; of how he lives now in a group home and how he never talked. Of how, there was so little (as in, flat nothing) for her brother in the 1950s.

And I thought about the journey we’d been on with Charlie and thought, knew, we’ve come a far far way, indeed.

Charlie pulled on his blue hooded sweatshirt as we talked and grabbed his two Leapsters and stood up looking at us, and waiting, quietly, patiently. Waiters cleared off the table, a short Martian danced by, and someone else had a birthday cake delivered. The woman gave Charlie a warm smile as he tugged at Jim’s arm to go and she wished him good-bye, more than kinly.

I’m not sure we’ll be going back to Mars but who needs to, after one visit that was (I have to say it) out of this world, and beyond.

On Day 3 of summer vacation, Charlie woke at 6am chattering and was soon up and about. He’d gone to bed late the night before and, not surprisingly, he fell asleep around 10am, his long form smooshed against the back of the couch. I saw beside him and worked on my book and Charlie must have really needed his sleep, as Jim and me talking and Pandora playing did not wake him. When Charlie woke up, we went swimming and then a lazy summer day got a little more interesting.

We’d been invited to a surprise birthday party and told to show up by a certain time to await the arrival of the birthday guest. However, the night before, we’d gone to another friend’s house and Charlie had spent most of a few hours pacing the front yard and porch; he sat down for a hamburger with an apologetically lot of ketchup in the backyard then made a run for the front. Our friends were lovely and took the party to Charlie, the hostess bringing him a nice bowl of cornbread and raspberry sherbet (which he sampled, though he’s never had either food). By the end of the party—when all but two other guests had departed—-Charlie ventured inside, and checked out a tank of fish and the staircase. It did occur to Jim and me, though, that Charlie might be equally unlikely to go inside the house of the friend hosting the surprise party; not wanting to spoil the surprise with Charlie pacing on someone’s front lawn, we arrived late.

This house had a long driveway and the party was set up in the yard right beside it, and Charlie seemed instantly at home. He was less sure about the food, all “Hawaiian themed.” We’ve been tapering Charlie off being 100% gluten-free while still avoiding anything dairy; I did offer him macaroni and cheese, and he said a firm “no.” He was quite at ease but getting hungry and we said good-byes (it’s not how long you stay at a party, perhaps, but what a good time you have, and we all did).

“Bangkok, brown noodles,” said Charlie, referring to a noodle restaurant we used to patronized every week that’s since closed. Jim suggested Charlie’s favorite hamburger place and then mentioned a certain Spanish restaurant in Bayonne. “No,” said Charlie and requested the burger place. Then he started talking about fries and chips and shrimp—the Spanish restaurant serves plates of fried potato slices and delicious paella. “Bayonne,” said Charlie, and onto the NJ Turnpike we went, with a view of the Manhattan skyline displaying itself on the left.

The same elegantly graying waiters have been at this restaurant since we first went to it some six and maybe more years ago. Smoking was still allowed in New Jersey restaurants then and we’d inevitably leave smelling as if we had a pack a day habit—-the main reason we stopped going for some years was when we worried about the ceramic dishes getting swiped off the table, and then on the way in once, Charlie threw himself backwards on the floor between tables.

Though clad in blue shorts and t-shirt, he was every inch of Charlie the Gent last night. He attacked the bread basket with happy gusto and slurped up lentil and vegetable soup without our asking, helped himself to those asked-for fries-chips, ate several spoonfuls of rice tinged rich yellow with saffron and shrimp, and then, having eaten his full, sat while Jim and I finished.

End of a nice busy day out and about with Charlie?………..No!

I didn’t post a photo of a ferris wheel above just to suggest we had some good times: We got back on Rte 440 and the Turnpike and went to a local  carnival that we used to go to all the time. It was the last night and we had an epic wait to ride the modest ferris wheel. We were treated to a good view of NJ teenagers dressed up for the carnival passegiata and a good dousing of smoke for the Oriental BarBQue. Charlie put his hand over his ears and grinned beside Jim as the ferris wheel went up.

I heard a cry of rising anguish as the ride was ending: Charlie got off with his head down, hands locked over his ears. Jim gave away the rest of the tickets he’d bought and we went home. Charlie ran to his room and was happily engrossed in his CD collection and making sure the little purple Little Tykes chairs that he did his first ABA sessions in were lined up against the wall. And then he came out with two Disney Classics CDs, saying “help, fix” in a very concerned matter. We got out Scotch tape and I taped up the cracks in one CD case and Charlie looked at them and then he did what might be called groaning in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time but it was higher-pitched, like keening, and accompanied with strong shakes of his head.

We didn’t say anything. Charlie sat on the couch and then he threw the two CD cases onto the floor and ran beside them and knelt, bent over, moan, moan, moan.

I got a sofa pillow and pushed it gently onto his knees, making sure it was inbetween his forehead and the floor, and went to sit a few feet away. I picked up my journal and started writing, at least one eye on Charlie. His vocal distress continued for a half-hour, in the midst of which he called out, “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall!”

“Yes, he did,” I said. Charlie buried his forehead in the pillow and I heard the rest of the rhyme as said by the Teletubbies in a video we don’t have anymore (it ended up in the garbage, at the end of one awful summer afternoon) in a scene in which they’re sitting at their Tubby table to eat Tubby custard and they all fall off, ha ha ha, just like Humpty Dumpty and

all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Humpty, like the CD case and all the photos that got ripped in half, was broken. Gone, cracked, frazzled, fragmented, never the same ever again, and I thought, what a travesty that kids like Charlie were thought, are thought, not to have an internal life of thoughts and musing and worries and memories, and all because their language and communication skills can’t articulate what they are thinking. Charlie scores whatever low number on an intelligence test, but there’s some ultra-perceptive understanding in him, and how does he feel that he can’t blurt it out the way Jim and I trade sentences and converse?
“Charlie, we can get a new Disney CD tomorrow,” I found myself saying suddenly. “We’ll always get you what you need.”

I finished my journal entry for the day and slowly, slowly, by minute degrees, Charlie was quiet, hugging the pillow, and then he got up, grabbed his backpack, and told me, untense and smiling, “good night.”

Good night indeed; good day. And a great boy, with great smarts, trying to piece it all back together again.

Katherine McCarron would have been six years old today. Wishing her a very happy birthday and and best wishes to her family.

Composer Allen Shawn writes about a birthday meal for his 59-year-old twin sister, Mary, who has lived in an institution for the mentally retarded in Maryland since she was 8 year old, in last Sunday’s New York Times magazine. For years and years, the meal has been the same—”chicken salad, tomatoes, rolls with butter, iced tea, ice cream and cake”—-as Shawn’s 99-year-old mother has wished. At a birthday meal when their mother “would not last much longer,” Mary comes to the apartment she has not lived at for so many years:

Escorted by an aide, Mary arrived dressed in a snappy striped shirt and pink summer pants. She had a particularly comfortable, confident air. In fact, it was as if she knew her way around. Although she asked where the bathroom was, she walked to it as if from long-buried habit. Her ease in the apartment, and with our mother, was self-evident. But this was the least of the surprises. She ate her chicken salad and rolls and tomatoes, to be sure, but she was particularly taken with the [never before on the birthday meal menu]antipasto, of which she asked for second and third helpings, while asking for more of everything by name. She dug into the watermelon [also a first-timer on the menu] and the unexpected salad with obvious delight and interest. More than once she said that she was having a wonderful time.

And all of this occurred in the presence of a miracle. From the moment our mother was brought into the room, her eyes remained open in unmistakable wonder and joy, as she looked from one of us to the other in astonishment and gratitude, galvanized, awakened, transfixed, radiantly fulfilled by the sight of her daughter. The occasion brought her back from a kind of somnolence that had lasted for months, as if encountering bright daylight after an age of darkness. Her eyes remained opened even after Mary left, and that night she barely slept.

It’s never too late to shake things up a bit—-who know what unknown tastes await us?

It’s Autistic Pride Day today; the day originated with Aspies for Freedom. It’s also the birthday of Jason Ross Artson who blogs at Drive Mom Crazy (a blog-name I’m quite fond of, by the way). I think we’ll be celebrating here by doing “the usual”: It’s Charlie’s first day of Extended School Year and of us getting back into the usual routine. We will be baking a cake—Charlie sighted a gluten-free crumb cake mix last time we were at the store and wanted to make it last night at 9pm, and was fine with waiting till “after school.” He also has speech therapy and then we need to go shopping for some items for school—-locks for his locker are at the top of the list—-and I’m always proud to be aut with Charlie in public.

Happy Birthday, Jason!

Yes, our family (as in all three of us) attended two parties this weekend.

On Saturday afternoon we drove into Queens via the Goethals Bridge, the Verranzano Bridge (Charlie sat up to get the full view of being close to the ocean), and Brooklyn (after going through Sunset Park and seeing too many interesting looking Chinese and Asian restaurants, and then East New York). One of Jim’s friends’ two sisters (count the s’s and the apostrophes in that) were both celebrating their birthday somewhere off of Fresh Pond Road. Charlie put his hands over his ears at the music and the party noise; a woman who works with autistic children at a school out on Long Island came and sat with him and talked; Charlie looked relaxed. He sat and ate while Jim and I socialized. Driving back to Jersey we got this view of Manhattan as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge.

Sunday we were invited to bike on a trail to celebrate the birthday of a boy a year older than Charlie. “Ride bikes with friends,” Charlie said in the car as we drove with me glancing in the rear view mirror at the bikes on the bike rack. We drove past where we were to meet everyone and had to retrace our route. Soon as we found the party, Charlie could hardly wait to jump on his bike and—first and in the lead—he was off, Jim right behind.

There was lunch and Babycakes cupcakes (Charlie got to have 2), water balloons and happy cheer. We talked about schools and programs with other parents and a teacher, and watched our kids be themselves in their different ways.

Biking in circles and circles round the gazebo.

Sitting to eat facing the other way.

Running to put on a blue fleece sweatshirt on an 80 degree day (hood too).

We drove away dusty and glad for the AC in the black car, and the bikes tied on securely for the ride home.

I never got around to making a list of last week’s top posts last week so here’s two weeks of “top posts” about autism. Rather than arrange them in chronological order, I’ve arranged them by topic:

My son Charlie turned 11 last Thursday, on May 15th. Life on the road with Charlie is my constant theme here and these posts are about his sensory sensitivities, his beloved bike rides with his beloved dad, and other things I’ve been learning on our journey. (In the photo, he’s enjoying a birthday dinner of sushi and cake on Jim’s desk.)

• Too High-Pitched to Hear
  It was a couple of months ago that my son Charlie started—for the first time in his life—to show sensitivity to sound by putting both hands over his ears.
• The Final (Bike Riding) Frontier
  Learning to use the gears is—as Jim proclaimed when he and Charlie came home after bike ride #2—the “final frontier.” Who knows what hills and mountains await?
• Back in the Swim
  Charlie goes for a swim in the pool at Saint Peter’s College in Jersey City.
• Parenting Isn’t Easy, Period—and I’m Very Glad to Be a Mother
  On Mother’s Day, an essay by Robert Hughes in today’s Chicago Tribune is entitled What Autism Means to a Father.
• Statements to the IACC (and what happened on Monday)
  Statements to the Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee by Paula Durbin-Westby and myself.
• The Ides of May
  Happy Birthday to Charlie on his 11th birthday!

Several posts about science and research, causes and treatments:

• Biomed, Anecdotal Evidence, and Thoughtful House
  Whether or not to try biomedical treatments is a question that’s perhaps unavoidable for parents with an autistic child today.
• Autism and Parents with Psychiatric Disorders
  The risk of having an autistic child is doubled if a parent has schizophrenia or if a mother has psychiatric problems (depression, personality disorders), according to a study published in Pediatrics.
• The Puzzling Spectrum of Autism Causes
  What do TV, ultrasounds, insufficient vitamin D, air pollution, a mother having the flu while pregnant, mercury, have to do with each other?
• Just When You Thought You’d Heard Every Possible Treatment for Autism…
  …..here’s another one to add to the list.
• Charges Dropped Against Dr. Roy Kerry
  Charges have been dropped against Dr. Roy Kerry, the Pittsburgh-area doctor who was accused of causing the death of 5-year-old Abubakar Tariq Nadama.
• The Gluten Free Frenzy
  How many people have been telling you that they may be intolerant to gluten?
• Antipsychotics in Kids, Weight Gain, and Parental Worries
  A new study on the use of antipsychotic medications in children indicates that taking these drugs results in an almost immediate increases in body mass index (BMI) and triglyceride levels.
• Everything Causes Autism (Or So it Seems)
  What hasn’t been cited as a cause of autism?
• Genes Linked to Social Impairments
  A new study in the May 15th Biological Psychiatry has found genetic links to the “impaired social behaviors”; of autistic children.
• Regressive Autism and a Test for Babies
  Researchers at McMaster University in Canada have developed a new test that can, it is said, detect signs of autism in babies as young as 9 months old and I suspect that this test might have detected “something” in Charlie when he was that age.

Some posts about autistic adults and employment, services, and places to live.

• Symposium on Employment for ASD Adults
  Some great advice in this comment from a job developer/job coach for adults with disabilities, and the father of an autistic son.
• Where Are All the Autistic Adults?
  The British government has announced that it is planning to calculate the number of autistic adults in England, but the tools for diagnosing autism in adults are neither as valid nor as reliable as those used for children.

The vaccine issue, inevitably:

• Yes, the Vaccine Question Again
  Another round of “vaccine court” begins on Monday, May 12, with the case of William Mead and Jordan King.
• “Open Questions” about Autism, and Vaccines, and Much More
  CBS News correspondent Sharyl Attkisson interviews Dr. Bernardine Healy, a former head of the National Institutes of Health and a member of the Institute of Medicine.
• Paul Offit on Hannah Poling and the VICP
  In the May 15th New England Journal of Medicine, Dr. Offit revisits the case of Hannah Poling in light of the recent history of the Vaccine Injury Compensation Program (VICP).

Some recurring issues: Is there a real increase in autism—what do you if your child stomps and jumps and you live in a second-floor apartment—how do you take an autistic child to church—do you still feel any shame and stigma when people learn that your child, or you yourself, is/are different?

• The So-Called Autism Pandemic
  The term “autism pandemic” strikes me as a not exactly subtle attempt to make the rise in the prevalence rate of autism seem to be much more extreme, and scary,
• Stigma and Pride
  More people with severe forms of mental illness such as schizophrenia and bipolar disorders are now speaking out about their “demons” as part of “Mad Pride.”
• Oregon Family Wins Discrimination Case
  An Oregon family has won a $40,000 settlement from a Portland, Oregon apartment owner and management company.
• Autism and Faith: A Journey into Community
  Autism and Faith: A Journey into Community is a new resource for clergy, religious educators, and families of autistic children to develop “inclusive spiritual supports” for autistic individuals in religious settings.

Today at a hearing before the General Medical Council, Dr. Andrew Wakefield—-the doctor who is at the center of the controversy over the MMR vaccine—admitted that he had what the BBC terms a “poor grasp of the medical ethics surrounding work on children.” Dr. Wakefield faces being struck off the medical register in regard to “serious professional misconduct relating to investigations undertaken on 12 children between 1996 and 1998.” Among the allegations is a charge that he took blood samples from children at his son’s birthday party; the children were paid £5.

According to the BBC, Dr. Wakefield said:

“I’m perfectly willing to accept my understanding was wrong.”

While Dr. Wakefield had received “parental consent,” he should have obtained clearance from an ethics committee; he says that “was not aware of ‘detailed guidance’ on the treatment of children provided by the British Paediatric Association.” More details about the specific charges here.