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On Sunday C asked me to help him climb a ladder on the jungle gym and watch him go down a tube slide, both things he wouldn't even consider as recently as a week ago. Tonight he actually helped vacuum the carpet (parents of ASD kids know how anxiety-inducing the scary vacuum can be).
I'm so proud of my little guy, not just for his achievements, but for his desire to try.
Tonight, as the boys were in their beds, C stood bolt upright, leaned over, and said, "I want hug, M. Want hug, M. Kiss!"
This moment was unscripted, unprompted, and impromptu. It is, in my opinion, huge. C wanted an interaction with another child, with his sibling, and he asked for it.
Of course, M had no idea how to react: he stood there and reached out, and C grabbed his hand. That's okay. There's time, and there's hope.
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.
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.
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.