It began as a quiet whisper deep inside me. Something feels different. Why doesn’t he maintain eye contact? Shouldn’t there be a stronger connection? Are all boys like this? If only I were a better mother, I would know.
I dismissed these concerns for months, busying myself with playdates, setting up the nursery for our second baby, planning family vacations, and convincing myself that he would eventually catch up. Boys develop at a slower pace than girls, I reassured myself. He’ll talk in time. He’s just being shy or introspective. But deep down, I was filled with self-doubt. Had I not read to him enough? Was I choosing the incorrect books? Should I have introduced him to sign language as a baby? Perhaps I should have opted for organic baby food instead of the regular kind. Was it the pop music he listened to instead of classical? Should I have enrolled him in art classes rather than gym? The guilt weighed heavily on me, consuming me like an overwhelming tide.
Months rolled by, and that little voice inside my heart began to echo in my mind. He still isn’t speaking. He avoids eye contact. He doesn’t respond to his name. He struggles to express emotions and sometimes seems to look right through me. He walks on his toes, flaps his arms, and spins in excitement. Something is clearly different. It’s autism. You know it’s autism; after all, you were an educator before he was born. You recognize the signs. Stop ignoring them.
I reached out to a local child psychologist. “I’d like to schedule an appointment for my son. He just turned two. I suspect he has autism.” Saying it out loud felt like a heavy weight pressing down on my heart. I made the appointment, hung up the phone, and curled up on the couch, tears streaming down my face. My baby. My firstborn. Autism. What did I do wrong? Why us?
Time passed, and life continued. We were happy, and we were good parents. We celebrated his second birthday, and our newborn arrived with such a rush that he almost made his debut in the car. Life was good, truly great. The waves of guilt gradually receded, and the heaviness on my heart began to lift.
Two months later, I found myself sitting on an uncomfortable couch beside my husband, our newborn sleeping between us, while our toddler was at home with a babysitter. Across from us sat a serious woman behind a grand mahogany desk, her demeanor suggesting that she could be the next feature on a makeover show. She was blunt, unyielding, and her words would alter my world forever. “Based on our discussions, tests, and observations, I can confidently say that your son has moderate autism. The results are conclusive.”
At 10:42 AM on a sunny Monday morning, everything changed. Our family dynamic shifted, and you know what? It changed for the better. Just a minute earlier, I might not have believed that, but it’s true. The guilt vanished. I didn’t cause this. No one did. Goodbye, ocean of guilt. Goodbye, heavy burden on my heart.
Now, we understand why our sweet son is unique. He is different, and that’s perfectly fine. My son has autism, and without it, he wouldn’t be the wonderful little boy he is. He’s playful, loves to tickle and wrestle with his dad before bed, enjoys exploring nature, and delights in Elmo videos on YouTube. He loves music and dances freely at school.
Just yesterday, while we were at Target, he cupped my face in his hands and gave me a big, slobbery kiss. Some might take that for granted, but for me, it signifies progress, connection, and pure joy. That’s a moment I prayed for just months ago. I couldn’t help but shed a few tears right by the clearance Halloween costumes. He has made me a mother and is teaching me to grow into the parent I aspire to be. I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.
Autism doesn’t alter any of that. It doesn’t change anything.
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In summary, embracing the unique journey of raising a child with autism can lead to profound understanding and joy. The challenges may be daunting, but the love and connection gained are immeasurable.