April 17, 2008 at 11:38 am 3 comments

     As my boy wandered around on the playground this morning, somewhat idly, he had a grin on his face. Anyone looking at him would think he was happy. But I, as a somewhat skilled interpreter of his language, saw a different picture. He watched the boys and some girls playing basketball, probably knowing the game was too fast for him. He said “hi” to a couple of kids in his class, but didn’t connect with anyone in particular. He was grinning in that slightly uncomfortable way one grins when they don’t know what else to do with themselves. He went up and down the slide a few times, enjoying it, but I’m sure knowing it would’ve been far more fun if he could share the experience with someone else. And I just wanted to cry. I still want to cry. I do cry.

     I know some people think I worry too much about this child who appears so happy and well-adjusted. Most of our days at home pass with relative calm; we’ve become so used to the way our family functions that we don’t notice how “different” we are. C doesn’t struggle in an obvious way at school, and to all who see him, he seems like he’s doing really well. He is in fact doing really well, and he likes his school. 

     Yet there’s more to the picture; there were tears last night. Big, fat, alligator tears about a hole in his sock that were probably about more than the hole in his sock. There’s crying every Sunday night about not wanting the weekend to be over, which probably has as much to do with Daddy going back to work as it does with C going back to school. There’s constant distress over why a certain friend, his “best” friend, doesn’t ever invite him over when we’ve had that friend over numerous times. He so desperately wants to have friends, lots of friends. He does have a number of surface friendships, but nothing outside of school would happen if I didn’t initiate it. No one is running home begging to do something with C. He is painfully aware of this fact, and doesn’t understand why.

     I so worry about this sweet, sensitive child who seems to mask his worries and stress. I want his path to be easier, and not because I want to shelter him from learning tough lessons, but because I worry he will be so terribly damaged on his journey. I see tiny, subtle little clues that he is struggling far more than any of us realize, and I wonder what that means for him down the road. 

     I realized this morning, as I did my morning errands and chores after dropping him at school, that I want things to be different for him. I want a cure. But not for him. For the rest of the world.

Entry filed under: autism. Tags: , , , , , , .

My lucy day Trouble with a capital T

3 Comments Add your own

  • 1. jesch30  |  April 17, 2008 at 7:55 pm

    sigh. nothing really to say to that. well, aside from wanting that same cure for that same reason.

  • 2. goodfountain  |  April 17, 2008 at 8:41 pm

    Hugs for C. Big hugs.

    Ugh. It’s tough, because he’s starting to not want to share his embarrassing or upsetting experiences with me anymore, and I’ve always felt like his “soft place to fall” in that area. So now I worry he’s bottling it all up inside. I even saw him bottle up tears this morning (different morning than the post above) when he got shoved down on the ground by another boy as they lined up. On one hand I was impressed that he got control of his feelings so quickly, but on the other I worried that he wouldn’t process those feelings.

    Dang, I was totally underprepared for this parenting thing… 😉

  • 3. lastcrazyhorn  |  April 18, 2008 at 10:25 am

    Here’s the bad news – that sounds a lot like my childhood.

    Here’s the good news – my childhood sounded a lot like that, but yet, here I am anyways.

    I can’t remember; have I had the music therapy convo with you? Musical expression is a great way for aspies to express their often tumultuous feelings . . .

    Thank you. That really does make me feel better. I just keep thinking it could go either way, and I can’t help but think if we are able to find some tools for him to deal with these hurt feelings better, it will bode well for him in his future – thus the whole “get him through jr. high intact” thought. I think if he gets that far emotionally intact, he’ll find his niche, you know?

    Actually, you haven’t had that music tx conversation with me, and I would welcome any input you might have. We are doing music therapy, but wonder if I should be doing more with him musically. I play piano myself, but my mind works so differently than his I’ve realized I can’t teach him much, but his music therapist thinks he’s not ready to start piano quite yet (his hands are extremely small still and his fine motor skills are behind – but he does like to bang around a bit and sometimes manages to sound like some of those weird modern composers who have such dissonance in their music). She seems pretty good, but I don’t sit in on his sessions because he’s so distracted by my presence.

    So email me in your spare time (!).

    Thanks. Truly.


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