When my son, Leo, was just four years old, he decided to have a little snack—of a foam puzzle. I was in the shower when it happened. When I emerged, there he was, looking at me with his big, ocean-blue eyes, completely unbothered by his culinary choice. Meanwhile, I was having a mini meltdown.
“Why would you do that?” I asked, my voice shaking with anxiety.
He merely tilted his head up at me and blinked, as if I were asking him why the sky was blue. “What do you think you are, a goat?” I shot back in frustration.
He continued to stare, devoid of any response. In his mind, he was probably thinking, “Mom’s face looks better from a distance.”
With a firm shake of my head, I pointed at the remnants of the foam puzzle scattered around. “NO! NO EAT!” I insisted.
Leo mimicked my head shake, repeating it as if it were a new game. I bundled him and his little brother into their snowsuits and rushed to the emergency room. The doctors assured me that the foam wasn’t going to cause any real harm but decided to keep Leo for observation. Honestly, I think they just felt sorry for me—an expectant mom with two toddlers, one of whom had a penchant for chewing on plastic.
While in the hospital, I requested a psychiatric consultation, though it may have looked more like a temper tantrum than a polite request. Thankfully, the resident misunderstood my fervor and arranged for a child psychiatrist to meet with us.
Since Leo’s autism diagnosis at age two, we had explored various therapies, from speech to occupational. I was constantly worried I wasn’t doing enough, often curled up in a corner, overwhelmed by the prospect of “fixing” his behaviors. But seeing a psychiatrist was different, and I had so many questions lingering in my mind.
The psychiatrist spoke plainly yet kindly. “Your son has classic autism,” he explained. “There’s no cure. Anyone claiming otherwise didn’t truly have a child with autism.”
Instead of feeling defeated, I felt an unexpected sense of relief. It dawned on me that I had been expending so much energy fighting against an invisible foe that I was losing sight of my son. And truthfully, Leo seemed pretty content with who he was.
From that moment on, I stopped trying to change Leo. That doesn’t mean I stopped seeking therapy or setting boundaries—like saying “No” when he bounced around during family movie night. I still aimed to provide him with the best resources and support. What changed was my expectations. I focused on helping Leo be the best version of himself, rather than trying to erase his autism.
I learned to coexist with it, just as I embraced his blue eyes and quirky love for foam. It was like inviting autism in for tea, with the agreement that it would behave itself. It felt better this way.
I understand that my approach might not resonate with every parent. Some may see it as a form of giving up, but for me, it was about moving forward. I don’t want to engage in a debate over acceptance versus intervention. We all share a common bond as parents of unique children navigating the challenges of autism.
At the end of the day, instead of getting sidetracked by divisive issues, let’s unite in one universal sentiment that many parents of autistic children can rally around: a collective dislike for Jenny McCarthy.
Now, doesn’t that feel better?