A child is born

Both families rush to divvy up the parts.

He looks like Tony. He looks like me. He has my mother’s nose. Our first joint production, we want a piece of ourselves reflected. Maybe we are proud. Maybe we want to ensure our immortality. It is a time of elation; everything is perfect and anything is possible. He will be the child of all children.

As he grows and changes, new assessments take place. He has my big hair, my easy smile. No one argues Tony’s unmistakable eyebrows. We find an owner for the parts we can’t quite figure. Are the sturdy hands and wrists from my grandmother or Tony’s father?  He is attributed with my even temperament and Tony’s focus and fondness for routines. 

As time passes I note he doesn’t like to sleep. He gets that from Tony, my mother-in-law proclaims. Sometimes he doesn’t respond to his name and drifts to another world; you were like that as a child, my mother mentions. And Tony and I turned OK. I am briefly reassured. Still, nagging questions are subtly asked; I sense his perfection is in jeopardy.

When did I first hear the word autism? I don’t recall exactly. The inquires begin: who did it come from? How did it happen? No one lines up to lay claim to the autistic features.   

But the fact is I see us there as well: my distaste for noise and people cluttered rooms, my need for solitary space, my fascination with color. I see Tony’s compulsiveness and his gift for numbers. I see his sensory cravings as Sam attacks the fierce waves of an open ocean. I see my temperament when Sam finally looses it on a long, rough day.

We are part of what made him all of him, even the autism. We lay claim to it all. And in doing so, find the joy in who he is.    

Follow us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/BlendingWithAutism

Living in the Tower of Babel

Within our fairly traditional home in our typical suburban neighborhood lives a self-proclaimed nerd, a dreamer and an autistic or in more contemporary terms, a right brain, a left brain and a we're still figuring it out brain. Not surprisingly, we have very different conversational styles. 

And though time after time I have listed “English” as the language spoken in our home on surveys and physician’s forms, it occurred to me after an attempt at conversing with my family recently that I live a modern day Tower of Babel.

The biblical Tower of Babel

Tony speaks fluent geek. He lives in a very factual world of black and white. If I say the sky is blue, I’d better be able to back that statement up with detailed information on the atmospheric conditions, gas molecules and light waves. ‘Blue skying’ a concept might cause his head to blow up into a thousand pieces; talk of feelings or emotions makes his skin crawl.

Sam is an expert in echolalia. He contributes to conversations by quoting a random movie, video or book lines that oddly parallel our conversation. On rare occasions even punctuating conversations profoundly. He interprets to the very literal meaning of each word. No idioms for him. Use the expression "kick him out" and someone WILL get kicked. I promise.

As the out to lunch member of the house, I am a sucker for subtle nuances and metaphors and exploring multiple meanings of books or movies. I use liberal amounts of body language thinking you can express more with the raise of an eyebrow than a pile of words.

Only nuances, metaphors and body language aren't among the known languages of the Tower of Babel.

Say the words "Cape Cod" and Tony responds with weather and logistics. I discuss shopping and scenery and Sam hears cheeseburgers. Go to a movie and unless the bad guy is wearing a black hat, Tony is hopelessly lost. Give me numbers to crunch or directions to follow and my eyes glaze over.

Ask us to give the high points of any conversation and you are likely to get two very different interpretations. As for Sam, unless chocolate is involved, he won’t interpret at all. 

We greet each day babbling in a parallel sort of way, each of us hopeful that our words are understood well enough to muddle through the day without disaster. And some days do end well. Others are hopelessly communication challenged with conversations ending with a very quizzical, “Huh??” or worse yet, “Wow. I didn’t see THAT coming.” And still other days end in hysterical laughter.

Now and again I hear bragging of the solidarity of a particular household; where the mere utterance of the word "blue" results not only a complete understanding of the word blue but also the exact shade of blue. Where conversations are succinct and communication effective.  

I don’t happen to know that home.

Though our communication challenges may be a more extreme than some, I suspect we are not alone in our Tower of Babel. And I wouldn’t want to live any place else. I’d miss the elation of those rare occasions when we get it right.

Who’d want to live a place where everyone understands exactly the same thing, anyway? I mean really, where’s the fun in that? 

Follow us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/BlendingWithAutism

A Day at the Beach

I sit on the beach watching as Sam as he rhythmically bobs up and down in the waves. The sky is blue, the surf impressive; the perfect day to body surf. Sam is not alone. The ocean is full of swimmers on this hot, sunny day. There is nothing remarkable about Sam or the day. He looks like any other teen enjoying the surf on any summer day.

The rhythmic pattern continues for fifteen or so minutes. I sit, relaxed, enjoying the visual order of it all. 

Without warning, an aggressive wave takes hold, pulling most of the swimmers under water. Within a moment, they all pop back up, briefly wipe their eyes and continue their rhythmic bob in the surf.

Except for Sam.

He runs to the shore, eyes shut, aggressively shaking his head, reminding me of my childhood Shepherd. As he gets closer, I hear “I need a towel please, I need a towel please,” growing louder. The voice inflections are identical with each recitation.

He doesn’t quite remember where we are sitting or take much care to avoid neighboring blankets as he searches for us. “I need a towel please, I need a towel please.”  

“Sam” we call. “Over here, over here." He heads our way, showering those he passes with water droplets from his still shaking head. Folks nearby give a sideways glance, some with discretion. They wonder about this boy.

Sam is focused on drying his face. Mission accomplished, he drops the towel, shouts a few random, unrelated words and gleefully leaps back into the water. The rhythmic weaving resumes. And so our afternoon goes.

As the day progresses, I notice some of the kids have joined together, making new friends. Sam bobs near them with little notice. The kids glance at him, managing to keep separate. They sense a difference. He is not destined to become one of the new friends today. 

I am sad for a moment, but my focus soon returns to Sam’s bright face and his exhilaration riding the waves; his jubilant smile and complete joy. I smile too as I pick up his towel and ready it. 


All is right with the world once again. At least right now.    




Follow us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/BlendingWithAutism