Patience Is Different When You’re Raising A Child With Autism. Here’s Why.

I’m a patient man. It’s one of the few compliments I can just accept.

People usually say it when they hear how I deal with my son Lucas. Nonverbal with profound autism, Lucas requires a great deal of assistance in daily tasks. I have no issues helping him. I don’t consider that something I need patience for.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. There are definitely things that I try to teach them requires repetition far beyond many children. I patiently do it, but I know it’s important. He’s learning. How could I get upset over that?

Sometimes though, something happens that makes me think, “Wow. I’ve gotten pretty calm.” This is one such example. It happened ten minutes ago. Seriously.

We were downstairs in the den. Lucas was bopping along to his iPad on the recliner in the corner. It’s his special spot.

I was seated on the reclining seat of the sectional couch, situated in the middle of the room. When we’re seated in these spots, he will often come from behind to pat my head or tap me to request something. I’m aware of this. He’s always hungry. He’s always tapping. He’s like a vulture that loves pizza.

Well, that’s what happened today – immediately prior to me writing this. Sitting in my seat, legs in the air, I heard his Fred Flintstone feet galloping towards me.

Lucas had worked his usual magic on his “spill-proof” cup again. Somehow, he’d pushed the straw completely inside the lid. I have no idea how he does it. It’s like one of those impossible wooden brainteasers from the school book fair. He always figures out how to accidentally make the impossible possible.

That big hole down the middle of the lid meant he couldn’t drink it. So he needed Dad to fix it. Still following?

My son then walked up behind me and reached over the top of my head to hand me the cup. Of course, he did it upside down and all the water came pouring out…

…onto my head.

It was like being on You Can’t Do That on Television. Water dripped from my face and, as I jumped up from the reclined couch, it tipped forward on me.

Once I was on my feet, we locked eyes. I was stunned. He was…well, thirsty.

I put my head down and pointed to the staircase.

Go. Upstairs.

Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was my eerie calm. Whatever it was, he went up the stairs immediately.

I took a minute to take inventory of my situation and grab what I needed to take him up to the top floor bedrooms. As I emerged from the stairs, I saw him on the main floor in the kitchen.

Always…in…the…kitchen.

I stumbled through the doorway, still drenched from his drinking water, and holding the broken cup in my hand. He saw me.

And this is the part that tested my patience the most.

He strained his neck to look at the cup with an expression that said, “Oh, did you fill that up?”

And guess what. I did.

That’s the kind of patience Axl Rose sings about. That’s some Dalai Lama stuff right there.

Sure, I credit my heart surgery for taking the stress out of my days and the bass out of my voice, but make no mistake. Lucas plays a key role in making that persistent. My quintuple bypass may have made me chill. My Lucas keeps me that way.

I’m glad he does too. Moments like this aren’t his fault. As annoyed as I was over having a couch-side shower, I know he loves me. I know that if he understood what just happened, he would feel bad. My son’s lack of understanding makes patience not only a responsibility, but a necessity.

So now we’re upstairs. I’m typing and, down the hallway, he’s pausing and unpausing YouTube videos of Elmo’s World. In the next five minutes, he’ll probably come with his device and ask for pizza. We had dinner twenty minutes ago.

And calmly, I will launch into a pantomime show of hand gestures and enunciation to tell him that he just ate.

He knows. He’ll whine. He’ll walk away.

And I take solace in the fact that he’s showing the same patience to me that I show him. Deep down, I know that the reaction he wants to have in that moment is no different than the one I had when he soaked me with a sippy cup.

He sees by example and I’m that example. My son might not understand everything, but I know he understands that. That’s how you raise the next generation of patient people.

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