When my son, Alex, who has autism, was just four years old, he munched on nearly every piece of a foam puzzle while I was busy in the shower. Upon my return, he looked at me with his wide, cerulean eyes, blinking innocently. He didn’t seem to be in distress at all, but I was completely thrown off.
“Why would you do that?” I questioned, my voice trembling with concern.
He gazed up at me, seemingly unfazed.
“Are you a goat or something?” I asked, frustration creeping into my tone.
He continued to stare blankly, offering no response.
Here’s what he was likely thinking: She looks much prettier from a distance.
What he actually said: Nothing—he couldn’t speak due to his autism.
I shook my head firmly. “NO!” I exclaimed, pointing at the remnants of the chewed-up foam. “NO EAT!”
In response, he mirrored my head shake repeatedly. He was still shaking his head when I bundled him and his brother into their winter gear and rushed to the Children’s Emergency Room.
The doctors there confirmed that the foam wasn’t a significant threat, yet they admitted him for a day of observation. Maybe they thought I could use a break. After all, a pregnant mom showing up with two toddlers—one of whom had a knack for consuming plastic—might warrant some sympathy. I didn’t dare mention that I had a six-year-old daughter waiting to be picked up from school, possibly wandering the neighborhood by now. Everyone has their limits.
While Alex was in the hospital, I desperately requested a psychiatric consultation. I may have thrown a mini-tantrum—kicking my feet and pounding the ground—before I decided to use my words. The resident informed me that the child psychiatrist might not be available. Fortunately, they were mistaken.
Since Alex’s diagnosis at age two, we had explored various therapies in schools and community programs. I had consulted psychologists, social workers, and speech professionals. I was filled with anxiety, feeling I wasn’t doing enough. There were days I curled up in a corner of the kitchen, overwhelmed by the prospect of “fixing” his behaviors, flapping and rocking in frustration myself. On other days, I crafted complex therapy routines to address his finger waving, moaning, and rituals that hindered him from my ideal vision of “living.” Yet, we had never consulted a child psychiatrist, and with the possibility of another goat-like episode looming, I was filled with questions.
The psychiatrist was direct yet compassionate. They shared insights that left my husband and me with a mix of understanding and trepidation. For the first time, someone spoke candidly about our son’s condition, which was starting to receive widespread media attention and overwhelming concern.
“Your son has classic autism,” the psychiatrist stated. “There’s no cure. Anyone who claims they’ve ‘cured’ their child of autism likely didn’t truly have a child with autism. It’s as simple as that.”
Instead of feeling disheartened, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I realized it was time to stop battling the invisible foe that had consumed my life. I had grown weary of this unseen adversary. I understood that my relentless fight would only lead to exhaustion for all of us if I didn’t find a way to cope.
A deeper truth had been gnawing at me for months—one that I hesitated to voice, knowing it might make others uncomfortable. The reality was, Alex didn’t seem bothered by his autism. In fact, he appeared genuinely… happy.
From that moment on, I shifted my focus from trying to change who Alex was.
This doesn’t mean I stopped enrolling him in occupational or speech therapy. It doesn’t mean I didn’t seek out the best educational opportunities or remind him not to jump in the living room while others were watching a movie. I still believed in therapy and support. I aimed to help him be the best version of himself.
What changed most significantly was my perspective on autism. I stopped trying to eliminate it from his life (or mine) and began allowing my son to coexist with it. Autism became a part of him, just like his blue eyes and fondness for foam.
And that’s how I transformed my approach, inviting autism in for tea—on the condition that it behaved itself.
This method feels better for me. I understand it may not suit everyone. Some parents might see this acceptance as surrender, but I view it as a step forward. I respect that not everyone will share my perspective, and I have no desire to debate the topic. The autistic community is already divided over so many issues.
As a mother, accepting Alex’s diagnosis is not a matter for debate; we have enough on our plates already. Aren’t we all just mothers of our unique kids—the flappers, jumpers, wanderers, and gigglers?
Disagreements over vaccines, diets, and acceptance only serve to distract us from the real issues that unite us. Let’s agree to disagree sometimes and focus instead on what truly matters, including the one sentiment that brings even the fiercest opponents in our community together: a shared disdain for misinformation surrounding autism.
Doesn’t that feel better?
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Jessica Harrington shares her journey with her son Alex, who has autism. After a troubling incident involving foam consumption, she sought psychiatric help and learned that there is no cure for autism. This realization brought her relief and led to a shift in her approach, focusing on acceptance rather than trying to change her son. She emphasizes the importance of support and therapy while highlighting the happiness that Alex finds in his life. The article also encourages unity among parents of autistic children, steering clear of divisive topics.
Keyphrase: autism acceptance
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