You know how on the surface you're aware of stuff. Obvious stuff. Like your child's hair is blond, he has brown eyes, he's smart, he prefers you over anyone else in the world, he has a label ... Autistic.
Then you're thrust into a situation that things have to be "reassessed" and "diagnosed" and "named".
You receive reports with phrases like "severely delayed range", "trouble with temporal and spatial relationships", "areas of weakness", "lacks both social and emotional reciprocity", "tactile defensiveness" and "great difficulty" written in them.
Your stomach cramps up.
Your eyes glaze over with what seems suspiciously like
tears.
You wonder if everything you've done, all the work you've put in, the sacrifices you've made, the tears you've already shed have moved you forward at all.
Step back. Look at the good again.
He
loves his sister,
he
adores his mother,
he's actively interested in other people,
he is incredibly intelligent, he's interested in the outside world,
he's creative, he makes me laugh regularly
... He's brightened my life and made me more aware.
We can do this. Putting names and terminology to what already existed doesn't change who he is. It helps us move forward.
I'm writing a book. A one sided, totally biased book about my life. I'm not sure if I'm going to go entirely biographical or part whimsy part truth. I just ... I have a lot to say.
