“Imagine you’ve decided to take a trip to New York City,” the “exceptional education” teacher at my son’s school said as she took a seat next to me on the rickety playground bench. “You’ve packed your high heels and your best clothes, and you’re planning to hit the town and see all the shows. But you get off the plane, and you’re in Switzerland. It’s a little colder, a little slower, but still nice. Just different. It’s the same with these kids.”
“These kids” meant kids like my son, whose doctor recently diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome.
“I just wanted him to be normal,” I replied, looking up to watch him and the other fifth graders who were playing wildly among the wooden structures, the exceptional education class in the mix.
“Whatever that means,” the teacher said, smiling.
For a while, I thought something was different about my son. I’d reached the point that I wanted to know for sure if I was right (even if I didn’t like the answer). I’d put it off for years, and now that I had a diagnosis, the truth of his history was clear to me. He spoke at an early age, “daddy” and “mama” were followed by words like “thermostat” and finally full sentences before he was a year old. At 2 he was flapping his little arms like butterfly wings, close to his sides, his lips buzzing. I used to think he was pretending to fly until I noticed it more and more: when he was bored, when he was tired, when he was mad, when he was joyous.
“Are you an airplane or a helicopter?” I asked him one day.
“Neither, mama,” he said as he continued to flap.
Then, at age 4, his eyes huge and blue, he stopped looking at me. He gazed to the left of my head or turned his face away entirely.
“Don’t you like mama’s face?” I teased him. “Am I that ugly?”
“You’re beautiful, mama. I’d never think that,” he replied, still not looking at me.
When the time came, he went to school. His kindergarten was right across the street from our house. His teacher was in her first year. He brought home yellow and red demerits every day, his teacher meeting me in the parent pickup line to list his transgressions.
“He’s the sweetest thing, but he goes on and on about ‘Toy Story’ when I’m trying to teach. It’s distracting the class,” she said.
“Toy Story” played constantly on one of the TVs at home—for almost two years. He had “Toy Story” everything: Bedding, dishes, toothpaste, clothes and toys. This phase was just like the “Thomas the Tank Engine” phase he’d gone through two years before. I’ve spent so much time with George Carlin and Buzz Lightyear, I feel like I know them personally.
“He’s making noises, humming, and he’s having meltdowns over the smallest things,” the teacher told me, interrupting my thoughts, complaining. Then she softened it with, “But he’s so smart.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I assured her before going back home to cry, beating myself up for not enrolling him in preschool. I wasn’t sure what I’d say when I talked to him, but we’d talk.
Then, in second grade, a teacher’s assistant told me about a Web site that described my boy to a tee. The site helped me realize that I hadn’t been seeing my boy, just like he hadn’t been seeing me.
For a few years after that, I still hesitated to make it official—to put what I saw as a stigma around his neck. Instead, I worked hard to find out what set him off and tried to teach him coping techniques that didn’t involve hour-long crying jags.
By the fourth grade, as I was beginning to wear thin, we met an angel in pretty high heels. In two months, his new teacher had him looking me in the eyes. Somehow, she knew what had pained me, the thing I hadn’t been able to say.
“I taught him,” she explained when I came to her with thankful tears. “I draw his eyes in with my finger, and he caught on.”
He still had to think about it, eyes occasionally darting off, but it was a start. His meltdowns stopped, other than a growl of aggravation every now and then over intense stress. I relaxed for a while, until this year, that is. Fifth Grade. Junior high was rapidly approaching, and I knew it was time to make an appointment, to hear the words that would describe my son.
A week later, I left my appointment with the doctor, and looked down at the chicken scratch on the paper in my hands. It read, “Asperger’s Syndrome.” My heart was broken.
AS is one of the autistic spectrum developmental disorders, characterized by an inability to understand how to interact socially. My son’s inability to meet my gaze, repetitive routines and intense interest in one subject to the exclusion of all others are all typical of AS children.
A few days later, I sat talking to the exceptional education teacher, feeling as rickety as the playground benches we sat on.
“It’s like teaching any other child math or reading,” she told me as a tear rolled down my cheek. “With a little help, he’ll be fine.”
And watching my precious boy, his sweaty face beaming at me across the sandy playground, I knew I’d pick Switzerland any day over New York, or wherever this diagnosis takes us.
Previous Comments
Tiffany, I am glad that you found out what was going on. Knowing is half the battle. I have an autistic brother, so I understand some of what you are dealing with. He had to go to speech school because at the age of 4 he still was not talking. After a year, my parents had to put him in public school because they could not afford the tuition and could not get help from a charity to pay it because their income was too high. Despite that, he learned to talk more thanks to his family, JPS and lots of TV. Through the years, he was gradually mainstreamed into regular classes and even took French and pre-algebra. Even though he was teased as a teenager, he did not want to drop out of school. He even went to his junior and senior proms, and he got his high school diploma at 18 like most of the other students. He’s 26 now, and even though he doesn’t function well enough to live on his own or work, he turned out very well. He can prepare most of his own meals, he collects TV guides, he’s a video game guru and he’s a big James Bond fan. Don’t worry. Your baby will be fine.
#81199 | Author: LatashaWillis | Date: May 10 2007
Hey! I hear Switzerland is awesome this time of year. Love you sweetheart!
#81200 | Author: Heather | Date: May 10 2007