When my son was born early and stayed in the hospital for the first months of his life, I used to imagine what such this unbelievably tiny little human being with tubes stuck in his nose would be like when he became older and “normal.”
When I say normal, I mean playing-with-other-kids normal, telling-silly-jokes-normal, creating-art-projects normal.
Well, it turns out my son never became “normal.”
Instead, my son doesn’t really know how to play with other kids, her struggles to talk, and doesn’t have the patience to finish an art project.
He is autistic.
Typing those words makes me want to sob, throw something, just scream until all the pain has left my body.
Why is this intense pain surfacing now, two years after we first suspected that he was autistic? You would think I would have gotten used to this unbelievable blow to my life by now.
Maybe it’s because I was a bit more hopeful back then. Back then, I could picture him talking to me in two years. Back then, I thought maybe the early intervention would work a miracle on my son.
I think it hit me like a ton of bricks today that my son is sooo far behind his peers. I woke up and saw a little boy who is progressing ... but too too slowly. I celebrate all of the improvements he has made, but is it OK that I am damn angry that my little boy hasn’t come far enough?
Is it wrong that I wish he was different? Is it wrong that I wish someone I love so much was different?