When my son, Leo, who is on the autism spectrum, was just four years old, he managed to eat most of a foam puzzle while I took a quick shower. When I emerged, I found him looking at me with his bright blue eyes, seemingly unfazed. I, however, was in a state of panic.
“What made you do that?” I asked, my voice shaking with worry. His gaze remained blank, and he tilted his head in confusion. All I could think was, Why are you acting like a goat?
His silence was deafening, and I realized he couldn’t express himself verbally. I pointed at the remnants of the foam puzzle and said firmly, “NO! NO EAT!” He mirrored my shaking head, but that didn’t stop me from bundling him and his little brother into their snowsuits and heading to the emergency room.
The doctors reassured me that the foam wouldn’t do much harm, but they admitted Leo for observation. Perhaps they felt sympathetic seeing a pregnant mom juggling two toddlers, one of whom had a taste for plastic. I didn’t mention my six-year-old daughter, who was probably waiting to be picked up from school or wandering the neighborhood at that hour.
While Leo was hospitalized, I desperately requested a psychiatric consultation. Initially, I was met with skepticism, but thankfully, the resident’s doubts were unfounded.
Since Leo had been diagnosed at age two, we had seen a range of specialists—therapists, psychologists, and speech experts. Yet, I felt overwhelmed and insecure about whether I was doing enough for him. Some days, I would sit in the kitchen, paralyzed by the notion of “fixing” his behaviors. Other days, I was devising intricate therapy plans to manage his repetitive motions and sounds.
Finally, the child psychiatrist we met was straightforward yet compassionate. He candidly told us, “Your son has classic autism. There is no cure. Anyone claiming they’ve ‘cured’ their child didn’t truly have a child with autism.” Instead of feeling devastated, I found a sense of relief.
I realized I was done battling an invisible foe that was running my life. The more I fought, the more I felt trapped. What’s more, Leo seemed genuinely content with who he was. From that moment on, I decided to stop trying to change him.
This doesn’t mean I stopped seeking support for him; he still went to occupational and speech therapy. I wanted him to thrive in the best environment possible and to guide him when he was too energetic during family movie nights. I still believed in helping him reach his potential.
What truly shifted was my perspective. I stopped trying to erase autism from our lives and began to embrace it as part of who Leo is—like his striking blue eyes or his quirky love for eating foam.
So, instead of waging war against an unseen adversary, I invited autism into our lives and set boundaries, hoping it would behave nicely. This new approach has felt liberating for me. I understand it might not resonate with everyone; some might see it as conceding defeat. For me, it’s about moving forward.
I don’t mind if other parents disagree with my outlook. I just wish to avoid contentious debates over our shared experiences. As mothers, we share the trials of raising children who flap, jump, wander, and make people stare.
Let’s not allow divisive issues like vaccines or diets to distract us from our true goal: supporting one another. We can unite over the absurdities of parenthood and collectively find humor in the challenges we face.
And doesn’t that feel better?
In conclusion, accepting Leo’s diagnosis has been a journey. While I still seek the best for him, I have learned to let him be himself, and that has made all the difference.
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Keyphrase: autism acceptance and support
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