In 2004 I felt I was the luckiest woman in the world. My home turned into a total free-for-all, with the Stu, Jen and baby Drake, and my youngest daughter Sara (switching to given names) staying with me while waiting for their homes to be built. The girls’ homes would be eight houses apart, and just down the road a piece from me. How cool is that? Best of all, down the hallway and around the bend, in a room set up for him, was my little love, who by now had become an integral part of my life. Hearing him jumping up and down in his crib and babbling little baby nonsense was pure music to my ears. That child was equal to my winning Lotto. I know, you think I am making this up…how can this kid be so darn special…to the point that he never got on my old nerves. He just was…and never did!
I told Jen not to worry about him writing on the walls, I’ll just put the date it was drawn above the picture. When she freaked out because he had gotten bottle drippings all over the carpet, I told her not to worry, I can draw a circle around that and date that as well. When she nearly had a heart attack when he dropped something, I explained that if I was stupid enough to leave it where he could get it then shame on me at that I should be placed in timeout , not him! I have a confession: At a birthday party he stuck his fingers in the cake and started writing on my dining room table with the icing. My daughter looked like she wanted to hide in a closet, but I said, “Wait, let me get my camera. I want to chronicle his creativity—wink, wink.” While he smeared away, I clicked away, and now those pictures proudly sit in a photo album…sequentially of course.
I don’t know why but it is like deep down in my soul I knew he was special. I can’t put it into words, or even understand it myself, yet something inside of me was so taken with him that everything else in my life seemed to pale by comparison. No matter how badly I might be feeling about something, he would always snap me out of my sadness, or blueness, or any other unwanted emotion I might have been feeling. He became my “chicken soup for the soul.”
When they made the move from slots land to y’all land, I told them I would baby-sit so they could continue working—which meant that for a good portion of each day that little guy was mine, all mine. I would like to add that I followed the rules, and never overstepped boundaries (unless you count the extra cookies and pudding I slipped in,) and had the time of my life. Everyday was like a party. Hours were spent sitting with him in his playpen…yes you read that right. In fact at any given moment someone was sitting and playing with him, and doting on his every whim. The fact that he didn’t speak too much at age two didn’t seem very important; lots of babies start talking at a late age. We all know what he wants so he must have what is called a lazy mouth; no biggie.
Toys, toys and more toys; you name it and he had it. He always enjoyed playing with his cars. How he loved to spin the wheels all the time. Oh how cute! He loves to watch them go round and round and round and round and round. We were all fascinated by his fascination. Then there was an even bigger discovery…the switch that turned on the ceiling fan. Whoa, can’t get much better than this for spinning heaven. Oh how cute! Now he knows how to kick the spinning up a notch by flicking a switch. What a smart little boy. Wonder of all wonders, he figures out how to open and close doors, and open and close and open and close, and open and close. Oh how cute! He’s making believe he is going somewhere. Hmmm, doesn’t respond to his name when called—must be so engrossed in what he is doing that he chooses to ignore us. Little creep head! Pushing two, and a boy, oh well.
While at the pediatrician’s office my daughter mentions the delay in speech, expecting to hear him say: Not to worry! Boys develop later than girls, or, so many adults around him he feels no need to speak. Be careful what you wish for; once they start they never shut up! He said none of these things. Why not? What he does say is he wants to monitor his development over the next six months to rule out autism. How dare he say that to my daughter who is standing before him with the love of her life in her arms. When my daughter told me what he said I became so angry I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to know why he would want to strike such fear in all our hearts. Why? Why dear God in heaven, why?
When I talked to my daughter about what transpired at the doctor’s office I based my misguided assessment on what I thought I knew was autism: rocking, screaming, not wanting to be touched or hugged, tantrums, head-banging and hitting. He likes to be hugged so he can’t have autism. You can touch him so he can’t have autism. He doesn’t rock, scream or have tantrums, so he absolutely can’t have autism. So on we went with life, all the while watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of our collective eye.
The two houses were finally finished and ready for the sound of life that was soon to overrun them. Helping two daughters with new homes at the very same time can seem like an impossible mission but we all survived and the joy of new homes took over. The unpacking was completed, furniture and appliances delivered and hooked-up, oohs and ahs were shared all around and then it was back to normal routines. The only difference for me was that now I would be having fun time with the little guy on his turf.
That first year in the new home flew by so quickly. Taking care of a two-year-old has a way of keeping you on your toes and making days zip along. Because I was babysitting I was with him five days a week. He seemed to be doing so much better. He was certainly communicating his wants. If I said, “milk” he said “milk.” If I said, “cookie” he said, “cookie.” When Jen arrived home from work and said, “kiss,” he said, “kiss.” He was doing this more and more everyday. That stupid doctor; what the hell did he know? Drake was always so happy going around and showing you every light switch and fan switch, saying, “on and off and on and off.” See! He is communicating. Just because he likes opening and closing doors and windows going up and down doesn’t mean he has autism. So I wouldn’t let myself think about that anymore. No sir.
Why is he flapping his hands like that? Something must have made him so excited he couldn’t control himself. Nope, I won’t go there…I won’t! Why won’t he make eye contact? Maybe because we are not as interesting as that spinning fan. Nope, I won’t even go there…I won’t…I refuse. Okay, okay, okay. I know you love all the doors in the house, but why, oh God why do you stand there and play with them all day long? I move you away and you find another door. So many doors. Nope, I still won’t go there. I won’t. I adamantly refuse to. Then I see my sweet little guy make a fist and peer through the opening out of the corner of his eye and I plunge head first into that place that I did not want to go to. I want to start screaming and never stop. I want to lash out at everyone and everything. I feel like I have just been sucked into an abyss that I can’t resurface from. How do I approach my daughter when she comes home from work? How do I tell her about the new thing he is doing? How do I do this? This is her little boy; my little grandson. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home and go to bed and hide under a blanket. I want to die.
She comes home, the evening winds down and I discuss this latest development with her. I can see the fear in her eyes so I tell her we should count how many times a day he is doing this. Let’s see if it increases or decreases and fades away. Talk about having your head in the sand. This was something we found very difficult to talk about, believing if you ignore it, it may just go away: but it could not be ignored, and it wouldn’t go away…
Needless to say, counting every time these things were done was ridiculous because it happened so frequently it was hard to count. It was time to concede and have him tested; he was now three years old.
An appointment was made and the waiting was dreadful. You want him to be seen now only to find out the wait can be months long. You keep hoping that something will change between now and the time of the testing. You have to have hope to cling to so you start thinking maybe miracles do happen, maybe all will be well and we can bring him home and have a good laugh about being so darn foolish. Can the time go any slower? Never knew a couple of months could take a year!
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