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I am not a scientist. I am not smart enough for that. But I am a mother. And although I am not really smart enough for that either, I do know autism from that angle. I know the rigidity and the obsessiveness and the rage over having an aide in school. I know the quiet longing that comes with being different or weird, because I see it every single day.
They said, "He's strong, about 67 pounds, and he's a puller but with some training he'll be great." Okay, I thought. Easy enough. But what they should have told me was something entirely different. What they should have told me was this: This is an adventure. Welcome to the best years of your life.
You won't remember the way I stood in the bathroom late that night in labor with you, fearfully and excitedly gazing up at the moon, knowing I was going to bring you into the world soon and whispering to you, "We can do this."
WHAT'S HAPPENING
I thought it was all about big boys, who should have known better, shaking me down for candy. Then again, some things don't make sense until you've lived them with your own child -- and not a moment sooner.
For at least one second, 17,000 people are forced to think about and remember my father. Whether they knew him or not, they know me. They either learn for the first time that my father is no longer with us, or they reflect on their own memory of his passing. No matter what their thought process is, they are remembering my father too.