It began as a gentle murmur deep within my soul. Something isn’t quite right. Why doesn’t he look at me? Shouldn’t he feel more engaged? Is this typical boy behavior? If I were a better mother, I’d know.
For months, I brushed these thoughts aside, distracting myself with playdates, preparing the nursery for baby number two, planning family trips, and convincing myself he’ll eventually catch up. Boys are known to develop at a slower pace than girls, I reasoned. He’ll start talking soon. He’s just reflective. He’s shy. He’s simply being obstinate. Yet, a nagging guilt consumed me. Had I read to him enough? Were my book choices inadequate? Should I have introduced sign language earlier? I should have opted for organic baby food instead of the regular kind. Perhaps I should have enrolled him in art classes rather than gym. All this must be my fault. The guilt felt like an overwhelming tide, and I was drowning.
As time passed, the little voice in my heart grew louder. He still wasn’t speaking. He avoided eye contact. He didn’t respond when called. Expressing emotion seemed difficult for him. At times, he looked right past me. He walked on his toes, flapped his arms, and spun around joyfully. Something was off. Autism. Deep down, I knew it. I had been an educator before he was born; I recognized the signs. It was time to stop pretending.
I reached out to a local child psychologist. “I need to schedule an appointment for my son,” I said. “He just turned two. I suspect he may have autism.” Saying it out loud felt like a heavy weight had settled onto my heart. After I hung up, I curled up on the couch and wept. My firstborn. Autism. What had I done? What had I failed to do? Why us? Why him? My baby!
Time moved on. We were happy. We were good parents. We celebrated his second birthday, and our newborn arrived with such urgency that he nearly made his entrance in the car on the way to the hospital. Life felt fulfilling, even as the waves of guilt began to recede, and the weight on my heart gradually lifted.
Two months later, I sat on an uncomfortable couch with my husband, our newborn peacefully napping between us, while our toddler was at home with a babysitter. Facing us was a woman who looked like she belonged on a makeover show—serious and abrupt, seemingly unfazed by the impact of her words. “Based on our discussions, the tests we conducted, surveys from his teachers and speech therapist, and my observations here today,” she stated, “I can confidently say that your son has moderate autism. The results are conclusive.”
At 10:42 AM on that sunny Monday, my entire world shifted. Our family was transformed. Surprisingly, it was a positive change. Just a minute earlier, I might not have believed that, but it’s true. The guilt vanished. I didn’t cause this condition; no one did. Goodbye, tidal waves of guilt. Farewell, bricks on my heart.
Now, we understand why my son is who he is. He is unique, and that’s perfectly fine. My son has autism, and without it, he wouldn’t be the incredible person he is today. He’s playful, enjoys wrestling with his dad before bedtime, loves exploring the outdoors, and can’t get enough of Elmo videos on YouTube. He dances at school, unencumbered by self-consciousness.
Just yesterday, while shopping at Target, he pulled my face close to his and planted a big, slobbery kiss on me. You might consider that a normal occurrence with your child, but for me, it signifies progress, connection, and sheer joy. That was something I had prayed for just months ago. I wasn’t ashamed at all when tears filled my eyes right by the discounted Halloween costumes. He made me a mother, and he’s shaping me into the woman and mom I aspire to be. I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
Autism doesn’t alter that. It doesn’t change a thing.
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In summary, while navigating the complexities of having a child with autism can be challenging, it can also lead to profound growth and connection. Understanding and acceptance pave the way for joy and fulfillment in parenting.
Keyphrase: My Son Has Autism
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