From Hand-Me-Downs to Standing Tall: Raising a Child with Autism

I refuse to wear hand-me-down shirts from my 13-year-old son. Clothes shouldn’t go in that direction. It’s supposed to be the adult who gives them to the kid, not the other way around.

My little fella is growing at a rapid rate, though. Like those sponge things we used to soak in water and watch expand into giant toys back in 1980s, this spongy guy is becoming bigger by the day. I don’t even realize it.

Of course, the fact that he’s non-verbal with autism clouds that observation. To quote Mariah Carey, he’ll always be my baby. We watch the same shows we used to and sing the same songs we always have. Lucas is still tiny in my mind.

But he’s not tiny. He’s a big kid. I see it when he’s next to a genuine kindergartener or preschooler. As my boy towers over them, I’m reminded that Mariah’s words are meant in a figurative sense. He may always be my baby, but he’s a giant dude.

The fact that I’m getting him large shirts is a reminder of that. I’m forced to acknowledge his towering stature and face the reality. My son is growing up.

Do you know who else sees how big Lucas is getting? Lucas.

I’ve repeated it a lot here, but it remains true. A non-verbal 13-year-old kid with autism is still a 13-year-old kid. He still demonstrates a lot of the same tendencies. He has many of the same motivations.

He’s not “happy all the time” as many seem to think is true for special needs children. To say that would be to diminish him as a human being. Does he have a pleasant demeanor? Yes. Is he a lovable little ball of Lucas? Sure. Does he express his excitement and joy in a way that eclipses anyone else I’ve ever known? Absolutely.

Is he sometimes a little dillweed, trying to toss his weight around to get his way? Definitely.

When my boy doesn’t want to go somewhere, he plants himself to the ground and stays there. We’ve been through it a million times.

Come on, Lucas. Time to go to the car.

As I take his hand, he leans back with all his weight. Soon I’m holding his arm with his body at a 45 degree angle to the floor. In that moment, he has no idea who much I’m saving him from bodily harm. If I let go, it turns into a Bugs Bunny cartoon as he disappears into a puff of smoke and Lucas-shaped hole in the ground.

Sounds bad? Wait. There’s more. In times of real opposition, he’ll do his favorite thing. He’ll lay on the ground.

To anyone who thinks that this is done out of confusion or exhaustion, I appreciate it. As his dad, it means a lot that you think the sweetest of my son. From afar, I would think the same thing too.

Sometimes that’s the reason. Yet, most times, it’s because he’s a little dillweed. I know this because I see the look in his eyes. I feel him glaring into my soul.

Lack of eye contact, a long-held misconception about all people with autism, is not an issue for my son. He will stare at you for hours. Sometimes he even does it just to see the reflection in your eyeball. Seriously. He gets so close and studies your pupils. It’s adorable, but also not the type of stare he offers here.

Looking up at me from the floor, there’s no emotion in his eyes. It’s not negative or positive. It’s almost as if he’s waiting and studying. He wants to know if and how you can make him get up. He wants to know if today is the day that Dad loses.

Dad never loses. I tell him that as I kneel on the floor and hook his arm under mine, WWE style. I don’t pull or wrench. I don’t hurt at all. I then simply stand up, with his appendage wrapped around mine. His body has no choice but to come along. Never in my youth did I dream that amateur wrestling practice would come in handy for parenting, but here we are.

What gets me about all of this is the way his face changes. The blank stare is gone. Now it’s replaced by, what can best be described as, a surprised smirk. He looks at me with an expression that says, “Impressive, old man.”

Thank you, giant boy.

There’s no way to explain how grateful I am to have tactics like this in times these. I realize that many people in a similar situation might not. I also recognize that one day, they won’t work anymore. As I mentioned, he’s outgrowing my friggin’ shirts.

My approach to this behavior speaks volumes about my son’s stubborn nature and how to handle it as he gets older. It’s something that anyone, regardless of whether they can hook an armbar or not, should take notice of.

The reason “Daddy always wins” is because I can’t let him win. I know the first time he sees that I can’t physically get him up, that becomes the day he does it forever. I dread that day.

However, this holds true for any “bratty” reaction. If he has a tantrum for an iPad, I can’t hand it over as soon as he whines. If he swats at someone because he wants their cookie, I can’t give him their cookie. If he throws himself on the floor because he doesn’t want to go to bed, I can’t just walk away and let him run around the house.

Sure, we can work something out and often do. He might get extra time before bed, but I make sure he understands that this is something I’m doing to be kind, not out of intimidation. While I’m not sure if he understands the words I say, he understands the tone of my voice and hand gestures that tell him “five more minutes”.

He needs to know that acting out will never automatically get his way. Lucas learns from repetition. Once he sees a tactic that works, that becomes his gameplan going forward.

If I could, I’d let him have anything he wants. He’s my favorite boy in the whole world. Unfortunately, there is a whole world out there and they’re not going to love him as much as I do. The bigger he gets, the more important it is to teach him how to handle himself right during times of frustration.

From the shirts that no longer fit me to the moments he lies on the ground, I’m reminded of the expanding boundaries of our lives together. Like those sponge toys from the 80s, Lucas has grown, defying the small confines I had imagined for him. As he gets bigger, so too does my understanding and my resolve, always striving to guide him with love in a world that might not always stretch to fit him.