A Delicate Balance
I think about the beginning sometimes. When I first heard the word autism.
It was in a lunch-and-learn at the nonprofit I worked at.
I was eating a sandwich, minimally paying attention, when the woman started describing signs of autism in toddlers.
As she ticked off a list of traits, I did everything I could to keep my cool. The only sign of my internal panic being the flush that turned my cheeks and neck a deep red. I could feel the heat radiating from my face.
She was describing my Cooper.
One of the last things she said before I left the room abruptly was…children and adults on the spectrum rarely make friends.
My son is now 11 years old. It’s been 8, almost 9 years, since the first time I heard the word autism.
It went from something I feared to now embrace. From something I thought I had to fix to something that fixed me.
Minutes ago, Cooper heard his younger brothers and their friends playing in the backyard. He immediately jumped up.
He found his shoes and put them on. Ans made his way to the backyard.
Seconds later he signed ‘more’ to me and pointed to the kids who were laughing and yelling.
It took me a minute to decipher what he wanted more of.
He wanted more kids. More laughter. More noise. More friends.
I know he will most likely not join in their play. And that’s ok. He doesn’t need too.
He’s near. And far. A delicate balance.
He’s happy watching and soaking up the joy that these kids bring into his life.
He will clap. And cheer. And tattle. And giggle. He will wave when the kids say, ‘hi Cooper!’
He is a watcher. An observer. A cheerleader. And he is happy.
There is so much beauty in this life if you just take the time to notice it.
At his school conference last week his teacher told me he is Mr. Popular. That when he enters 5th grad gym class they cheer at his arrival.
And that one little boy has taken him under his wing. She didn’t share his name. Just that he helps Cooper stand in line and invites him when he can.
We were told so many things about autism. Black and white sentences written down. Facts they said. Facts describing a diagnosis.
I believed them for a long time. I even grieved them.
And then, I realized, and learned, that those were just predictions. Just maybes. Not realities. Not then. Not now. Not yet.
Is it different…yes. Is it amazing…also yes. Remember that. It can be both.
‘I’ll walk with Cooper, Kate. So you can push the stroller. We can talk about trains.’
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. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and join our supporter page, Coop’s Troops, for an amazing community full of support and understanding.
