Nick, Noah, and I had finished up with dinner--carry-out from Pizza Hut--and Nick headed to the back porch to enjoy the wind while Noah stood up to clear his plate.
Noah paused, the plate still in his hand. "Mom, if Nick and I have autism, the disease will never stop."
I couldn't quite process the words. I had him sit down next to me on the couch and explain it to me.
"If Nick and I have autism, the disease will never stop. Our sons will have it, and their sons will have it, and their sons will have it, and their sons will have it, and their sons will have it, and their sons will have it, and their sons will have it, and their sons will have it."
I wanted to cry. Here was my nine-year-old son, worrying about his tainted genetic legacy. He was scared that he would give his disease--DISEASE! Where did he get that word!? I only ever talk about autism as difference!--to his children. Noah understood enough to know that his autism was likely the result of his own father and grandfather's autism, genes they passed down to him.
Instead of crying, I asked Noah how he felt about it.
"I think the autism should end," he said. And in that moment, though I think my sons are incredible and perfect and I'd never want to change them, I wanted to take the autism away so that my Noah would never have to hurt and worry over it ever again.
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