Your First Time Seeing Autism

We’ve known each other for years. Friend of a friend I suppose you could say. We are the same age. Both married. Both busy. You don’t have children though.

I would say you know me pretty well. You know where I work. Where I live. Who my friends and family are. I see you regularly.

You know that my son has autism.

You hear me talk about him often. Sometimes I talk about the hard times. The medical struggles. The sleep deprivation. The constant fight. Sometimes I talk about my worries. But mostly, I tell stories. I talk about the amazing joy that Cooper has brought to our lives.

You always laugh. You always smile. You love hearing how he fills up the bathtub with my shampoo, conditioner and makeup. You love when I talk about the chairs. Or how he has a new picture every day that he treasures.

You really laugh when I recap a Friday night of Cooper dancing for us.

You always tell me I should be a professional story teller. That I can really get a room laughing. In the back of my mind I worry that you think I am making my stories up.

Yesterday, you met Cooper. It was planned. You came over for a visit. You wanted to see my new house and meet my boys.

I knew you were a bit nervous and excited. The famous Super Cooper you said. You confided in me that you had never met anyone with autism before. You could not imagine someone not talking. You were most curious to hear his sounds.

I’ve always loved your honesty and curiosity. Before Cooper, I didn’t know anyone with autism either. And I most definitely didn’t know anyone that had no words. Now, it is my life. My world.

You told me you were worried that he would not like you. I just smiled. I knew you were overthinking it. Cooper is just a little boy.

But, I also knew that Cooper really doesn’t pay attention to anyone. He has his favorites. Mom, Dad and his grandparents. That’s who he focuses his energy and attention on.

You arrived with a bottle of wine in one hand and a smile on your face. I escorted you into the living room. You sat. I could tell you were waiting.

And then like a hurricane Cooper was there. I saw your eyes widen as he came around the corner, a blur of sound, and threw his treasures on the floor before he rolled in.

And in an instant he was on his feet, grabbing your cheek, turning your head to see his train on his Kindle. I commented about how that is his favorite one.

A little secret about his trains…they are all his favorites.

I could tell you were nervous. I saw you flinch a bit when he touched your face. A total normal reaction.

I saw you eye up his size. Cooper is a big kid. You smiled at his leggings, swimsuit, and mismatched oversized train t-shirt.

I could tell you were shocked by his never ending movement. I’ve tried to tell you. You’ve heard me talk about it. My son doesn’t sit. He never stops moving. He is constantly jerking, flapping, rolling, running and darting. Often while pulling a couch cushion onto the floor or wrapping himself seamlessly into a blanket.

You finally saw it though. Now you know why I am always covered in sweat and wearing tennis shoes. This mama is ready to run.

As I asked you if you wanted a glass of wine you watched me step over Cooper 2 or 3 times as he moved beneath my feet.

And then we were finally settled in. Talking. Relaxing as they say.

Only, I never relaxed. Which I could tell was making you a little nervous.

You’d say a sentence. And I’d have to step away. Cooper needed a snack. Or a drink. Or for me to find his video on YouTube. Every request coming over-dramatically and loud.

You commented about how much he touches me. How he climbs on my lap. (I call myself the human jungle gym.) And touches my face. And rubs his face on mine. I smiled. I barely notice anymore.

Most of the time I would keep talking while meeting Cooper’s never ending requests. I noticed you’d stop and watch. Waiting for me to be finished so I could listen to you. I finally told you just to keep talking. This will never end. Cooper needs something every 3 seconds.

You were soaking my chaos up. Observing intently.

You watched me bend down and answer his questions. Always at eye level.

You watched me kiss his face when he asked for one.

You watched me acknowledge every single train he showed me.

I know you want to know why. It’s because this is new for us.

For six years Cooper never showed us anything. Or asked for anything. We prayed for this. We never gave up that we could bring him into our world. And now that he is here…we aren’t going to lose him.

You watched me make his dinner. You watched me feed this big kid his lunch. Sometimes we did hand-over-hand. Sometimes I let him use his fingers. You watched me help him drink his water. Hold the cup. You watched me wipe his face. You watched him line his treasures up around his plate. Over and over again.

You watched him dance in his chair. And listened to him laugh. And clap and cheer when he was done. Like he had just done some huge task.

Well, eating used to be hard for Cooper. So this is huge. We celebrate every meal now.

Thank you for clapping with him when he requested you too.

You watched him melt down to a puddle on the floor when his wifi stopped working. You saw a child self injure for the first time. A quick fist to the head. You watched me gather him in a bear hug. Snuggle him up. Hold his hands. Talk him through it. And fix his wifi.

You watched me carry him. You asked how much he weighed. You asked what I was going to do after I can no longer lift him.

You smiled and blushed when he stripped down. And waited while I dressed him again.

You heard me scold him for filling up my tub with treasures. And then laugh when I showed you his precision and accuracy.

At one particularly emotional moment for Cooper I had to give my focus completely to him. I had him lie on my lap. I kissed his face and hands. I blew a raspberry on his stomach. He squealed in delight. He then asked for shoes. And for me to kiss his toes. Which I did.

I glanced at you friend and I swear you were crying. You quickly looked away.

You commented about the nonstop sound. I joked about how I don’t even hear it anymore. Or, I’m losing my mind. One of the two.

You loved when Cooper showed you his pictures. You smiled. You acted excited. Thank you. I want you to know that many people shrug him off. Or they don’t know how to simply listen and be excited for him. So, thank you. Thank you for seeing him.

And then you were gone. Two hours was up. I know we didn’t talk about anything. We never got into a conversation. Not once. I’m sorry about that.

I remember I sighed when you left. Not because I wanted you gone. That’s the opposite actually. But because it’s hard to care for Cooper with an audience. Our life is weird and bizarre and I never know what he is going to do.

I saw you today. Again. You walked up to me. I didn’t know what you were going to say.

You smiled at me. You hugged me. And said two things.

“You don’t need me to tell you what a good job you are doing. Or how I don’t know how you do it. That won’t mean anything. But, wow. I honestly had no idea. You can hear about autism. But I had no idea the demands. The intensity. Or even the beauty. You and Cooper have changed me.”

And, “I have never seen love like that Kate. Or devotion. Life long devotion. And good God does that kid love you. So, thank you. I feel lucky to have seen the beauty of your relationship. Again, I had no idea.”

I responded with, “Thank you for seeing it. He is my whole world. So loving him like that is easy. ”

Finding Cooper’s Voice is a safe, humorous, caring and honest place where you can celebrate the unique challenges of parenting a special needs child. Because you’re never alone in the struggles you face. And once you find your people, your allies, your village….all the challenges and struggles will seem just a little bit easier. Welcome to our journey. You can also follow us on Facebook and subscribe to our newsletter.

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