Were you “aware” of autism this month? I was. :) Here are a few scenes from over here…
Joy
I’ve added a bit of lightness to my weekly still-at-home routine by trying out some dance lessons offered by “The Ballet Coach” on YouTube. It’s exercise that I actually enjoy, even though it’s probably quite comical.
From the time I was little through my early twenties, I danced. But now, I am very, very much out of practice. It’s been fun (if humbling) to relearn tendus and battements in the privacy of my home.
Well, almost private. I borrow my son’s computer for my dance “class,” since there’s more space to move in his workroom.
So, on occasion I am gifted an added joy when my 21-year-old son drops in to see what I’m doing and, without any prompting from me, places his feet in first position – heels together, toes turned out – and copies my pliés.
Relief
In my defense, I was already exhausted after another up-and-down day that seemed to have more craters than peaks.
When the third (or fourth?) meltdown had subsided after dinner, my son came to sit down next to me on the couch, swinging his bare feet up to rest on my lap. My heart sank as I saw the deep purple bruises on the top of his right foot, and one on his shin, too. How did you do that? Of course he can’t answer. I felt despair welling up, reminded of the similar bruises that discolored his cheeks, thighs, and stomach in the years when his self-injury was at its height. I can’t bear to see him go down that road again.
He doesn’t flinch when I probe gently to make sure nothing is broken. He doesn’t seem upset by it, but his pain threshold has always been high.
A little later, under the brighter lights of the bathroom, I examine his feet and legs again and break down in tears. I apologize for not being able to keep him safe, for failing at my most important job.
He giggles and bends down to look me in the eyes, grinning, seemingly oblivious to my pain. And to his own.
As he steps into the shower and I move to leave the bathroom, a flashbulb of awareness bursts in my head. I swiftly turn back, startling him, and ask him to put his foot up on the shower bench. Yes. I see those purple “bruises” already beginning to wash away.
Turns out, my only failure as a mom in this incidence is that I’ve yet to convince him that if he’s sitting cross-legged in his chair at dinner, he shouldn’t touch his feet. Especially if he’s eating blueberries.
Comfort
It became apparent a few months ago that my son has been wearing the same five or six T-shirts, some of which he’s had for years. He resists my suggestions to choose any one of his other very similar but less worn and ragged shirts.
This habit did motivate him to start doing his own laundry, when he notices he’s wearing the last of his favorites.
But I’m gearing up for some talks about looking “presentable” when he returns to in-person programs soon.
Lessons I’ll have to take to heart, too, if I’m honest about my own hermit wardrobe.
These sweatpants have become very comfortable, indeed.
Hope
A year ago, I pinned a picture-story called “Stay at Home” to my son’s bulletin board.
It’s still hanging there.
People are getting sick.
My favorite places are closed.
We can stay home to stay safe.
But this month, I pieced together a new version designed to make that old story obsolete.
COVID-19 Vaccine = Medicine to keep us safe.
Stay in the car.
Mask on.
Window down.
Sleeve up.
Hold still.
As soon as my son became eligible for the shot, I scrambled to get him an appointment at a drive-thru site in our county. I built up quite a bit of stress in all of the prep to make sure my son wouldn’t feel too stressed.
I’d already received my shots, so while my husband drove, I sat in the back seat behind my son to answer the nurses’ questions.
I imagine the volunteers could almost see the anxiety wafting out of our car’s windows.
But after watching his dad get his shot, my son received his own like a rock star.
During the fifteen-minute observation period after the first shot, I immediately rewarded my son’s bravery with M&Ms in the car while we waited.
When he started coughing, his dad and I tensed up. He can’t tell us if his throat is swelling or his chest feels tight. We can only watch, ready to call for help.
No. He’s fine. Just wolfing down candy too fast.
After the second shot, I held off on the snacks until we were safely heading home.
Automatically, he asked for help taking his Band-aid off—he seems to hate those more than the needles. Then, he made sure his dad removed his, too.
The day after shot #2, my guys are a bit tired, but thankfully haven’t developed the achiness and fever I felt after my second dose.
That afternoon, we suspect my son’s arm is sore when he comes up to my husband, lifts his dad’s shirtsleeve, and for a brief moment, lightly rubs his shoulder.
I feel cautious hope in the vaccine, and in this rare glimpse of empathy.
As April comes to a close, if you’re looking to acknowledge Autism Awareness/Acceptance Month (besides reading and sharing this newsletter, haha), please consider supporting an agency in your area providing direct support services to those with autism. These folks, like the incredibly creative and compassionate providers at my son’s day program Pathway to Work are doing amazing, invaluable work for families like mine.
Thanks, as always, for reading.
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