It’s May, 2014.

We are sitting in Lewis’ kindergarten transition IEP meeting.  As a team we are reviewing every service and service delivery to make sure it fits right for Lewis as he leaves preschool.  It’s not my first rodeo and I have plenty of anxiety over the whole transition process based on past experience.  Lewis’ incredible preschool teacher and team know this – and know Lewis – and we discuss every detail to make sure we are all on board and understand how kindergarten will look for him for the new school year.

We discuss his social skills programming, his need for visual and written cues when transitioning, his extended school year plan, and all the supports he will need for success.

“So now let’s talk transportation,” says his teacher.

I sit up straight in my chair, stiffening a little.

I know this is something that we’ve talked about in the past.  But we don’t really feel like he needs specialized transportation.  I really think he will be okay on the big bus.”  His teacher stops talking for a moment.  “Um, you don’t agree?”

Tim elbows me.

“You’re pulling on your sleeves,” he says. 

That’s my “tell”.  My sign that I’m having an anxiety attack.

It’s not that I don’t think he can’t be on the big bus.  It’s just that…” I take a breath.

It’s just that I don’t know how I’m going to manage all three kids getting to school at different times with different modes of transportation.”

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This morning I sent a message to my friend Jess.

“I’ve officially lost my ability to write,” I texted.  “I’m trying to write about how Lewis taking the bus and me driving Howie is an example of not just our acceptance of what each kid needs but an understanding of those needs….None of the kids asked why one was going to school one way and one another…we’ve taught them that everyone is different with no stigmas attached.  But the words aren’t coming without sounding stupid…”

And she gave me brilliant advice like she always does: “Start in the middle.  Where the feelings are.  Don’t try to start at the beginning.”

Where the feelings are.

So here goes.

A long time ago, that meeting would have made me sad.

The big bus would have seemed like “The Holy Grail” of transportation.  Going to school the way most kids do.  Getting that big “first day of school” bus picture.  I would have looked at it as one of my kids can ride the bus and one of them…can’t. My anxiety in that meeting would have  focused on their disabilities in the negative, the kind of deficit model of looking at challenges and accommodations as a something bad and temporary with the hopes that maybe someday things will get better. I would have focused on the fact that I had one kid whose challenges kept him off the big bus, while both his big brother and little brother were able to ride it.

But here’s the thing.  I’m not that me anymore.

Last school year, we took Howie off of the mini bus. He had been riding the mini-bus since kindergarten to and from school and it’s written into his IEP that he needs specialized transportation. But for second grade,  I started driving him to school and he would taking the mini bus home.  He needed a “sensory overload free” way to enter school in order to start his day off right.  He didn’t want to talk to anyone or have anyone talk to him.  About halfway through the year, that need for a sensory overload free trip became evident for the ride home as well.  He would be able to use his calming tools to get through the school day, but have a very difficult time with that on the way home.

Once I began driving him both ways, his stress level leaving the house and coming home lessened greatly, spilling over to a better day at school and at home in the afternoon.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t take the mini bus.  Or even the big bus.

It was that both of those choices weren’t right for him.  For his success – academically and emotionally – he needed me to drive.  This accommodation was no different than any of the other supports listed in his IEP.

Two kids – two brothers – with the same autism diagnosis.  Needing two completely different accommodations.

Perhaps it’s semantics again.

But changing the question from “Can my kids do something”  to asking  “what is appropriate for them” – it made all the difference.

 

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May 2014

“So what do you think?  Do you think Lewis can take the bus to kindergarten?”

All eyes of the team are on me.

“I know that with a lot of prep he can.  I think we should give it a try,” I say.

Are you worried that Howie will be upset or jealous that Lewis is on the big bus?”

I smile. “No, actually, I’m more worried that Lewis will wonder why he doesn’t ride with Mom to school.” I say.  “But he will know that’s just how he gets to kindergarten.  And Howie will know that too.

I sigh.

It’s the logistics that make me nervous.  Gerry’s bus to the junior high comes at one time, the elementary school bus at another.  And somewhere in there I need to drive  Howie to the elementary school too.  But we will figure it out.  We always do.”

I shift in my seat, pulling at my sleeves.

Can we talk again about the fact that my last kid is leaving this amazing preschool for kindergarten?  I’m not so sure how I feel about that…”

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We talk a lot in our house about fair not meaning equal.  My kids have seen the cartoon of three characters of all different heights looking over a fence.  They each have different sized boxes to stand on so they can see over the fence line.  They aren’t equal sized boxes.  Each character needed something different to get them to the same place.

We’ve never said “I hope someday you can take the big bus to school.”

In our town, some kids walk.  Some arrive in cars.  Some take the big bus.  Some take the mini bus.

There’s no better or worse way to get to school.  For my boys, there’s no stigma attached to any mode of transportation.

My three kids need something different to get them to school.

For one, it’s mom’s car.

For the other two, it’s the wheels on the bus.

All through the town.

On the bus yesterday for kindergarten orientation.  He did just fine.

On the bus yesterday for kindergarten orientation. He did just fine.

 

 

 

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The boys made a memory jar for Tim for Father’s Day.

I just knew there was no way they could create a piece of artwork or something homemade – the pressure would be too great and we’d end up where we were last year.

So I stole this gift idea from my friend Jess.

I asked the boys some questions and recorded each answer on a slip of paper.

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And because the answers were so perfect, I had to share them here.

What’s your favorite thing you did with Dad this year?

G: Learning how to play guitar and going to all the concerts

H: Going on the water slides at Great Wolf Lodge

L: Playing Hot Wheels

What is something that dad did that made you laugh?

G: All his funny jokes

H: When he said the slide at Great Wolf was like a toilet

L: When he calls things bathroom words

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What is your favorite thing that Dad cooks?

G: Homemade pizza

H: Pork chops, chicken skewers and hamburgers

L: Macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese and quesadillas

What do you like to do with Dad?

G: Go to Guitar Center

H: Go on water slides

L: Watch the Palladia channel on TV

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What would you like Dad to teach you this year?

G: How to mow the lawn

H: How to armpit fart since I’m not very good at it.

L: How to ride a bike with two wheels.

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Now my answers.

My favorite thing we did this year? We were a team – through school meetings and sports activities and everything in between.  You didn’t miss one baseball game or concert or IEP meeting.  You arranged your schedule to be there for the boys and for me.  We took “divide and conquer” to a new level to make sure each kid had alone time and quiet time.

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At the meet and greet with Joe Bonamassa

At the meet and greet with Joe Bonamassa

Something that made me laugh? I have many specific private moments when I laughed until I cried.  And then there were the times when I wanted to cry, you made me laugh instead.  Holding my hand through it all.

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My favorite thing you cook? Everything.  Duh.

That's right.  That's bacon wrapped meatloaf.

That’s right. That’s bacon wrapped meatloaf.

What do I like to do with you? Again, everything.

What would I like you to teach me this year?  I want to find my “fun” again.  I see how the boys turn to you for the games, the laughs, the “let’s do this” together.  You understand the boys in ways I can’t.

I want to learn all that from you.

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227620_10200398807759391_1141309109_nHappy Father’s Day

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day till eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I’d save every day like a treasure and then
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do, once you find them
I’ve looked around enough to know
That you’re the one I want to go through time with.” – Time In A Bottle by Jim Croce (which also happens to be the song from our wedding)

Dear Mom,

I was trying to think of something special to do or say  for your birthday today.

Sometimes – ok a lot of times – spoken words just escape me.

I know our phone conversations are short.

Sometimes it’s because of the kids – too much fighting/wrestling/smashing and crashing – and my attention goes to them and not you.

But most of the time it’s me.

I have words, just on the surface, but I won’t let them come out.

Too much emotion I guess.

Too many things unspoken after all these years.

Too much going on in my head about my life, the boys, everything.

I’m afraid that once I start, the flood gates will open and I won’t be able to stop.

But if there’s anything I’ve realized, though, after all we’ve been through…

If you don’t say it now, you may never get a chance to say it at all.

So I’m doing it in the way I know best.  In a letter here to you:

Thank You.

Thank You for being the glue that held our family together.  Even before Dad was sick.

Thank You for everything you gave up those 13 months.

Thank You for being the strong one.  When the rest of us were falling apart, you were there for us.

Thank You for speaking up at the Town Democratic Caucus during the conversation about who would step into Dad’s seat at the State House.  You spoke for me when I couldn’t speak for myself.

Thank You for standing by my every decision I made those two years following when I was at the State House.  You never once told me what to do. But always stood by what I chose.  Even when I knew it was time to leave.

Thank You for standing by every decision I’ve made period.

Thank You for hosting our wedding at your house. I knew it then but even more now how hard it was – emotionally, physically and financially.  You never said no.  You made our day magical and special.  Rainbows and all.

Thank You for being at our house when Gerry was born.  And for sitting with me in the hospital when Tim needed a break.

Thank You for being here with Gerry when Howie was born.  Knowing you were with him made those difficult days a little easier.

Thank You for staying at our house longer than planned after Howie was born.  And for convincing me through my tears that I could parent two kids.

Thank You for your immediate and complete understanding and acceptance of the boys and their diagnoses and special needs.

Thank You for the trips to Story Land, the Aquarium, and everywhere else.

Thank You for the hours on the floor playing with Hot Wheels and Little People and Legos.

Thank You for getting Gerry out of here for ice cream when he couldn’t be in the house one more second.

Thank You for showing me that hope and love springs eternal, and that new chapters can be written with new loves.

Thank You for understanding these days when I can’t talk.

Thank You for always having room for us.

Happy Birthday Mom.

Thank You for being my mother.

I love you.

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Well, I know it’s kinda late.
I hope I didn’t wake you.
But what I gotta say can’t wait,
I know you’d understand.

Every time I tried to tell you,
The words just came out wrong,
So I’ll have to say I love you in a song.” – I’ll Have To Say I Love You In A Song by Jim Croce

 

 

 

“It’s grief… it hits you. It’s like a wave. You just get this profound feeling of instability. You feel like a three legged table. Just suddenly… the Earth isn’t stable anymore. And then it passes and becomes more infrequent, but I still get it sometimes.” — Liam Neeson on his wife Natasha Richardson’s sudden death from traumatic brain injury five years ago from (his 60 Minutes interview)

It’s a funny thing.  Grief.

Funny is the wrong word.  Sneaky.

When I was thinking of a song title for my last post, I googled “father and son songs”.  And of course, Father and Son by Cat Stevens came up right away.

Cat Stevens was one of my father’s favorite artists.  I have memories of driving to school in his Volvo, listening to Cat Stevens’ Greatest Hits on the tape deck.

I clicked on the YouTube Video that accompanied the google link:

And I started to sob.

It wasn’t just the song that reduced me to tears in front of the keyboard.

Cat Stevens looks like my dad did when I was a kid.  He wrote words that would have come out of my dad’s head.

It was an immediate transport back in time.  Back to memories that are still fresh and raw.

I don’t really know how to explain these waves of grief, even 15 years later.  I think about him all the time in different ways.  Sometimes it’s just a news story on TV and I want to talk with him about it.  Sometimes it’s a memory that I can’t quite see in my head and I want to ask him what happened.

Sometimes it’s hearing about a friend battling cancer and me wishing I could do a million things differently all over again.

Those times come in and out.  It’s a brief twinge and then it’s gone.

And then there are moments when the grief feels all consuming. I get stuck.  Mired in a hole of what ifs and what should and shouldn’t have been.

Today could have been one of those days.

But I stopped and looked again at the photo that started it all.

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And I remembered that these are the times that need my focus now.

I can choose to let the grief send me down the rabbit hole.

Or I can choose to let the grief push me to see how important and precious these moments are.

Because a boy and his dad, reading a book about boats and engines?

That’s a really big deal.

It’s not time to make a change,
Just sit down, take it slowly.
You’re still young, that’s your fault,
There’s so much you have to go through.
Find a girl, settle down,
if you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I’m happy.

All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside,
It’s hard, but it’s harder to ignore it.
If they were right, I’d agree, but it’s them you know not me.
Now there’s a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.” – Father And Son by Cat Stevens

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Just a boy and his dad, reading a book about boats and engines.

No big deal.

I took this picture last night right after dinner.  I hid around the corner so I didn’t disturb them (hence the really grainy photo and the everything out on the table and the lampshade in the way).

Monday was library day and Howie renewed his book about boats.

Tim picked it up last night and called Howie over to the table. “Show me the part in the book you like.”

Howie turned to the page with a cut away of a rowboat.  “I didn’t know you could sleep in a rowboat!” he exclaimed.

And what followed was THIRTY minutes of discussion at the table.  Of boats and cutaway drawings.  Of engines and pistons.  Of cars and trucks and things that go.

Questions were asked.  On both sides.

I took this picture and heading upstairs hearing “Could a really BIG crew fit on that boat?”

Now you know the autism parent in me wants to tell you all things autism that I see.

The joint attention.

The pragmatic language.

The shared interests.

The sitting and listening for 30 minutes (just hours after I filled out the Vineland saying he couldn’t do this).

The actual reading of a library book.

But not today.

Today I see a dad who found a common bond with his son.

I see a son who is soaking up every word from his dad.

And I see smiles from them both.

Just a boy and his dad, reading a book about boats and engines.

No big deal.

It’s not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy.
You’re still young, that’s your fault,
There’s so much you have to know.
Find a girl, settle down,
If you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I’m happy.

I was once like you are now, and I know that it’s not easy,
To be calm when you’ve found something going on.
But take your time, think a lot,
Why, think of everything you’ve got.
For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not. ” – Father and Son by Cat Stevens

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Connection

“Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: “What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .”” – C.S. Lewis

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Note in Howie’s log book last week from one of his 1:1 aides: “After social group Howie insisted on flapping his arms.  The group was not at all overly stimulating or excitable.  When I talked to (him) about this he said ‘sometimes autistic people have to do that thing.’ I said ‘stimming’? And he said ‘yes I need to stim and flap my arms’…he said sometimes he needs to flap if he’s excited.”

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Howie had his eighth birthday party two weeks ago.  We invited his whole class because, well, because.  I could give you some reason like making sure to include everyone but truthfully there wasn’t anyone he thought he couldn’t invite. He’s been with most of the kids for two years and he really wanted them all at his party. We did one of those indoor trampoline places parties because where else can you go with 28 2nd graders and contain them all?

I was nervous of course.  I don’t get to see how kids interact with Howie except for a few moments here and there.  I get the log book notes and information from teacher meetings, but I never see it with my own eyes.  I watched these kids interact with him – seek him out – not just because it was his birthday but because they care about him.  They told inside jokes on the bench as they waited for their jump turn.  They checked in on him when they were jumping. They jostled for position around him for cake.

When we got home and settled in, Howie opened his presents.  Some cards were on green construction paper (his favorite color).  Some cards had his special “Hero Howie” symbol on them.  All of the cards had special note, poem, story, or picture drawn just for him about him.  Every present was something he wanted that he didn’t already have.  I asked Howie how the kids knew.  “They asked me in school and I told them.” he said matter-of-factly.  Well of course.

That night I sent his teacher some pictures from the party with the note: “All those kids are quite incredible and so so good to Howie. They knew what he liked and how to interact with him.  That is all because of you. Thank you for creating a classroom and a space that allowed my kid to have his real big first friend party. You sure I can’t convince you to teach third grade? :)”

His fabulous teacher wrote back: “They absolutely adore him and are really cheering for him each and every day.  I’m so glad to hear that the party went well!”

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Note in Howie’s log book three weeks ago from his other 1:1 aide (paraphrasing): “Howie seemed to be having a hard time with his shirt.  It was making him uncomfortable all day and he couldn’t focus.  We sat and talked about the things that I am bothered by and he was able to work through it.  It really seems to help him when others connect with him about sensory issues.”

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From my blog post “Born This Way part two“:

I have spent the days since that moment we got Howie’s autism diagnosis in December 2009 wondering how I would talk to Howie about his autism.  I rehearsed it in my head many times.  Bought books.  Read blog posts.  Wanted to make sure I did it “right”.

We stopped at a light.

“So…” I said.  “That ability is a gift.”

“It is?”

“Yes.  You know what I mean by ‘gift’, right?  Not like a birthday party gift but more like a talent.  Something special you have.”

“I know! What is it? What’s it called?”

“It’s called autism.”

“So I have autism?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm.”

I decided to push it a little bit more.

“Hey, you know who else has a gift for seeing stuff like that?”

“Who?” he asked.

“Your friend Brooke.”

“Brooke has autism?”

AND THE BIGGEST SMILE FILLED UP MY REAR VIEW MIRROR.

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For some April is about Autism Awareness.  And that’s fine and good and it’s what works for them.

In our house, though, this month (and every month) is about autism connection.

According to the experts, that’s supposed to be something that my boys can’t do, right? Connect with others.

How wrong could they be?

I see connection every day with my kids – between teacher and student, between classmates and friends, brother to brother, and parent to child.

I see it in the children who come to our sensory gym. When families are given the safe space (physically and emotionally) for their kids to play, relationships and playdates and connections blossom.

For us- for my boys, for me as their parent, this month is about connecting  to find that piece – that tie that binds – to make one feel less alone.  To make one feel part of a community.

And for helping the world understand that community, one conversation at a time.

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From my personal Facebook status on March 31st:

When Howie is feeling “out of sorts”, he often asks for a “mom squish”. Probably because I am the squishiest of the bunch.

Tonight, I was complaining that my back hurt as I sat down crooked on the couch. He came over to me, looked me right in the eye, and said “do you need a Howie squish?”

It’s the eve of Autism Awareness Month and every day my kids smash and crash their way through every stereotype and every myth. But in our house it’s not about awareness. I want them to know that they are accepted, understood, and loved for who they are.

And those Howie squishes? They make all the aches and pains go away.”

IMG_3709Happy Autism Connection Month.

 

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
and what’s on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
and rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it.
I know they’re wrong, wait and see.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard
and answered when wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that and someone believed it.
Look what it’s done so far.
What’s so amazing that keeps us star gazing
and what do we think we might see?
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell. We know that it’s probably magic.

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices?
I’ve heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that called the young sailors.
The voice might be one and the same.
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it.
It’s something that I’m supposed to be.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me. ” – The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog

A great way to be part of the conversation is to purchase one of these #wearthechange shirts created by my friend Jess.  Through the month of April, the net proceeds from these shirts will be split three ways with the Doug Flutie Jr. Foundation for Autism, The Autistic Self Advocacy Network, and my nonprofit SenseAbility Gym.

Here is Gerry modeling his new shirt (he wanted to remain headless).  Click on the caption to go to the Zazzle Store.

Note: As I wrote in part one and in part two, I asked Howie if I could share this story here.  I told him that I had a blog and that I liked to write about things that happen in our lives on it.  His response?  “Sure.  You can share this with the blogosphere.”  Well, okay then.  And this time, I asked all three boys if it was okay to share the story.

Chronologically, part three came after part two but before part one.  But this is how it all came out here.

Over the past few weeks since the “big” conversation that wasn’t so big, Howie and I have been talking a lot about autism.  It’s not hard to bring it up – at the sensory gym we have a community bulletin board with information from our local autism resource center, the Doug Flutie Jr. Foundation for Autism, and Birdhouse for Autism (an app and web based application for tracking therapies, medications, sleep and anything and everything related to a child’s well being). So the word comes up whenever we’re there.

But it had always remained between us.

We’ve also had some discussions about other kids we knew who were autistic.  Friends who had given us permission to share that information.  Each time, it was met with a smile.

Yet for some reason, I never mentioned the fact that his younger brother was autistic too.  Again, this is on me.  In my head I still thought there had to be the right time and place to talk about it.  That Lewis should know first.  Or there had to be some specific chain of events to make it “the right way”.

Apparently, I don’t learn my own lessons.

Two weekends ago, all three kids were sitting at the kitchen table.  We were listening to music and the boys were talking about whether or not they had good hearing.  Gerry said that our whole family had bad hearing.  Before I could step in and protest with my expert hearing skills, Howie said “No, I have super hearing.  I can hear and see things that others can’t. I have what’s that word again?”

He paused.

“Oh yeah.  I have au-TIS-m.”

(so yes, the accent is on the wrong syl-LA-ble.  But still.)

Gerry looked over at me and didn’t say a word.  Neither did I.

“I have autism,” said Lewis matter-of-factly.  “I just have clogged ears.”

Howie looked at him and said, “You have autism too?  Well, you do have a super memory.  You know the whole grid of the Marvel Super Heroes characters on the Playstation game.”

“Yup,” I said.  “Lewis has autism just like you, Howie.”

“Does our whole family have autism?” Howie asked.

“No. ” I said.

Gerry looked at me and quietly asked, “Do I have autism?”

I shook my head no.

And that is how Lewis found out that he was autistic too. No big reveal. No grand plan. Just “yup, you’re autistic.”

Gerry got up from the table to get some more milk.  I pulled him aside for a moment.

I thought back to a conversation that Gerry and I had almost two years ago to the day:

“Don’t you think he should know about his autism?  So he understands?  I know most of his friends are from his school and are like him, so that’s really good.  But at some point, shouldn’t he know?  Because really?  Sometimes it’s very stressful for me that I know but he doesn’t.”  His eyes teared up a little.

I knew I had to choose my words very carefully here.  This…was important.

“Yes, of course he needs to know.  Dad and I just have to figure out the right time.  He’s only five.”

“Do you have friends who have kids with special needs?  Kids who are older?  Can’t you ask them when they told their kids?”

And then my kid wows me.  Again.

“You know, it’s not fair.  All his timeouts.  At first I thought they were good.  Teaching him.  But if he can’t help it, then the timeouts aren’t fair, are they? It’s like if you’re driving and your car’s wheels lock up.  And you hit something and cause a lot of damage.  It’s not your fault that the car didn’t work the way it should.  Right?”

I’m in awe of this kid.  Of how much he loves his brother.  Of how much he gets it.

“Mom.  Shouldn’t he know so he understands?”

I touched Gerry’s arm and brought him into the other room.

“You remember you wanted me to tell Howie that he was autistic?  Well, I did.”

He looked right at me.

“Thank you,” he said.

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Since then, the topic has come up quite a bit.  My boys – all three of them – are attempting to understand what autism means to them and for them.  There have been attempts at one upping each other with “well, my autism means I can hear the grass grow!” and it makes for a good discussion about how brains work and no, you can’t really hear the grass grow. In quizzing Howie if he washed his hands, he told me that only someone with autism could have good enough smelling to smell how clean his hands are.

Then there was Howie’s question to me one morning at 5am: if everyone in the world had autism, does that mean no one in the world has autism?

For which I had absolutely no answer.

Just this afternoon came “Is autism sensory?”

And of course there was the moment when he told me his gift was part of his soul. When he realized he was born this way.

But my favorite comment came from Gerry last week.  We were talking about how all of us in the family have brains that work differently. It’s important to know that and understand why so instead of getting frustrated and struggling with the things that are hard for us, we can acknowledge the challenges and use our strengths to cope with them. We talked about what I wrote in part two:

“At some point I know we’ll have to talk about the challenges that autism brings.  Because that is as important as knowing the strengths. Part of understanding his differences is knowing that the sensory issues, the difficult time sitting still, the frustration over school projects and social interactions, and the perseverations – these are not because he’s not smart or incapable. “

I told him that this was why right now we’re focusing on positives that come with autism for Howie.

“I like that,” Gerry said. “I like that he looks it like it’s his superpower.”

Me too.  Me too.

my three superheroes

my three superheroes

My mama told me when I was young
We are all born superstars
She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on
In the glass of her boudoir

“There’s nothing wrong with loving who you are
She said, “‘Cause He made you perfect, babe”
“So hold your head up girl and you’ll go far,
Listen to me when I say”

I’m beautiful in my way
‘Cause God makes no mistakes
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born this way
Don’t hide yourself in regret
Just love yourself and you’re set
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born this way” – Born This Way by Lady Gaga

For a great way to talk about autism with your child (or to learn more yourself), check out this great booklet from The Autism NOW Center and The Autistic Self Advocacy Network at http://autismnow.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Welcome-to-the-Autistic-Community-Adolescent.pdf

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