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There was a time when all I wanted was answers. Anyone who offered any was welcomed into my head.
After all, my baby was struggling. Lucas was barely bigger than a box of tissues when the first signs started to shine through. His difficulty with tummy time was the start of a long line of ailments that had evolving names, differing outcomes, and worst-case scenarios.
His physical struggle was said to be “low-tone”. His body was mushy, so his inability to roll over or crawl at the age the books said he should was blamed on that. Keep an eye on him, they told us. Any further issues, we’ll deal with them. But don’t worry.
And that’s when the dam broke. Suddenly, a flood of missed milestones came crashing into our lives. Within months, crawling was the least of our worries.
For parents in my position, the true confusion settles in when their child eventually hits an achievement of two, after struggling for a bit. For Lucas, standing up came to pass, albeit late. So did crawling and walking. Those physical problems, once said to be all about muscle tone, were worked out. Slow and steady wins the race, right?
Victories like that gave us hope. Sure, he didn’t have any words and would rather spin the wheels on a toy car than do the “vroom, vroom” gimmick, but we’d be OK. After all, he eventually walked. He’d eventually do those things too. All we had to do was wait.
Today, Lucas is 14 years old. We’re still waiting on those words. He still likes spinning the wheels on his cars.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I mean, it’s true that he doesn’t have words or play “appropriately” with many toys. It’s just that I’m not waiting anymore.
This is who my son is. His personality, in all ways, is wrapped around autism.
To those who don’t have a kid like mine, that statement sounds scary and, in many ways, pessimistic. That’s because the outlook so many people have on autism is mired in the struggles and obstacles. Scare tactics and false information flood our world and, especially early on, everyone has an opinion based on nothing.
When my little guy was still a little guy, people lined up with questions.
Did you breastfeed?
Did you vaccinate him?
Did you have a natural childbirth?
Did you eat (insert food here)?
Does autism run in your family?
Do you want to buy these magic crystals?
Everyone wanted to be the one to solve the autism riddle. The inquiries were always on the tips of their tongues and, the moment they felt it was right to ask, they did.
At the time, each question stung. They felt like accusations from loved ones about what part I played in hurting one of the people I love most in the world. They just knew that one of his parents had to have done something to make this happen.
Thankfully, they asked and put me through this torture, because after enduring all their theories, I realized something that put my mind (and conscience) at ease.
Every single thing they asked is something that could have been asked about my daughter. Three years his elder, Olivia has never had a delay in any way, shape, or form. She gets grades that blow me away and practically popped out talking up a storm. I knew, because of her, that there was something else going on and it wasn’t as simple as taking Tylenol.
I also realized that autism isn’t new. I went to school with kids who were definitely on the spectrum, but treated like they were “lazy,” “naughty,” or “easily distracted.” It’s a long-standing thing that went undiagnosed for years.
Perhaps that mixed with overdiagnosis is one reason it seems so prevalent today, but regardless, it’s not new. People can pretend all they want. You hear politicians say it didn’t exist when they were young. I always laugh when I hear that. I went to school with plenty of kids who would’ve been diagnosed today. We just didn’t know what to call it back then.
When my son was touring special needs schools, one of them was literally called “Rosemary Kennedy“. So yeah. There’s that.
With all that said, there’s one thing I need to make clear. Those who don’t have a boy like my son won’t get it right away. Those who have young children just being diagnosed won’t either. I’m sure there are people I know who wouldn’t feel this way. But this is about me. This is how I feel.
No one is to blame for my son’s autism. No one is to blame for my son.
The child I have is wonderful. The people trying to assign responsibility and point fingers never met him. They don’t know our home and they don’t know the lives we live.
Before you send me an angry email informing me that there are families who have children with profound or severe autism, know this: my son has profound or severe autism. Every heart-wrenching task you read about special needs parents performing, I perform. Taking care of my son’s needs isn’t easy and will persist, in some form, for the rest of his life. Some days, I wonder how old I’ll be before I have to find help.
And I still wouldn’t trade him for the world.
This boy is special and not in the silver-lining, sweet-words kind of way. My son is special for who he is. The way he sees the world is unique and unlike anyone else. He feels his emotions deeper than any of us and he reminds me every day to be happy in the face of adversity.
I have never felt more inspired to be a better person than I do for Lucas. He makes me the most capable version of myself.
There’s no one to blame for that.
Finding cause and catching culprits is for those outside our home and they’re welcome to do that. I’m not stopping anyone from researching or finding whatever they want to as it relates to autism.
You do you. We’re happy here.
Blame? Nah. More like appreciation. I’m thankful every day for the kids I was given. I wouldn’t want any others.
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