What it Could Be

A long time ago, back before the diagnosis, before autism was a word in our vocabulary, I had a little boy.

He was two years old.

He had blonde hair and hazel eyes.

He was busy. So busy.

He never stopped moving. Sometimes not even when he was sleeping.

He was rarely happy or content. He screamed in the car. He screamed when we were outside. He screamed in restaurants and stores.

No matter what we did, he wasn’t happy.

I knew something was wrong. But I didn’t know what it could be.

I am a researcher by nature. And a fixer. That is who I am.

So, I would sneak over to the library on my lunchbreak.

I would walk to the child development aisle.

I would look around to make sure no one was looking.

And I would grab handfuls of books.

The titles ranged from spirited child to developmental delay to autism.

I would hide them under a magazine.

I would find a chair in a corner.

The chair I liked happened to be near the kids section.

On Tuesday’s it was toddler time. And for some reason I always found myself their on a Tuesday.

I was a glutton for punishment I guess.

And I would read. More like skim at first.

The back cover. The chapters.

I’d glance up and see toddlers. Boys and girls the same age as my beautiful son.

Talking. Saying words. Their little voices so perfect.

I’d see a boy in his mother’s lap. Sitting. My son would never do that.

I’d see them mimicking the gestures of the reader. Pointing. Smiling.

I’d have to look away.

I would look back down at my book and read about what it could be.

I would make sure the titles were hidden. I didn’t want the other moms to see.

I felt like a fraud. I felt nervous. I felt anxious.

I felt like I was letting my child down. My husband too.

Here I was. Researching. Trying to figure out why my son screamed during bath time and obsessively threw rocks and would look right through every single toy I showed him. Why he couldn’t stack blocks. Or pop a bubble.

I would read a paragraph. Feel sick.

This wasn’t my son. These children they were describing in the book.

I would put the book down to my lap. And watch the kids.

They were listening to stories being read aloud. Sitting. Playing little games with their moms.

Those kids weren’t my son either.

And I knew.

My son couldn’t do any of the things they were doing.

I tried. I want it to be known that I tried.

I took him to groups just like this one.

He’d scream. He’d run. He wouldn’t sit or join the group. He wouldn’t play or listen.

All the moms would be drinking coffee and chatting.

And I’d be chasing. Sweating. Running.

I’d feel completely alone in a room full of kids and parents.

Everyone knew.

I would wonder if they thought I was in denial. If I was making excuses. I wonder if they thought we should leave.

I knew.

I knew what it could be.

I knew he didn’t speak. Or play.

I knew. But I couldn’t say it out loud yet. I wasn’t ready.

So, I would sneak away to the library. I would hide. And I would read. All about what it could be. And watch the kids.

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