Jump

When C was first diagnosed with ASD, a friend who has faced the same challenge told me that I would come to appreciate the littlest accomplishments just as though they were gigantic.

Yesterday, C was jumping on a trampoline, feet flying above the elastic surface. To most parents of a three-year-old, this would be a pleasant experience, but to me it was a victory worthy of celebration.

You see, C couldn't jump. Not at all. He would crouch and push, but he could never get air; this is not uncommon in ASD kids. No matter how he tried, how much we cheered him on, he just couldn't do it.

But with time and therapy and lots of practice, C now jumps, and he counts each jump, up to 30. Then he starts over again. He is joyful.

My friend was right: the small victories have come to mean just as much as the big ones.

Good Times

C has been a bit of a ping pong ball lately, one day doing quite well, the next seeming hard to reach and engaging in a lot of typical ASD-behaviors. Nonetheless, I wanted to take a moment to post some photos that make me smile, images that show promise.

Thank You, Girls

In C's preschool, there are a couple of girls who have taken C under their wing, who have become protective of him, and who seem to genuinely care about him.

One little girl, for example, keeps an eye out for his oxygen tube and says he is "the cream cheese on a bagel." (I'm guessing that's a pretty big compliment for a three-year-old). Another girl says C is "her very favorite boy," and then runs her fingers through his curls.

I am so grateful for this attention, not just for the obvious reason that it brings normalcy into my son's life, but because I can see C being drawn out by it. On a couple of occasions recently, I've actually seen him join in activities with others on his own, without prompting. I know this must be due, in some small part, to the kindness being bestowed upon him by his peers.

One of these little girls came by for a play date this afternoon and, when leaving, patted C on the head; he was facing me, so she didn't see the broad smile that spread across his face.

I did.

The Other One

There's another boy in all of this, the other twin, the one who might someday read this blog and wonder if we considered him as much as we consider his brother. The one who sees all the special attention and extra time being spent helping C. The one who gets shuffled around during C's many appointments and therapy sessions, handed off from one person to another.

I could say so much about this little boy. I could mention his infectious sense of humor, his kind disposition, his empathic attitude toward others (especially C). I could go on for hours telling stories about his shenanigans, of which there are many.

I could talk about how easily sharing comes to him, or how emotional he gets when he hears a sad piece of music. I could talk about how my heart swells when he says, "Daddy, hold my hand." (This last he does all the time.)

I could retell the story of how we almost lost him, too, when he developed a perforated intestine just a few days old in the NICU, and how I eagerly gave him my blood in the hopes that it would not only heal him, but bring us closer.

Yes, I could say many things about this other boy. For the moment, however, I'll just say this to him directly: "M, no father could ask for a better son. You've made me happier than I'm sure I deserve to be, and I am proud of you beyond words. I love you."