We Didn’t Start Like This: How My Nonverbal Son and I Found Our Rhythm

My nonverbal son Lucas and I have a rhythm. It’s hard to put it into words. That’s kind of fitting when you think about it.

It’s a look or a nudge, but we just seem to get each other. I know when he’s about to laugh without a joke being told. I see when he’s on the verge of being overwhelmed just by looking into his eyes.

Somewhere along the way, we learned each other.

Lucas knows when we need to go somewhere and I can’t wait around all day. Urgency doesn’t require dragging him along like rolling luggage. I just make eye contact and, with a tone in my voice, tell him we need to go.

And we do.

This might sound like nothing. And honestly, now it is.

But it didn’t used to be.

When my little man was even littler, it felt like we were just… next to each other. Not disconnected. Not distant. Just separate.

He had his world. I had mine.

And most days, it felt like we were both trying to exist in the same space without really knowing how to reach each other.

Every car ride ended with his shoes thrown across the backseat. The school bus matron hated it. I hated it. And I definitely didn’t love being ten minutes late while digging through the seats on a sock scavenger hunt.

It wasn’t until I wrote this that I realized he stopped doing that recently. I can’t, honestly, remember the last time that he tossed his shoes off in the backseat. It’s one of those things that you pray will happen one day, but when it does, you don’t even notice it has.

But it did.

It just… stopped.

This is nothing new. Haircuts. Getting out of the car to go to a new location. Waiting for food. All things that once invited meltdowns and chaos have gone away. I’m not making that up.

The boy in my house today is a product of patience and understanding.

Then again, so is the dad who is here.

Lucas has been patient with me in every way I’ve been with him.

All of my frustrations over the things he didn’t understand were equal to his for things I didn’t understand. I always remembered that. It’s what brought us here.

I write about how Lucas had to learn that food was cooking. I showed him the oven. I created hand motions to explain it. Over time, he stopped dropping to the ground when the pizza didn’t magically appear when he asked. He “got it.”

What I rarely write about is that there were almost definitely times when I missed the cues. I’m sure, through the years, there were times he was hungry and I missed it. There were meals he didn’t like that he was served. There were frustrating moments that, if the roles were reversed, he’d probably be writing blogs about how hard it is to get me to understand him.

We’ve been on the same journey. My drive to build a bridge with him was met by his own construction. Sure, I talked about it a lot more. But Lucas — he’s like Gary Cooper — the strong, silent type.

Make no mistake, though. My guy has put in the work. This hasn’t been a one-way street. He’s had to deal with my missteps just as much as I’ve dealt with his… or at least close to it.

It took me years to realize the reason he hated haircuts was because I was waiting too long between them. His hair was longer. The buzzer pulled more.

It seems obvious now.

Yet here I was, spending money on silent buzzers and products geared toward the catch-all that is “autism friendly.” As I was frustrated by what I thought he didn’t understand, it was me who couldn’t see what the real issue was.

And my boy endured me.

Sure, he fought back at times. OK, most times. Still, he did it.

When I finally figured it out, I’m sure he was thinking, “Finally, dude.”

If we’re being honest, Lucas gets me more than most people ever have. My nonverbal humor comes down to nudges and looks. I can elbow him and give a wide-eyed glance. He’ll return it with the same expression and a hearty laugh. There’s usually a kiss on the cheek there too.

Most of all, it comes down to a word I mention a lot. Trust.

Lucas trusts me on so many levels.

It’s not just about trusting me to feed him or take him somewhere fun. Lucas trusts that I understand him. He knows that my educated guesses about what he needs are usually going to hit. He knows that when I’m around, he’s part of the conversation and a main character in the family. His lack of words doesn’t hold us back.

In turn, I trust that Lucas gets me.

When things need to be done and I express urgency, he hustles. When I call him to come up from the den, he comes trotting up. Gone are the days of needing to flick the lights on and off to get his attention. He hears dad call, “Lucas.” He comes to see what I need.

That means the world to me. And what makes it most special is that I never dreamed we’d be able to do some of these things.

Building that bridge didn’t happen overnight.

And it didn’t happen on my own. It’s not a one-person job.

We built it together and we’re stronger now than we ever were before because of it.

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