A Lesson From Ferdinand's Mom

Many children with autism, like C, love to engage with others, but their ASD prevents them from understanding how to do so. Most times C will light up if a child tries to engage with him, but if he's left alone he will find many ways to occupy himself, and usually happily so.

Nonetheless, it's hard to accept that he has no concept of social reciprocity. I suppose to some extent I'm projecting my desire that he not be lonely. And yet C hardly seems like a lonely boy.

While reading to the boys last night, I found solace in the following passage from Ferdinand:

Sometimes his mother, who was a cow, would worry about him. She was afraid he would be lonesome all by himself.

"Why don't you run and play with the other little bulls and skip and butt your head?" she would say.

But Ferdinand would shake his head. "I like it better here where I can sit just quietly and smell the flowers."

His mother saw that he was not lonesome, and because she was an understanding mother, even though she was a cow, she let him just sit there and be happy.

I don't want C to be lonely. I want him to be able to have friends if he wants. More than that, though, I want him to be happy; sometimes that means just letting things be as they are.

White Noise

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.

A Different World

What world does C inhabit? How different is it from my own? How much overlap is there? Can he be in both places at once?

Yes, I'm aware that we all perceive the world in different ways, but what is becoming clear to me is that C doesn't simply have a different perception of the world, he inhabits a different world altogether. C's reality may be the result of mixed signals, tangled wires, a garbled transmission; but his world is as real to him as my own is to me.

He doesn't see his world as unreal or surreal; he doesn't even see it as different. That's my issue, my perception, my desire to have him see things how I see them. (And isn't that what most parents hope for, if they're really honest about it?)

Instead of trying to do some sort of psychic airlift, pulling him out of his reality and into my own, I will try instead to understand his world, and in doing so hopefully help him navigate the one I inhabit.

Wish me luck.

Z-Y-X-W-V-U...

Today my wife observed C reciting the alphabet...backward. He would say a letter, scrunch up his face as he thought earnestly about what was next, and then happily announce it before proceeding to the next one.

We've never taught him the alphabet backward, and I have no idea why he felt the need to try it. Just part of his love of letters, I guess.

And, while one therapist has lightly cautioned us about overly encouraging his obsession with letters and numbers, it's exciting to see him tackling such complex problems, focusing on them with such intent, and taking great pride in showing us his achievement.

He Does Love You

In the bath tonight, M said that C doesn't love him. When asked why he thought that, M said, simply, "Because he doesn't say it." And now it gets tough. You see, it's obvious to us how much C loves his brother, but this is one of those simple, human things C just can't do on his own. Sure, if we script it, he'll say it, but it's not spontaneous, and now even M is starting to notice.

And so the conversations begin: "M, your brother does love you, he just needs help saying it." Because M is a bright and empathic boy, I trust that he'll understand.