Your Custom Text Here
The signs of autism persist — as of course they will — but we continue to delight in many of them, including C's little 'arrangements.'
Unlike his twin, C doesn't find joy in a local carnival. Nonetheless, I'm grateful he knows how to cope, finding his own little island of peace and quiet even in the most overwhelming situations.
And when he's at home or somewhere else where he feels comfortable, C is one of the happiest people I've ever known.
This is an amazing journey.
Today was bittersweet.
This is the last day of the twins' co-op preschool. At the end of August they go their separate ways: M will start regular preschool, and C will go to a school for children with developmental disabilities. My anxiety over the ever-widening gulf between them is beginning to feel overwhelming.
As if sensing my fear, C and M were playing like actual siblings tonight. They were near and — more importantly — seemingly aware of one another. They were playing and laughing and, at one point, C reached out and hugged M without prompting. M, instead of pushing C away, leaned into the hug and smiled.
And so I continue to learn to let go, even as I hang on.
When I came home tonight, C was standing quietly by the window arranging his cars just so. This is nothing new: he often moves objects around, reconfiguring them until they match some picture in his mind.
When I ask C about his cars, there is no imaginative story of a freeway or traffic jam or people on their way to work. There is only the patient process of arrangement.
Of course, I can't help but look at the cars and see the pattern he's created: from left to right, police car / 3 cars / police car / 3 cars / two buses. If he didn't create patterns all the time, I might consider it a coincidence, but I know now that it's like his own morse code, a message to himself or the rest of the universe.
While I still wish C could tell me a story about his cars, I am coming to accept that the cars are telling me a story about my son.
Tonight M (my neurotypical son) said, "I want to go to the bank with my piggy bank and get a lot of money to give to you so you can stay home with C all the time and I can play with Mommy all the time." His words stand as a reminder to me: never underestimate how much these little ones pick up, how aware they are of what's happening around them.
I took the boys to the beach today; it was cool and windy, and mostly empty.
The wind was loud in my ears, sand buffeting my face, the cool air sometimes stinging my eyes, and all of it prevented me from being able to focus clearly, the voices of my sons competing with overwhelming environmental stimuli.
Then it occurred to me: maybe this is what it's like for C. Maybe his brain is abuzz like a hive, filled with static signals making it difficult for the outside world to get in. Maybe he wants to be present, but all this noise is keeping him at arm's length.
It's certainly what it seems like from the outside: he's there and we're there, but it's like the rest of us are muffled, unable to break through. Maybe his self-stimulatory habits provide a way for him to turn his back to the wind and the noise and find a quiet place inside himself.
And then the moment comes, as if the wind is dying down, the surf diminishing, when he notices us, when he's present in the moment with us. Then, just as quickly, the wind picks up, the surf resumes its crashing, and again we're competing for his attention.