Where are the Trophies for Kids Like Him?

The first time I explained my son Jack had autism, we were at the Bronx Zoo. He was about eighteen months old. 

I was pregnant. The zoo was crowded. And he took every opportunity to run away from me. 

When he wasn’t running into throngs of people with their own little kids, he was trying to grab half-eaten pretzels from the garbage cans, or snatch napkins off the hotdog carts.

He was terrified of the animals—all of them, the doe-eyed deer in their green valleys, the multicolored birds peering down from their perch. He screamed and banged his head every time we walked over to a new display. 

By the end of the afternoon, I was desperate. We were waiting in line for one last exhibit, and he squirmed and jumped and screeched and finally dropped to the ground and thrashed. I picked him like a potato sack under my arm while everyone stared.

I announced loudly that he had autism. And just like that, life snapped into focus. 

He had autism and he was doing the best he could but the animals and the pretzels and the birds were all too much for him.

He has autism. It is the answer to every question mark. 

Since then, I have said it approximately 2,438,717 times.

He has autism.

Jack is sixteen now. 

He still has autism. 

But he’s come a long way since that warm day in the Bronx Zoo.

He’s learned to wait in line. 

He no longer drops to the ground or grabs at objects within his reach. 

He understands he shouldn’t eat food he finds in the garbage, even when the food in question is a very delicious-looking pretzel with hardly any bites out of it.  

He is no longer afraid of animals. 

These may seem like simple gains to you, but trust me when I say they are anything but small.

Now, our challenges loom larger than a tantrum in a zoo. 

Crushing anxiety.

A perpetual disconnect with peers. 

An uncertain path to adulthood. 

Yet he is working. He is working so very hard. And I long to honor him. 

But I don’t know how.

In this life of ours, there are many opportunities to celebrate our children and their accomplishments.

Trophies, honor rolls, award ceremonies.

Jack has never attended an award ceremony. 

His academic program doesn’t have an honor roll.

He’s never been called from the sideline of a field to accept a trophy with his name embossed on the front.  

The question is, how do I celebrate all he’s worked for, in light of what he has?

I have always wanted more, that’s the problem.

When he said a word, I wanted a sentence. 

When he took his first steps, I wondered when he’d run. 

When he started kindergarten, I longed to know if he would graduate high school. 

I kept forgetting to tell him how proud I am. Somewhere, in between the walking and the graduation, I forgot to brag about all the ways he is good, and right, and whole, and strong. 

He is, you know.

He is good and right and whole and strong.

Where is the trophy for this?

Where is the trophy for the boy who keeps his body still during science class?

Where is the honor roll for progress in regulation, and impulse control, and waiting your turn in line?

Where is the ceremony with banquet tables and the podium for the kids who live on autism’s timeline—who postponed dreams of driving a car or going out with friends on a Friday night?

I have moments when my heart simply swells with pride.

I watch him pour pancake batter into the pan. He bites his bottom lip, and I could weep for the earnestness of it all. 

I see the way he cuddles our dog Wolfie, and I marvel at the way he overcame his excruciating fear of animals, and came to love one of his own. 

I hear him on the phone with his Grandma, or watch him drag the garbage cans to the end of the driveway, and I think about all the great things he is going to do.

He is, you know. He is going to do great things. 

Tell me. Tell about the special person in your world. Tell me about the one who makes your heart swell with pride, and delight. 

Written by, Carrie Cariello

Carrie Cariello is the author of What Color Is Monday, How Autism Changed One Family for the Better, and Someone I’m With Has Autism. She lives in Southern New Hampshire with her husband, Joe, and their five children. Carrie is a contributor to the Huffington Post, TODAY Parents, the TODAY Show, Parents.com. She has been interviewed by NBC Nightly News, and also has a TEDx talk.

She speaks regularly about autism, marriage, and motherhood, and writes a weekly blog at www.carriecariello.com. One of her essays, “I Know What Causes Autism,” was featured as one of the Huffington Post’s best of 2015, and her piece, “I Know Why He Has Autism,” was named one of the top blog posts of 2017 by the TODAY Show.

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