The Melting World

Yes, it has been awhile…I want to have time to write here, to you, my friends, but my life is so filled with work–40 hours of my life often feels washed into a stream I have no control over–and often I feel I have no time to rest my brain or soul–to be alone to dream about my dreams (to write, to make beautiful things, to read books, to draw colorful pictures, to imagine I finally have my plot of land and my wee house with a tiny woodstove and no neighbors in sight) before the other part of my day is filled with washing dishes and clothes, cooking meals, shopping for food, trying to pay bills, sweeping floors, and caring for my son–and yet–I have no complaints on the latter, since he is always a great warmth and blessing (even when he drives me crazy by heading toward every large mud puddle like a bee to a flower in the only pair of shoes that fit him). He makes me happy and makes me laugh, no matter how exhausted I might feel each day.

He has been doing well. He has reached the phase the ‘experts’ call echolalia–which is good since a year ago he was almost completely non-verbal. What this means is he now tries to repeat whatever we say, but more than this he can also produce his own phrases and request things from us–which means he is also able to go beyond mere repetition, and he is able to learn, albeit differently than how most of us learned to speak. This is a major leap since his vocabulary (which he had hidden with silence and couldn’t show us until now) is now blossoming further at an exponential rate. And he is trying so hard, on top of mastering new words, to also get his “t’s,” “k’s,” and “p’s” at the ends of words–which would actually be a challenge for anyone who hasn’t had much practice with speaking. He first had to strengthen his diaphragm by blowing short repeated bursts of air into flutes–which I think is kind of cool. Apparently this activity is like doing a ton of sit-ups, according to the speech therapist. The other day at a global goods store, he picked up a flute from India and blew on it over and over, as if he were practicing at school. Another great thing he has also begun to do is to include me in what he sees. “Lake!” he yells, and looks directly at me so he knows I am listening, and then he says again, “Lake!” or “Police car!” (which was actually a taxi, but I wasn’t going to rain on his tiny parade–“Yep, that’s a police car, buddy!”)

I know it’s not easy for him to learn how to speak–I read somewhere that a child with autism has the same challenge of a grown person trying to learn a second language for the first time–it takes tremendous amounts of focus, effort, and daily repetition until the mouth utters its words with smoothness. I actually think it takes my son even more effort to learn [and this is coming from an adult (me) who has been trying to half-heartedly learn a language (Japanese) for over 17 years that has no connection to her native language], since he must contend additionally with his acute sensitivities to sounds/visual stimuli and also a tendency to slip into a place where the outside world often can’t readily reach. Yet he works hard, much harder than I ever have.

He now can ask for some of the things he wants: pizza, banana, curry, candy, movie, park, ice cream, help, swing; a year ago none of this was possible for him–so I can say my little man has showed me that I was wise to be hopeful that, with support, he could learn a lot. I see daily how hard he tries and how much he can learn. He has so much intelligence inside him–I can see it so clearly (I say this with a mother’s pride–believe me–but it is no lie either), and yet even witnessing his hard work–I am still taken off guard sometimes with what he can do.

For instance, I accidentally (how horrible!) locked my keys in the car after I had finished snapping my son in his carseat while we were about to head home from our Saturday breakfast spot. Luckily a couple with a young boy of their own heading our way helped me out by calling AAA for emergency help on their cell phone. I crouched by my son’s car window with my hand on the glass and his was held up on the other side, a smaller star than mine, and I felt like bursting into tears. “How long did they say it would take? Should I just call the police? Kick the driver’s window in?”

I tried to smile and to talk to my son calmly–but inside I felt awful about him being trapped in a car with the windows up. ‘You’re lucky it’s not hot yet,’ the angel-mother said, clearly feeling my pain–whereas her husband did not seem so concerned–he seemed to want to leave and get his breakfast. The little boy peered in the window at my son, and my son peered back. I thought to myself, “Can only a fellow mother feel the pure horror of this moment?”

And after about ten endless minutes of waiting, of crouching by his window, my son just leaned over and rolled his window down.

How stupid I was! I hadn’t even considered asking him to do this–I simply didn’t think he would understand me. I simply didn’t think of him as a possible agent to the solution.

The husband called AAA and canceled the service, and went off to his breakfast–and I sheepishly thanked them all for their effort to help us. I climbed into the driver’s seat and cried tears of relief.

My son taught me a very important lesson that day. In one fell swoop, my son taught me by his simple action: “Mom, I did this for you because you seemed to need my help. And many things I have yet to learn will amaze you even more. I can fly with these wings of mine–which may be the sort of wings that no one else really understands–but I plan to reach many beautiful places on my own terms, in my own time, on my own migration. Never underestimate me!”