What I See Now

 Since my son was officially diagnosed with autism, I have been racked with a sense of guilt.  How did we not see?  How did we not know?  We're his parents. We should have been the first to notice something was different about our boy.  Yet, it took us six years for my husband and I to finally say to each other, "Something's not right."  It took us seven to say to a doctor, "Something's not right."  Gone are the early intervention years for our son.  Gone is that crucial window to address what I see now were obvious speech and auditory processing issues, visual perception problems, fine motor delays, gross motor delays, scripting, echolalia, repetitive behaviors, social and emotional delays, and all the other warning signs that glare at me through home videos of my precious curly-haired toddler with chocolate on his chin babbling about toy trains in a language only we could understand.

There have been so many 'what-ifs' and so many 'buts' banging around in my head the last few weeks I've literally been overcome by that hot, sick feeling of guilt. And each night I've closed my eyes, my own script starts to play.

"I'm your mother.  I should have known.  I should have seen.

I should have seen before you were one and could recite every animal sound we asked of you in addition to a handful of their names, but rarely answered to your own being called.

I should have seen when we read the same bedtime story every night for so many years, your daddy can still recite it today.

I should have known at age two when we could NOT leave the store without buying ANOTHER plastic 'horsey.' When you spent hours organizing them and making me read from horse fact cards your great-aunt bought as a gift.

I should have seen when you begged to watch the same Thomas the Tank Engine DVD for weeks and months on end.

I should have known that a three-year-old speaking in a language comprised of only vowels was odd.

I should have seen and taken notice of you rocking your body as you blew out the candle at your third birthday to cope with the noise while we sang.

I should have known the day you bolted in the grocery store and for five heart-stopping minutes, you were gone.

I should have known at four, when your Thomas fascination was still going strong, that you were scripting the lines from the movies while you talked about yourself in the third person, inserting your name into the movie lines as if you were a character too.

I should have seen when Thomas gave way slightly to dinosaurs and we played "classification" on the living room rug and you became so angry when I forgot which category paralophosaurus fell under that you scattered the neat lines of them and refused to play anymore that day.

I should have known when you were five and knew all the days of the week, months of the year, and taught yourself how to tell time so you could keep track of every minute of his day and know exactly what time your daddy would get off work and be home each night.

I should have looked twice at you constantly standing on your head and folding yourself into a ball, hiding under chairs and tables, long after other kids had outgrown that kind of thing.

I should have seen at age six when we finally found a playgroup, but you spent all of your time sitting with the adults chatting or trailing behind the other kids, content to watch their games instead of asking to join."

These are the thoughts I've gagged and choked on for months. They have kept me up at night, gnawing at my mind and pulling at my heart.  That small voice inside whispers, "You should have known. You should've seen." And I fall apart every time.

My beautiful boy. I wish I had known. I wish I had seen.  But, let me tell you what I was looking at instead.

I was looking at your smile. How it shows your dimples and the way your eyes crinkle like your daddy's.

I was looking at your gentle way with animals, bugs, birds, and even spiders.

I was admiring your intelligence. In awe of all you were learning.

I was watching your logical mind put pieces of the world's puzzle together. I was listening to you explain to your sister how plants grew and where the Sahara was. 

I was watching you admire Claude Monet and decide you wanted to be just like him when you grew to be an old man (pipe, beard, and all).

I broke down in ugly tears when the occupational therapist finally mentioned autism. Because by then, I knew. I knew what I saw.  Even after all the books I'd read, documentaries I'd watched, having gone through an autism evaluation with your little sister, I still cried at the cacophony of emotion exploding in my heart. I felt so overwhelmed and relieved and grateful and GUILTY all at the same time.  I cried because I felt I should have known, should have seen. I cried because I didn't want to change you. I cried because I didn't know how to stop the struggles and pain you were going through every time we walked into a store with fluorescent lighting or someone started a diesel truck nearby.  I cried because as smart as you were, you didn't understand why things were SO hard. I cried because you wanted so badly to whistle and tie your shoes, but no matter how long you practiced, you just couldn't seem to learn and you thought it meant you weren't special. I cried inside when I watched you want to interact with a friend, but turned away instead because it was just too much for you.  And I silently berated myself.  Why did I never see?  

Maybe, I was blinded by your beautiful soul.  And over the last year as the struggles came harder and faster for you, I found myself finally seeing past the torchlight of your gorgeous, muddy, giggling little boy self.  Finally comprehending that inner-beauty alone couldn't stem the anxiety, control the frustrations, keep you from lashing out, or manage the challenges you were facing.  I watched, feeling helpless, as your behavior regressed and each day became a struggle, your emotions no longer manageable for you.  I knew now you needed help, and it wasn't help I could give by reading you another book or watching a nature video together.  It hurt as I watched you lose interest in friends, in playing.  I watched you out the window as you sat in the hole you so carefully and painstakingly dug, content to run dirt through your hands for hours.  Then I saw.  I saw it all and then I looked over my shoulder and saw a breadcrumb trail of signs that had been there all along.  The stimming, the echolalia, the scripting, the hopping, the flapping, standing on your toes, unable to grasp a pencil, but able to recite sonnets from memory.  And so much later than you deserved, I finally asked for help.

We're on a different path now.  It will, no doubt, be a rocky one. Probably with its fair share of potholes and steep hills.  But I'll walk every step with you, your hand held tightly so you don't fall behind.  If you get tired, we'll rest together.  If you feel like running, we'll run.  Faster and freer than cheetahs on the plain. If it gets too hard and your legs give out, I'll carry you with your curls tucked under my chin. If it gets dark, I'll find a flashlight so we can watch our feet together. We might have to walk in the rain sometimes.  I'll bring an umbrella, and you can carry it. If we get lost and need a map, we'll make one together, complete with compass rose. I'll be your shelter if it gets windy, until you're strong enough to walk alone.  And when that day comes, I'll walk the path beside yours.

Maybe I should've seen you struggle, long before I have.  But I promise from here on out to look through your eyes.  I will feel with your heart, not mine. I will always try to know. I won't.  Not always.  Because even moms can be blind.  But even when I'm blind, I will love you, just as I always have. I will love you so big and so much that there is no measure on earth for it.  I will pour such an infinite amount of it on you, it would be easier to number the stars or count the molecules in the air.

So, my silly crazy boy, at the end of our road, all the things I didn't know and didn't see...and even the things I see now and know.

They will all pale in comparison to how much I love your beautiful soul.