When my son, Liam, who is on the autism spectrum, was just four years old, he managed to consume a significant portion of a foam puzzle while I took a shower. When I came out, he greeted me with his big, bright eyes, seemingly unbothered by his chewing adventure. I, however, was a mix of emotions.
“Why would you do that?” I asked, my voice tinged with concern.
He looked up at me, his expression blank.
“Do you think you’re a goat or something?” I shot back, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
Still, he remained silent and continued to stare, perhaps thinking something like, “Mom looks better from a distance.”
In response to my firm “NO!” directed at the remnants of the foam, he merely shook his head, mimicking me, and we soon found ourselves bundled up and heading to the emergency room.
The doctors reassured me that the foam wasn’t harmful, but they decided to keep him for observation. Honestly, I think they felt a little sorry for me — a pregnant mom with two toddlers, one of whom had a knack for eating plastic. I didn’t even mention my six-year-old daughter waiting at school, perhaps lost somewhere in the neighborhood.
While Liam was in the hospital, I requested a psychiatric consultation. To be honest, I threw a bit of a tantrum before finally using my words. The resident initially told me that a child psychiatrist might not be available, but thankfully, I was wrong.
Since Liam’s diagnosis at two, we had been through therapy sessions at school and community centers. I had met with psychologists, social workers, and speech therapists, but I felt like I was constantly falling short. There were days I felt paralyzed by the challenge of “fixing” Liam’s behaviors, and on others, I created complex therapy systems to address his unique quirks. However, we had never consulted a child psychiatrist, and I had so many questions about the future.
When the psychiatrist finally spoke to us, he was straightforward yet compassionate. He candidly told us, “Your son has classic autism. There’s no cure. Anyone claiming they’ve cured their child of autism hasn’t had a child with autism.” Rather than feeling disheartened, I found solace in his words.
It became clear that I was battling an invisible foe that was consuming my life. I realized I didn’t even know what I was up against. Even more importantly, I noticed something that had been nagging me: Liam didn’t seem troubled by his autism. He appeared genuinely happy.
From that moment on, I stopped trying to change who Liam was. That doesn’t mean I stopped advocating for him or enrolling him in therapies; I still sought the best opportunities for him while maintaining boundaries, like telling him “no” when he jumped around during family movie night. I still firmly believed in support and therapy.
What changed was my expectations. I aimed to help Liam be the best version of himself, without trying to erase his autism. I accepted it as part of who he is, just like his bright eyes and quirky love for foam.
Instead of grappling with the unseen adversary, I welcomed autism into our lives, albeit on terms that made sense for us. This shift in perspective has been liberating for me. I understand that for some parents, embracing a diagnosis might feel like surrendering or losing power. For me, it was about moving forward.
I don’t expect everyone will resonate with my approach, and I’m not interested in debating it. We, as parents, share a unique bond, whether our children flap, jump, or moan. Discussions about vaccines, diets, and acceptance can easily distract us from the real issues we face.
Let’s unite in our shared experiences, and focus our collective energy on more constructive avenues, which might even include a little humor at the expense of Jenny McCarthy.
This article first appeared on April 23, 2014.