Baby L said my name this past weekend. "Mom mom mom mom." It was unmistakable. For months he's insisted on calling both of his parents "Dad," which may have been a baby protest of normative gender roles or something. But this weekend, he finally said "Mom."
His language--both verbal and non-verbal, both receptive and expressive--is blossoming, and it is exciting to watch this miracle unfold. He points to what he wants and sometimes pairs it with words (to go outside, for instance, he points to the back door and says "side"). He's also mastered saying when he wants more of something or when he's done. Without prompting, he signs "more" when he wants more, and when he's done, he puts his hands in the air and says "dah, dah, dah" for "done." And every time he communicates with me, I get choked up. It's so amazing, so amazing.
Yet the beauty can be bittersweet. The other night, Beh was taking a shower, and I stepped in the room to see how he was doing.
"Do you want more shower, or are you all done?" I asked as L pulled himself up to the side of the tub, interested as always in what his brother was doing.
Beh had a perplexed look on his face, like he knew I was asking something and wanted a response from him, but he had no clue how to give me what I sought.
"Do you want more shower," I said as I signed more, "or are you all done," I said, again with the sign paired with my words.
Beh was still completely lost.
"Do you want shower on or shower off?" I thought different words might help him find his voice. I said it again.
"Shower off," said Beh. I really didn't know if he said it to communicate, or if he was just echoing me, but I took it as communication.
I leaned down to move L's hands from the edge of the tub so that Beh could open the shower door. L, this tiny boy who loves his big brother so much that he wants to always be with him and do whatever he is doing, gave me a bit of a fight. He didn't want to move even one inch away from Beh. As I gently moved him, I looked at him, and my heart broke a little bit. Here was this fourteen-month old who could do something that his nine-year-old brother has to fight--HARD--to do every day. Concepts like "more" and "done" are simultaneously so simple that a baby can master them and so challenging that a fourth grader has to give all the fight he has to grasp them. My heart hurt for Beh, that he had to fight so hard to grasp something so many of us take for granted.
I turned the water off and Beh giggled as he burrowed himself into his towel. L bounced up and down, squealing in glee at the sound of his brother's laugh. I looked at them again, and this time, instead of feeling the bittersweetness of L being able to express things that Beh can't, I felt hope. L doesn't look at Beh and see autism; he doesn't look at him and see limitations. He sees someone he wants to be just like. There's an ineffable beauty in such unconditional love. It is a love dependent in no way on words; it is a love that I know will follow Beh through his lifetime. When he can't find the words, his little brother will be there to help him find his voice. L sharing the language he's building be a voice for Nick . . . I can't imagine a more beautiful gift a brother could give.
Showing posts with label L. Show all posts
Showing posts with label L. Show all posts
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Neurotypical Kids Are Weird: One Year of Little L.
(I was going to post this two weeks ago, in honor of L's first birthday, but getting a turn on my laptop when I've got a house full of boys on summer vacation is nearly impossible, lol.)
I was prepared for everything possible with this baby . . . except maybe neurotypicality.
I don't think there was ever as much critical thinking that went into having a baby as there was with L. His brothers are on the autism spectrum, of course, so when my husband first mentioned the idea of having a kiddo, I had to think about a lot of things.
First there was a lot of information gathering. My doctor sent me to a specialist who ran me through a full battery of test and history collection. In the end, she said there was only about a 1% chance that we'd have a child with autism. That was pretty good odds. Not that I'd have a problem loving another child with autism--it's just that resources have their limits, and therapy schedules for three children would be much harder to juggle.
But we weren't in the clear, though. She wasn't concerned about autism, but she was concerned about other things, like Down Syndrome, because of my "advanced maternal age" (that was a fun term following me along on my medical charts throughout the pregnancy). They did more test, though, and I apparently had "the eggs of a teenager," according to the doctor. Sweet.
I felt like we were clearing every hurdle and that there was just one more ahead. If the baby was a girl, I felt like we'd be home free. Autism risks are much higher in boys; in my mind, I thought that if we had a girl she'd be safer from the struggles her brothers had encountered.
I cried a little when the sonogram tech said "It's a boy!" I didn't cry because I was disappointed--I love little boys and honestly would not know what to do with a little girl--but it was because I was scared for him. I wanted this baby I had yet to meet to be as safe as possible from everything. And here was one thing I had less control to protect him from.
Within half an hour that fear turned to resolve--if baby had autism, we were the perfect family for him to be born into. He'd have autism pros for parents and have so much love. Game on--let's do this.
Finally he was here, a little boy who looked ever so much like his daddy. And, well, I watched for every sign.
I know the developmental milestones; it's like they are tattooed to the surface of my brain because my life has been about trying to get Beh to reach them. And Baby L was reaching them, all on his own.
He made eye contact.
He started smiling a social smile.
He recognized himself in the mirror.
He started waving and saying something sounding like "hi."
He threw a ball.
I was overcome with the miracle of all these things. The years of trying to get Beh to make eye contact. The years of sitting on the bathroom counter, trying to get Beh to see the child in the mirror and recognize him as himself. The eight years of trying to teach him to say "hi" and "goodbye."
With every little milestone I was choked up with tears. I wanted to shout it to the world: "My baby smiled! My baby waved!"
People were like, "Yeah, that's nice," as if it were some normal thing.
You don't get it. HOW COULD YOU THINK THIS WAS A NORMAL THING? THIS IS A MIRACLE!! We're talking Jesus walking on water miracle, here. Everything L does is a MIRACLE.
I'm so thankful that I didn't have a neurotypical child first, that autism is my normal, because there's no way that I would be able to identify the miraculous, be able to treasure it, if I thought miracles were the status quo.
Of course, along with the miracles are challenges. I know that this is going to sound strange, but parenting a neurotypical baby is so much harder than parenting a baby with autism.
I remember having this moment in Beh's nursery, all those years ago, when I thought that God didn't think that much of me. A friend of mine had endured so many challenges--two children with a variety of health concerns requiring surgery, a husband who passed away. Something that came up in conversations we had was this idea that God only gives you what you could handle, and that God must've thought she was an amazing woman of great strength because he entrusted her to carry so much.
I stood there next to Beh's crib, struck by how different my experience was. God gave me the perfect baby. He didn't fuss. When he woke up in the morning, he sat up in his crib entertaining himself, never crying out for a parent. When I put him to bed at night, he never cried for a parent to stay. He was such an easy baby. I must not have been worthy of carrying much because I had no load to carry at all.
Ha.
Another autism mom and I were talking about this the other day. Like me, she had a child with autism before having a neurotypical child. And we both agreed that parenting a neurotypical toddler was so. much. harder.
Beh didn't cry because he didn't have that craving for social interaction. He entertained himself because he didn't really have much need for others. Had I known then what I know now, I would have seen that as a giant red autism flag.
But neurotypical babies . . . wow. Never has caring for a baby been so much work. L wants constant interaction and entertainment. He wants to be an active part of the world, not an observer of it. I'm exhausted, LOL. It's weird and lovely and exciting and beautiful.
I was prepared for everything possible with this baby . . . except maybe neurotypicality.
I don't think there was ever as much critical thinking that went into having a baby as there was with L. His brothers are on the autism spectrum, of course, so when my husband first mentioned the idea of having a kiddo, I had to think about a lot of things.
First there was a lot of information gathering. My doctor sent me to a specialist who ran me through a full battery of test and history collection. In the end, she said there was only about a 1% chance that we'd have a child with autism. That was pretty good odds. Not that I'd have a problem loving another child with autism--it's just that resources have their limits, and therapy schedules for three children would be much harder to juggle.
But we weren't in the clear, though. She wasn't concerned about autism, but she was concerned about other things, like Down Syndrome, because of my "advanced maternal age" (that was a fun term following me along on my medical charts throughout the pregnancy). They did more test, though, and I apparently had "the eggs of a teenager," according to the doctor. Sweet.
I felt like we were clearing every hurdle and that there was just one more ahead. If the baby was a girl, I felt like we'd be home free. Autism risks are much higher in boys; in my mind, I thought that if we had a girl she'd be safer from the struggles her brothers had encountered.
I cried a little when the sonogram tech said "It's a boy!" I didn't cry because I was disappointed--I love little boys and honestly would not know what to do with a little girl--but it was because I was scared for him. I wanted this baby I had yet to meet to be as safe as possible from everything. And here was one thing I had less control to protect him from.
Within half an hour that fear turned to resolve--if baby had autism, we were the perfect family for him to be born into. He'd have autism pros for parents and have so much love. Game on--let's do this.
Finally he was here, a little boy who looked ever so much like his daddy. And, well, I watched for every sign.
I know the developmental milestones; it's like they are tattooed to the surface of my brain because my life has been about trying to get Beh to reach them. And Baby L was reaching them, all on his own.
He made eye contact.
He started smiling a social smile.
He recognized himself in the mirror.
He started waving and saying something sounding like "hi."
He threw a ball.
I was overcome with the miracle of all these things. The years of trying to get Beh to make eye contact. The years of sitting on the bathroom counter, trying to get Beh to see the child in the mirror and recognize him as himself. The eight years of trying to teach him to say "hi" and "goodbye."
With every little milestone I was choked up with tears. I wanted to shout it to the world: "My baby smiled! My baby waved!"
People were like, "Yeah, that's nice," as if it were some normal thing.
You don't get it. HOW COULD YOU THINK THIS WAS A NORMAL THING? THIS IS A MIRACLE!! We're talking Jesus walking on water miracle, here. Everything L does is a MIRACLE.
I'm so thankful that I didn't have a neurotypical child first, that autism is my normal, because there's no way that I would be able to identify the miraculous, be able to treasure it, if I thought miracles were the status quo.
Of course, along with the miracles are challenges. I know that this is going to sound strange, but parenting a neurotypical baby is so much harder than parenting a baby with autism.
I remember having this moment in Beh's nursery, all those years ago, when I thought that God didn't think that much of me. A friend of mine had endured so many challenges--two children with a variety of health concerns requiring surgery, a husband who passed away. Something that came up in conversations we had was this idea that God only gives you what you could handle, and that God must've thought she was an amazing woman of great strength because he entrusted her to carry so much.
I stood there next to Beh's crib, struck by how different my experience was. God gave me the perfect baby. He didn't fuss. When he woke up in the morning, he sat up in his crib entertaining himself, never crying out for a parent. When I put him to bed at night, he never cried for a parent to stay. He was such an easy baby. I must not have been worthy of carrying much because I had no load to carry at all.
Ha.
Another autism mom and I were talking about this the other day. Like me, she had a child with autism before having a neurotypical child. And we both agreed that parenting a neurotypical toddler was so. much. harder.
Beh didn't cry because he didn't have that craving for social interaction. He entertained himself because he didn't really have much need for others. Had I known then what I know now, I would have seen that as a giant red autism flag.
But neurotypical babies . . . wow. Never has caring for a baby been so much work. L wants constant interaction and entertainment. He wants to be an active part of the world, not an observer of it. I'm exhausted, LOL. It's weird and lovely and exciting and beautiful.
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