Jennifer Byde Myers
My son Jack is a long, lean, boy with an odd gait and a subtle smile. His first diagnosis was benign congenital hypotonia, which was later upped to cerebral palsy, ataxia. He added his autism diagnosis just after he turned three, about the same time he began to walk. He can spin a plate over and over again, but he can not yet stab a piece of food with a fork. He straddles the worlds of ‘autism’ and ‘special needs’; stimming, using a wheelchair as necessary when his muscles are too weak, or when the environment is too bustling. He’s a young man of few words, unless he does say something, at which point he is always relevant, and often wry. I’m his mom, so I can generally guess what he needs, but communication is a struggle; it can be hard for him to clearly share what he needs, and hard for me to love him the way he wants to be loved.
“He handed me a tomato.”
I struggled to make the story more compelling to the parent of one of my daughter’s friends. He’s a kind man with two typical children, who asked me about Jack without any pity in his voice. (I hear that voice quite often, and it’s something I have come to understand, but still find hard to get over.) His was more of a genuine query about a child who isn’t often the “plus-one sibling” at the 5-year-old birthday jumpy-house affairs.
“I handed him a piece of tomato, and asked him not to drop it on the ground. I told him that if he didn’t want the tomato he could just hand it back to me.” I continued, feeling again that warm sensation of pride in my son, “He stopped, pivoted slightly and handed me the tomato, crossing mid-line, uh, going across his body, to give it back to me.” The man smiled, and nodded his head, and looked like he really wanted to understand the significance of what I was saying.
And of course he couldn’t really understand why I stood there in the kitchen with a tomato in my hand, and tears in my eyes. Such a simple task, I’m surprised he had the patience for me to finish telling the story at all. But I know the importance, because for what I think is the first time in my son’s 10.5 year-old life, he followed a direction, in the moment, and made a physical connection with me, purposefully, and he had nothing to gain from his actions. We’ve come close, with a sippy-cup dropped into my hand, or rolled down the counter near me when he wanted more to drink, but this time he really put something into my palm, and he had to make a choice to do it … I wasn’t on the way, and there was no reward, no benefit at all. That unwanted tomato could just as easily have been dropped to the ground. He was even headed towards the back door to play outside, a preferred activity for just about any child, but he stopped and gave me back the piece of tomato, calmly and politely.
It is amazing how much joy we have watching him continue to learn and make progress in these seemingly benign ways; these subtle acts that he keeps adding to his repertoire. It leads us to believe that he is processing information in new ways, able to parse the language and make all the “holes line up.” And if he can hear and process and act on what he sees or hears, that means there is more possibility for him to be able to communicate his needs. And better communication means a more connected boy, and a life with less challenges. Like most parents, watching our children succeed is a fantastic double whammy; we get to see our children be happy, and we get to know that the hard work of raising children is paying off.
What I didn’t tell the daddy in the park were the next things that went through my mind. Because even as I stood there in the kitchen, the glow of pure joy, excitement and pride washing over me, pressing me to call every grandparent, those next thoughts went something like, “Oh my God, we are totally screwed.” After I exhaled the joy, I was filled with a paralyzing fear that we are never going to catch up, and there is so much more work to do. He handed me a stupid tomato, it’s not like he got the top score in his math class, or figured out a better way to extract rare earth elements. Jack’s home-aide hugged me and let me know how cool it was to witness the new skill, and all I could wonder is if he would ever have enough self-help skills to be anything close to independent. Is he destined to rely on other people for every part of his life? I mourned that we have missed the window of opportunity. The plasticity disappearing in his brain, those neural pathways becoming fixed, fearing that moments like these will be farther and farther apart, and there are so many things he still cannot do. As a ten-year old boy I should not be cheering on the simple act of handing me tomato. He should be skateboarding, and climbing trees in his friend’s back yard. He should be testing the boundaries, and reading Harry Potter or breaking his right arm as he barrel-asses down the slopes on his new snowboard. He should be playing too much Wii, and writing in his journal after I’ve told him to go to sleep. He should be asking for a raise in his allowance, and trying to convince his grandparents that the iPad2 is a perfect gift to give a sixth grader. He should be doing so many more things at this age, and there I am pathetically sniffling over a piece of juicy red tomato.
Which leads, naturally, to the third emotions that rang clearly through my brain. First, pride and joy, then fear and sadness, and finally, guilt and shame. I immediately chided myself for comparing my son to some sort of norm; he is incomparable in most respects, to most other children in both deficit and strength. He shouldn’t be doing anything more or less than what he’s doing, and the fact that I let all of those other thoughts run through my head meant that I was not present for the child that was standing in my kitchen. My son is not any other child than the one before me, and how he learns and grows and interacts with the world is going to be different than every other child on the planet, autism or not. It’s shameful to dwell on what I thought parenting would be like, what my home would look like, how my children would act, and what they would do to pass the time, and I thought we had long since stopped comparing him to other children his age; it doesn’t do anyone any good to compare. I do not to indulge in the rat hole of “why me?” and try not to get side-tracked by the accompanying envy of lives that look easier, simpler, or more carefree. When we keep longing for a life that didn’t happen, or that won’t happen, we lose all those moments of the life we actually have; and I have a great life.
I tried my best to move my mind back to joy as Jack ran out the back door and I put the tomato in a shallow bowl for him.
While I sometimes can’t help noting the typical-kid milestones we miss, I am, for the most part, less troubled than I used to be. These days I am more focused on how I can help Jack become the happiest, healthiest child he can be, in the most supportive environment. How can we engage him in the activities we have determined make up the core of our family’s value system? How can we help him feel safe and heard when he doesn’t have a “voice” as others have. And I’m trying to strike the balance between having expectations for my son, and letting him lead the way.
So maybe it’s not an amazing story for anyone else, but I know this is part of the joy in my life; I get to witness these small victories. I get to help Jack learn and watch him gain the kind of skills that most people never even notice. I get to be thankful for things like pincer grasp, and I know I will never take for granted his health, his ability to walk, his sneaky smile, or the one time he handed me a tomato.