Patternicity.

It’s a term that refers to “the tendency to find meaningful patterns in meaningless noise,” as noted by Michael Shermer in the November Scientific American:

Traditionally, scientists have treated patternicity as an error in cognition. A type I error, or a false positive, is believing something is real when it is not (finding a nonexistent pattern). A type II error, or a false negative, is not believing something is real when it is (not recognizing a real pattern—call it “apatternicity”).

However, as Shermer notes, we don’t have a “Baloney Detection Network in the brain to distinguish between true and false patterns”—-patternicity does seem to be at work when it comes to theories of autism causation. There’s no doubt that some believe that a vaccine really caused their child to be come autistic (a “type I error, or a false positive”), and, too, there seem to be many who don’t believe that there really is evidence refuting a vaccine-autism link (and who do not recognize a real pattern—who are exhibiting “appatternicity”). Shermer cites a paper in the the October Proceedings of the Royal Society B “The Evolution of Superstitious and Superstition-like Behaviour,” by Harvard University biologist Kevin R. Foster and University of Helsinki biologist Hanna Kokko. They draw on evolutionary biology to demonstrate that

whenever the cost of believing a false pattern is real is less than the cost of not believing a real pattern, natural selection will favor patternicity.

Belief in the false pattern of “vaccines cause autism” persists because the “cost” of believing this is more readily grasped, you might say, requires less of certain efforts, than the alternative. There’s a deep-set tendency in us to find, to have meaning, in whatever the world presents to us; to be superstitious (if not a bit paranoid); to see causal associations just because something happens after something else; to assign cause to effect incorrectly.

Lest this seem merely to be yet another “vaccines don’t cause autism” post, I’m tacking on an account of our Thanksgiving and, yes, patternicity.

Patternicity seems another way to explain Charlie’s need to create order, in placing his shoes with the socks inside them perfectly lined up together; in packing his lunch box with a Capri Sun, 4 small plastic containers, and bags of carrots and grapes when he gets home from school; in arranging his CDs on the floor of his room just so. When Charlie was younger, if we so much as moved one shoe or colored block, his agitation was broadcast far, wide, and loudly. These days he’s easy-going if anything gets moved and sometimes leaves it askew, sometimes restores his order.

Charlie having some extra days off from school, I’ve figured that his need for order—for ways to mark and structure the days—increases. He spent a lot of Thursday (aside from loafing on the couch and going on an hour-long bike ride with Jim on a cold afternoon) in his room, trying to stick all the CDs into his old paper pumpkin trick-or-treat bag. There are way too many CDs to fit into the bag and Charlie did not let this deter him from trying to cram them all in with the result that that bag kept splitting and, in the midst of pumpkin pie baking and general Thanksgiving food preparations, I heard the cry of “I need help!” a couple of times.

The pumpkin bag was literally bursting at its seams when I went into Charlie’s room. With three kinds of tape—Scotch, masking, and duct—I tried to patch together the ripped side and the jagged places where CD corners had poked through the candy corn design. Charlie watched me intently and occasionally offered very long pieces of Scotch tape that he’d cut with scissors. At one point, I tried to tape a piece of a brown paper shopping bag onto the pumpkin bag, to make it bigger so all the CDs would actually fit.

“No, no,” was Charlie’s immediate response at my attempt to graft a piece of one bag onto another. Well, of course: What does a piece of brown paper bag have to do with an increasingly dilapidated paper pumpkin trick or treat bag? To tape one onto the other would be to disrupt the order of things—to upset the pattern—-and the cost was too high.

After I’d taped the bag together, I returned to Thanksgiving dinner preparations (now why is it that Americans feel a need to eat a specific menu of turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie?) and Charlie returned to his CD-ordering-and-reordering. When we called Charlie to eat the turkey, we heard “help, fix”: When I went into his room, I beheld the pumpkin bag, so recently, carefully, taped back to wholeness, packed full of CDs with one side ripped open and flapping around.

Apparently there’s a new order to understand here.

As we were leaving a subway station on Friday night in Manhattan, Jim paused for a moment, pointed to a dingy wall, and said “here’s the sign to the PATH.” On a pale green piece of paper

PATH
train
————>

was written in black marker, with the arrow pointing toward a staircase.

Someone had carefully placed four long strips of masking tape like a picture frame around the edges of the makeshift sign.

Yes, there’s a lot you can do with tape. Charlie’s had a longstanding fondness for the sticky stuff, or perhaps a better word to use is intrigue. I guess there is some magic in something that can put back together what gets ripped or torn (like some of his favorite photos). It’s been found that just unrolling tape can produce X-rays; a few friends have noted their kids’ ability to use up rolls of Scotch tape, which seem so well suited for festooning walls and doorways with.

Last night, after we got home, Charlie requested the scissors and a roll of Scotch tape to fix an old Barney CD. A small piece had broken off, right where there was a picture of Barney in his purple glory. Charlie asked me for “help” and I taped the broken CD together and, after handing it back, Charlie said:

“Thank you.”

I told him he was of course, very welcome. (And ran to tell Jim about this first spontaneous “thank you.”) (Yes, a first.)

After about fifteen minutes, I still heard the sound of tape being pulled off the spindle. I went into Charlie’s room and found him applying the 20th or so strip of tape onto the Barney CD, which now was sported a glistening shellac-mound of tape in its middle. “Bye Mom,” Charlie told me without turning around.

Because it’s important—it’s necessary—to make sure that a favorite thing, when broken, gets fixed extra special good, for keeps.

After a bit of an unordinary Saturday, we had a nothing-special Sunday. It’s a balance of new things and familiarity that we’ve found amenable for Charlie. While bike-riding and piano and cello playing were all nothing unusual for Charlie to do, doing these things for a camera and with a lot unfamiliar people around—-that calls for some unwinding.

Sunday Charlie woke up early and then went back to sleep (actually, we all slept in). He had breakfast and wanted to eat more and when I suggested he ride his bike to the bagel store with Jim, Charlie called for his helmet and put on his socks and shoes and sweatshirt. He looked in the usual place for the helmets and only found a very old one of Jim’s (that makes the wearer look like he has a turtle on his head). Charlie tried it on and put it down and I noticed that the helmets were on the floor in front of a bookshelf. Charlie grabbed one and I brought Jim the other one: “They’re interchangeable!” Jim noted and off they went, not to return for an hour and a half, Jim swinging a plastic bag loaded down with juices and a bagels from his handlebars.

Charlie ran for a plate and grabbed his Leapsters and the bagel bag and set himself up on the couch—yes, you read that right—it is now Leapsters. Saturday afternoon we realized that Charlie’s original Leapster—lovingly carried to many places and always under Charlie’s arm when we go to New York—-had suffered too may falls and dents and was stuck at the opening screen. (Charlie also likes to carry it by the attached stylus sometimes, and that has led to it working erratically.) I got online and looked up the Target website and found, lo and behold! our local Target had Leapsters in stock and so to Target we went, where Charlie (once I found the aisle with Leapfrog products) stood solemnly eyes agog at a stack of Leapsters (green and pink). He looked at me (yes, pleadingly) and I said (of course I said), “Sure, you can get one.”

The Leapster box was carried tightly under Charlie’s arm as we made our way through the store. Charlie and Jim wandered into the DVD aisle while I located shampoo and soap; I found Jim waving a book at me. Its title was Goodnight Goon, a parody of what is still Charlie’s much loved book (and we both agreed, it doesn’t quite compare to the original, but maybe we’re overly sentimental.)

Charlie pushed the Leapster box toward me soon as we got home and told me “I need help.” I got out scissors and then batteries (just purchased) and a screwdriver and soon Charlie had his new Leapster going; he ran to get the old (chipped, battered) one and set them side by side.

So Sunday, he made sure to have those Leapsters around as he ate his bagel, and then took them to his room where he was going through a rather messy pile of old CDs. I again heard the call “help” and “fix“; when I went into his room, Charlie handed me a CD with a picture of Barney on it. Part of the CD had broken off and I said ok and got some tape and, with Charlie scrutinizing my every move, carefully lined up the edges of the CD and the chipped off part and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” said Charlie.

I said, of course, you’re welcome, and went to tell Jim because, yes, first time Charlie has said that on his own.

Thank you, Charlie.