...the exactly right boy...

I am sitting at the desk in the living room with a pile of papers in front of me.  Orchestral music of the 1940’s and 50’s accompanying the slapstick comedy of Tom and Jerry cartoons in the background.  A little boy gleefully giggling at the slapstick moments and repeatedly rewinding to watch the moment of impact until reminded to put down the remote.  The papers, ehh--those i need to file, but I’m not sure where to put them.  I’m going to need them to be easily accessible for a while yet.

This should not be a matter for sadness, I have been telling myself.  If anything, I should be relieved.  It could be so much worse, and it isn’t.  I have suspected for some time; I have asked questions of people who have experience with similar situations; I have kept family and close friends updated with how matters stood.  The 10 page report is just a confirmation of what I have known, just with more specifics.

But sitting there in black and white, ten pages of it, in front of me, is the document that leaves no doubt that my little guy has autism.  No more saying or thinking, “maybe he does, we are looking into testing;” or “well, he might, but we are not sure.”  This is it; there is no going back from here.  Just forward.

As I have spoken with family, friends, and professionals in search of insight into how to best help my little boy, people have been saying things like, “fortunately, it looks like he will be high functioning.”  And, “It could be much worse.”  They are not incorrect.  He is on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, and for that I am thankful.  Yes, absolutely, it could be much worse.

In a way, it is a relief to know for sure.  Now we do know where we stand and can decide what would be best to do for him.  But ever since that report hit my hands, strangely enough, I am fighting grief.

It is as if I had been holding out hope, in the back of my mind, that maybe things would be different.  I never let my brain put it into an actual thought.  Reality stared me in the face every day, so I am not even sure what I hoped for.  Maybe I was hoping that, by a certain age (which age, I am not sure), I would wake up and realize that he had slipped seamlessly into his peer group.  Maybe one day I would wake up and realize that he no longer exhibited the autistic behaviors anymore, that it was all a passing phase and he was just a little slow to grow out of it.  Maybe one day, I would wake up to find that he had become able to function normally from day to day, instead of needing to be led by the hand or constantly supervised through many things that my older two children were capable of accomplishing independently by this age. 

But it isn’t different.  This is what is, and now we play the hand that has been dealt.  It will not go away.  He will change and grow with time; we have been given much encouragement that, with time and therapy, he will be able to become a very functional adult member of society.  For that I am truly thankful.  But the reality is that there will be a long, probably sometimes weary, road to travel between here and there.  i will need to adjust my expectations.  Things will not be the same as with our oldest two children.  No amount of wishing or denying will change that.

When I was expecting him, I did not want to find out via ultrasound whether he would be a boy or girl, preferring (at least on my part) to be surprised on the day he was born.  We lovingly called him “Dudley” and my older son and daughter argued about whether we were having a “boy Dudley” or a “girl Dudley.”   My son wanted a little brother; my daughter was voting for a baby sister.  One day, after a particularly spirited argument on the topic, I exasperatedly told my daughter (who was hollering the loudest) that God would give us the “exactly right baby for our family.”  It took the wind out of their little sails and diffused the tension that had been mounting.  (It wasn’t like we ultimately had any say in the matter anyway, but it was hard to get that point across to the kids.)  I thought then that God had given me that answer at the exactly right time, to settle my argumentative children.  Now I am thinking He gave me that answer for such a time as this, too.  He did give us the exactly right baby for our family, and He will give us what we need to care for him.

But for now, I will grieve the loss of some of my hopes.  Childhood years with my little guy have not been, so far, and will not be, what I was expecting.  I guess it is ok to be a little sad about it--though it could be worse, something has still been lost.  I guess too it is ok to be exhausted--because some days are exhausting. 

But...some of his dear little quirks are some of the best parts of him.  He is such a funny kid--all kids have their moments, but my husband and I have had more than one conversation about how he has been the funniest of all three of our children.  There is such an endearing sweetness and innocence about him.  He loves to ask people what their names, ages, and birthdays are--and cannot figure out why a lady would not want to tell him her age.  Once he knows her birthday, he doesn’t usually forget it.  The boy can be--and often is--the picture of sweetness and charm.  He is almost always ready with a smile, a song (usually from one of the Super Mario Brothers video games), and a bunch of facts about volcanoes for our listening pleasure.  He seems to have a special rapport with my niece, who has Down’s Syndrome; they laugh and giggle at each other’s silliness, and sometimes at jokes between the two of them that the rest of us don’t quite understand.  He brings much joy to our lives.

So even though i am kind of sad, there are many things to be glad about.  I love him dearly; and, regardless of the challenges, I wouldn’t change anything, even if I could.  God gave us the exactly right boy for our family.