Dancing Hands

Dancing Hands Evincing a common autism trait, my son's hands are always on the move, fingers bending or stiffening, balled up or widely splayed, seemingly living a life of their own.

When he's excited, he flattens his hands and pats downward on some invisible surface. When I walk with him, it's as though the hand he's offered me enjoys the quiet comfort of being clutched in my own. Even at rest his fingers strike the pose of those about to tickle ivories, or they find themselves holding something — anything — just to keep themselves occupied.

Holding a subway car.

Of the outward signs of autism I've come to worry about, these dancing hands and their endless explorations do not bother me so much. They seem to reflect all the curiosity and energy and joy that characterize C himself.

These hands dance because of autism.

I'm coming to develop an unexpected gratitude for these small gifts bestowed upon us when it seems as though others have been taken away.

A Lesson From Ferdinand's Mom

Many children with autism, like C, love to engage with others, but their ASD prevents them from understanding how to do so. Most times C will light up if a child tries to engage with him, but if he's left alone he will find many ways to occupy himself, and usually happily so.

Nonetheless, it's hard to accept that he has no concept of social reciprocity. I suppose to some extent I'm projecting my desire that he not be lonely. And yet C hardly seems like a lonely boy.

While reading to the boys last night, I found solace in the following passage from Ferdinand:

Sometimes his mother, who was a cow, would worry about him. She was afraid he would be lonesome all by himself.

"Why don't you run and play with the other little bulls and skip and butt your head?" she would say.

But Ferdinand would shake his head. "I like it better here where I can sit just quietly and smell the flowers."

His mother saw that he was not lonesome, and because she was an understanding mother, even though she was a cow, she let him just sit there and be happy.

I don't want C to be lonely. I want him to be able to have friends if he wants. More than that, though, I want him to be happy; sometimes that means just letting things be as they are.

A Different World

What world does C inhabit? How different is it from my own? How much overlap is there? Can he be in both places at once?

Yes, I'm aware that we all perceive the world in different ways, but what is becoming clear to me is that C doesn't simply have a different perception of the world, he inhabits a different world altogether. C's reality may be the result of mixed signals, tangled wires, a garbled transmission; but his world is as real to him as my own is to me.

He doesn't see his world as unreal or surreal; he doesn't even see it as different. That's my issue, my perception, my desire to have him see things how I see them. (And isn't that what most parents hope for, if they're really honest about it?)

Instead of trying to do some sort of psychic airlift, pulling him out of his reality and into my own, I will try instead to understand his world, and in doing so hopefully help him navigate the one I inhabit.

Wish me luck.

Jump

When C was first diagnosed with ASD, a friend who has faced the same challenge told me that I would come to appreciate the littlest accomplishments just as though they were gigantic.

Yesterday, C was jumping on a trampoline, feet flying above the elastic surface. To most parents of a three-year-old, this would be a pleasant experience, but to me it was a victory worthy of celebration.

You see, C couldn't jump. Not at all. He would crouch and push, but he could never get air; this is not uncommon in ASD kids. No matter how he tried, how much we cheered him on, he just couldn't do it.

But with time and therapy and lots of practice, C now jumps, and he counts each jump, up to 30. Then he starts over again. He is joyful.

My friend was right: the small victories have come to mean just as much as the big ones.

Together, Alone

Last Sunday I took C to an indoor soccer clinic for ASD children.

Walking into the large room where the clinic was being held, something struck me: although the kids were generally having a good time, each was mostly in his or her own world. I was in a room full of C's, children entertaining themselves, but not each other.

I noticed the parents were, like me, working extra hard to keep their kids engaged in the group soccer activities; if we didn't, they'd wander off almost immediately. One boy was lining up cones, making perfectly symmetrical arrangements. Another couldn't be pried away from the large mats, obviously enjoying the sensory stimulation as he rolled back and forth.

C, for his part, would participate when I took him by the hand, but he rarely acknowledged the other children; after a while, he began running in a tight circle, his head tilted to the side. He was in sensory overload mode.

Though the room was filled with children, it seemed quieter than I'd expected. It wasn't something I've experienced when surrounded by neurotypical kids.

Being around kids like C was nice — it felt like he belonged there, like he wasn't out of place. Nothing he did would be judged. He could be himself.

On the other hand, it made me a little sad. It brought home, once again, the fact that ASD can seem a very isolating state of being, one that I hope we can help C to transcend.