April is National Autism Awareness Month.
My son, Jack, cried the other day because he was sad.
And I was thrilled.
Until that point, he'd only ever cried out of anger, pain, or frustration. All emotions grounded in the concrete. All reactions to something external, usually triggered by being denied something.
He was watching a Wallace and Gromit movie.
"Gromit is a good dog," he says. "And Wallace is a good boy."
"Yes," I respond, "Gromit is a good dog, and Wallace is a good man."
"Yes, Wallace is a good man," he repeats.
"They are good friends," I suggest.
He considers this for a moment, and then his chin begins to quaver and his eyes fill with tears.
I know he is thinking about Luke, our neighbor’s son. Luke is three, a year younger than Jack, and he and his family moved away to Florida a couple of days ago.
Luke and Jack have played together almost every afternoon for the past year. During the days leading up to the move, the things in Luke's house were slowing consumed by boxes. And sandbox, playhouse, and all of the outdoor toys slowly disappeared.
We'd been talking about Luke's leaving. But it was hard to tell whether Jack really understood what was going on.
He would repeat what he was hearing: "Luke is going away." "We are having a going away party for Luke and his family."
He would listen dispassionately to descriptions of how we would keep in touch with Luke and his family.
Mostly, he just played as hard as he usually does with Luke. Jack, Luke, and a couple of the neighborhood boys would congregate almost daily in Luke's backyard. They would run and play for hours, until it was time for dinner.
***
I watch the big tears roll down his cheeks.
"Can I sit next to you?" I ask. He nods.
"Do you want a hug?" Another nod.
I put my arm around him.
"I miss Luke," I say. He nods again. We sit like that for awhile, and just as quickly as a summer storm, the tears are gone.
I am happy he is sad, because it is a sign of cognitive development and an indication of emotional bonding. He loves Luke, he misses Luke.
Formally, Jack has pervasive development delay (PDD), one of a myriad of disorders within the spectrum of autism.
For Jack, it means he is immensely gifted with physical coordination and endurance. His gross motor skills are amazing, surpassed only by his ability to memorize dialogue. Truly astounding, he can repeat word for word practically any story he has ever been read to, listened to, or watched. Of course, he frequently fixates on a particular story: we've been reading The Polar Express for months. At this point you would think I'd have it memorized too. Instead, I read it and play games with him. I'll change the words, just to see if he notices. One night, the train becomes a boat mid-way through, and the conductor a captain. He giggles and corrects me, "No, no, Mama! 'The train was surrounded by an apron of steam'!"
Maybe he will be an athlete. If we can help him with his verbal, social, and fine motor skills.
He didn't speak in a way that was intelligible to most people until he was well over three. And, when he did, more often than not it was to rush up to someone and repeat whatever piece of dialogue he was fixating on at that time.
"The 4449 Daylight was the most beautiful steam locomotive," he says to a pretty blonde girl, around three years old and about to go down the slide.
She looks at him the way most children do, quizzically. And then slides down and walks away.
At least that is how the younger children react. Jack will be five in just about a month. When viewed on his own, Jack has made tremendous progress over the past year. Thanks mainly to the wonderful teachers at the Early Childhood program through our local public school. They "get" Jack, and they have specialized training to really help him develop his verbal, social, and fine motor skills.
Now, thanks to their help, he can answer questions, interact with other kids and adults, and (almost) write his name.
He has come so, so very far. And, yet, when viewed against his peers, he has so very far to go.
I forget, sometimes, that he is "different." Until we have the occasion to be around other almost-five year olds. And then the contrast is, well, honestly disheartening. Because by the time kids are five, they don't just give a funny look and walk away from someone who is different. Sometimes, they have something to say about it, and that something isn't always nice. Jack, for better or worse, seems largely oblivious to their looks and comments. But as his mother, it breaks my heart. And at the same time, it makes me even more determined.
And so, when he cries, like he did last week, a part of me rejoices. Because it means he can feel. It means he can love. And it means that we have hope, together.
My son, Jack, cried the other day because he was sad.
And I was thrilled.
Until that point, he'd only ever cried out of anger, pain, or frustration. All emotions grounded in the concrete. All reactions to something external, usually triggered by being denied something.
He was watching a Wallace and Gromit movie.
"Gromit is a good dog," he says. "And Wallace is a good boy."
"Yes," I respond, "Gromit is a good dog, and Wallace is a good man."
"Yes, Wallace is a good man," he repeats.
"They are good friends," I suggest.
He considers this for a moment, and then his chin begins to quaver and his eyes fill with tears.
I know he is thinking about Luke, our neighbor’s son. Luke is three, a year younger than Jack, and he and his family moved away to Florida a couple of days ago.
Luke and Jack have played together almost every afternoon for the past year. During the days leading up to the move, the things in Luke's house were slowing consumed by boxes. And sandbox, playhouse, and all of the outdoor toys slowly disappeared.
We'd been talking about Luke's leaving. But it was hard to tell whether Jack really understood what was going on.
He would repeat what he was hearing: "Luke is going away." "We are having a going away party for Luke and his family."
He would listen dispassionately to descriptions of how we would keep in touch with Luke and his family.
Mostly, he just played as hard as he usually does with Luke. Jack, Luke, and a couple of the neighborhood boys would congregate almost daily in Luke's backyard. They would run and play for hours, until it was time for dinner.
***
I watch the big tears roll down his cheeks.
"Can I sit next to you?" I ask. He nods.
"Do you want a hug?" Another nod.
I put my arm around him.
"I miss Luke," I say. He nods again. We sit like that for awhile, and just as quickly as a summer storm, the tears are gone.
I am happy he is sad, because it is a sign of cognitive development and an indication of emotional bonding. He loves Luke, he misses Luke.
Formally, Jack has pervasive development delay (PDD), one of a myriad of disorders within the spectrum of autism.
For Jack, it means he is immensely gifted with physical coordination and endurance. His gross motor skills are amazing, surpassed only by his ability to memorize dialogue. Truly astounding, he can repeat word for word practically any story he has ever been read to, listened to, or watched. Of course, he frequently fixates on a particular story: we've been reading The Polar Express for months. At this point you would think I'd have it memorized too. Instead, I read it and play games with him. I'll change the words, just to see if he notices. One night, the train becomes a boat mid-way through, and the conductor a captain. He giggles and corrects me, "No, no, Mama! 'The train was surrounded by an apron of steam'!"
Maybe he will be an athlete. If we can help him with his verbal, social, and fine motor skills.
He didn't speak in a way that was intelligible to most people until he was well over three. And, when he did, more often than not it was to rush up to someone and repeat whatever piece of dialogue he was fixating on at that time.
"The 4449 Daylight was the most beautiful steam locomotive," he says to a pretty blonde girl, around three years old and about to go down the slide.
She looks at him the way most children do, quizzically. And then slides down and walks away.
At least that is how the younger children react. Jack will be five in just about a month. When viewed on his own, Jack has made tremendous progress over the past year. Thanks mainly to the wonderful teachers at the Early Childhood program through our local public school. They "get" Jack, and they have specialized training to really help him develop his verbal, social, and fine motor skills.
Now, thanks to their help, he can answer questions, interact with other kids and adults, and (almost) write his name.
He has come so, so very far. And, yet, when viewed against his peers, he has so very far to go.
I forget, sometimes, that he is "different." Until we have the occasion to be around other almost-five year olds. And then the contrast is, well, honestly disheartening. Because by the time kids are five, they don't just give a funny look and walk away from someone who is different. Sometimes, they have something to say about it, and that something isn't always nice. Jack, for better or worse, seems largely oblivious to their looks and comments. But as his mother, it breaks my heart. And at the same time, it makes me even more determined.
And so, when he cries, like he did last week, a part of me rejoices. Because it means he can feel. It means he can love. And it means that we have hope, together.
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