Learning To Float

Alex at one of his favorite places in the whole world: The ocean. Mission Beach, California. 2008

I think if you would have told me fourteen years ago, when I sat holding my six month old, all fat and happy, (the baby, not me, well, maybe a little) with enormous blue eyes and new blond hair that had grown out over his fawn colored baby hair, that this same boy would have autism, I think I might have, in my twenty three year old mind, first, not have believed you. Because he was perfection sitting there, leaning his head against my chest. Secondly, I think I would have thought it could be fixed. I would be that perfect mother who cured him, the one who never gave up hope and besides with medicine today there's always an answer, you just have to find the right doctor, right? And third, I probably would have thought even if he did have autism -which I sincerely doubted- we would love him just the same and it wouldn't be that bad. We weren't high strung people, with ridiculous expectations for our children, after all. We were just two imperfect people loving what seemed to be one perfect baby boy. This  baby was so adorable the photo shop manager asked him to be their model. This baby was so fun that strangers had to come to stroke his soft cheek, and stand near by when he giggled. No, we didn't expect Harvard, but if any baby could aim for Harvard and expect to get in, it would be this baby, this brilliant boy, this perfect first born son. Autism or not, he was perfection, and I'm sure if you told me eleven years ago, I would have just shook my head at the nonsense, breathed in his perfect baby scent, pulled him to my breast and told you, you must be mistaken, because this boy is everything right in the world, but thanks anyways for the heads up.



"Run! Run! As fast as you can! Can't catch me, I'm the Loggy Bear Man!" 2008

Babies, I believe are false advertising. I've always held this position. When you think about having a child you picture your baby cradled in your arms, all soft and warm and pliable. All needy and helpless and dependent. All cozy, and first smiley, and hopeful. You picture them sweet and young. You don't picture a child whose two. You don't picture shopping with a toddler who you just told couldn't have gum. You don't picture the child who has perfected the tantrum, you picture the child who has perfected the giggle. You never picture homework, or realize how homework will loom over you like the Honk Kong Chicken Flu, or some venereal disease that just won't go away. News flash, babies grow up. I know, because mine did, all three. Not to adult hood, just to homework hood. Curse. Mutter. And honestly, by the time you reach the dreaded homework stage, you are hooked. You are caught, bonded, sealed, that's how babies get you, it's innate, it's part of how they work. We, as adults apparently are suckers for first smiles, and eye contact, and someone reaching out for us. So, fair warning, that whole helpless I'm an infant take care of me act, is actually just a a ploy to get you to take care of them... for the rest of their lives. Yep. And homework, I hear, is just the beginning. But I wanted these boys, all three. And I loved them as babies all three. And I loved them as toddlers all three. And I loved them at four, and six and eight and ten. And yes, even at 13. Loving, is almost instantaneous. But parenting and learning to be a mom is something that happens by degrees, thankfully. I remember when Alex was born, I had prepared for everything. Like every good, first time mother, I had a fully stocked diaper bag. I had spent our entire food budget (for the next three years) at The Baby Gap. I had read volumes upon volumes of baby books. We were ready. At the same time I had Alex, some good friends of ours had their third baby. We would go to visit them, Russ dragging our eighty pound, monstrous diaper bag up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. I would haul educational toys, and stimulating mobiles and breast pumps, and all things baby, lest our little genius was found lacking. Alex would lay on the ground next to Jack on (of course)  a hypoallergenic blanket, and we would talk and watch our boys kick their feet and try to put their fists in their mouths. I remember at one point Jack spit up, and then, (in horror) I watched as his dad Eric, grabbed the closest thing he could find to clean up the mess which happened to be, a dirty gym sock. Russ and I locked eyes (although I'm sure Russ was probably thinking 'why did you just ruin a perfectly good sock with baby barf?') Not that I'm a germ-a-phobe, but, still, come on, a dirty sock? His wife Stephanie, I think seeing my distress, said, "When you have your first child you have a special burp cloth, but when you have your third child you use a sock." I vowed I would have a burp cloth for every child, because a gym sock was not mentioned once in all the baby books I'd read, and these authors were experts, okay!




"A little rain never hurt anyone." San Diego 2008

I had a third child. I had several burp cloths, they, unfortunately, were all in the laundry. Along with everything else we owned. Logan-the third boy in as many years- had reflux. Logan spit up all the time. It was like having a fountain indoors, our own Beliogio. All hours he erupted like Old Faithful. I smelled like fermented breast milk. I didn't own one thing that wasn't in some way permanently damaged from the projectile guiser that was my son. I remember distinctly one day when Logan hurled, and in my rush to do some damage control, I grabbed the nearest thing to me, which happened to be, yes, you guessed it, a sock. I wiped Logan's face, I wiped his chest, I wiped the floor, I wiped my shirt. And yes, I let out a little shriek of what? Frustration? Horror? Acceptance? Exhilaration? Something. I was the mother of three. As a parent, you learn by degrees. I learned by the time you have your third child, you know of course what that phrase don't sweat the small stuff really means. It means, you no longer perspire. Not sweating the small stuff actually refers to your sweat glands growing to the size of push pins. Yep. You are in full work out mode now, you sweat. You have half moons under your armpits, and you are red faced a lot, and you may possibly smell like milk. And it's a good thing you have (usually) only one child at a time, that way the slide towards the lifestyle you swore you would never have happens slowly, almost interperceptable until there your are red handed, with a barf sock in hand, three children who aren't' dressed eating cheerios and chocolate chips off the floor (and thanks to your quick thinking, at least they are not barf cheerios or chocolate chips) with Dora the Explorer playing in the background (and yes, you know your first child didn't taste sugar until he was one. And yes you know your first child didn't watch TV for years because of the pediatricians recommendation, and yes, you know your first child was rarely unbathed, undressed and unfed, but that was one child, and now you are totally outnumbered, and you wonder why you thought clothing was so important in the first place.

I am glad I had three children before I learned Alex had autism. First of all, it gave me perspective. I already lived in chaos, what was a little more, right? Secondly, I'm glad I had those first perfect years, I'm glad I learned some things by degrees. I'm glad I was okay with using gym socks as burp cloths. I'm glad that I learned to never raise my arms, ever, thus exposing my push pin sweat glands and wet half moons.  I am glad that I had a few moment to think we were normal, to picture the future I thought we'd have, I'm glad because having a child with autism, and learning what that child needs, and what that child wants and what you need to do to help that child is like drinking from a fire hydrant. After fourteen years, I've learned you have to take it in, in small sips. You have to swallow slowly. You can't gulp, or you won't catch your breath. No. You have to picture water in a pristine glass at a nice restaurant, where you sip while you nod in understanding about the conversation going on around you, that you don't really hear. You tell yourself while you drink; it's fluid, it glides down. It refreshes. But, I must say, some days, no. Most days. No matter my good intentions to sip like a fine lady, I find myself at the hydrant, with my mouth wide open, being bowled over by the force. And instead of the restaurant, I am picturing the times the firemen would check the hydrants in our neighborhood to see if they had enough pressure, and I watched it gushing in front of the St.Clair's house until the whole street was running with water and we all raced out to splash in it. I am picturing when my grandpa used to irrigate his southern Nevada lawn. And I would stand on the prickly grass, and hop from spot to spot, and feel the warm water up to my ankles, and the warm air down to my ankles, and my grandpa would tell us something about how Nevada was God's country. I am picturing standing in water. I am picturing being wet, this is how it is with autism. Wet. Even with the best intentions of sipping. I am picturing my childhood bedroom, when our basement use to flood, and my carpet would get wet, and smell muggy. You are never dry with autism, and sometimes, standing there in the water, I think that maybe it's not water but tears I am ankle deep in. But then, I remember to sip, to never gulp, to try and breath between swallows. And maybe, my feet are never dry, but if you choke, and drown, then who would be there to be the life guard? Who would be around to tell the boys to stop splashing each other, and get on up to dry land? That's right, nobody. So you learn. And you hope, and you wait for the sun, that does come out, sometimes, so bight and round, and dries everything, but your socks. But you need those in case somebody gets ice cream on their face, or throws up. This is how it is with autism, this is what I wouldn't have imagined if you would have told me fourteen years ago.



Logan, Spencer & Alex: Famous last words: "Don't worry mom! We won't get wet!" San Diego 2008

And as to my twenty-three year old responses, well, yes, of course I still love my boy with all my heart –which, ironically is what makes it so hard sometimes, the loving. The wanting everything for them you wanted when they were babies, and leaned against your heart. By now, of course, I know there are people, and doctors and therapists all out their studying, and learning, and experimenting, but in the end, science offers no cures. They offer behavior modification, and help in teaching you how to treat the symptoms, but, by the time its been eight years since you heard those words spoken in that sterile room, those syllables stuttered, “Autism” you are past the quick solutions, you know what your son has is pervasive, it's in his brain, it is a part of him, it grows with him. You know the perfection he was as an infant is still a part of who he is as a child, you know because you see it, in those same, blue eyes. And you tell yourself some days, when he overcomes something, like say, going into the school by himself, or participating in a fire drill, or does something really spectacular like learning to ride a bike without training wheels, and even if he's nine, you think, “this child is perfection” and even if people don't come to stand by you, and stroke his soft cheek, or tell you how perfect he is, you know. You've always known. And so, I'm glad I've learned by layers. I'm glad that eight years into this diagnosis, our whole family, mostly, is able to deal with what we have. We don't wish it away. We might wish, maybe, that he didn't have to cry over not having any friends. We might wish, maybe, we'd known sooner that the sound of pencil on paper grates on him, and given him a pen to use in the first grade, instead of the third. We might wish, maybe, that we could take the enormous load that sometimes seems to sit square on his back, and carry it for a while. But we don't wish Alex was different. We just put on our life jackets, because we know now, this is real, and there a flood coming, and I keep a pair of balled up socks in my hand, just in case. We study up on Noah, and try to be prepared for the storms, because with autism, your always wet. That's how it. So you just perfect your front crawl, and you keep your kids close, and floating, and some days you picture yourself in the Caribbean.