I’ll be surprised if you don’t know this, but I’m the parent of a child with autism. Every autistic child is different. They are like snowflakes. Mine is…
My oldest. My son. My fourth grader. He’s the one that can make me easily cry, be it for joy or in fear. He inspires me. He makes me proud. He frustrates me. He can scream as loud as me (I’m not sure if this is good or bad).
He goes to a normal school. He rides a normal bus. He goes to a normal class. He has a personal aide. He has only small modifications to his curriculum. He’s a straight A student. Yes, I’m bragging.
He doesn’t know how to have a conversation. Even if he hears you ask a question, he might not answer. Sometimes he’ll be too deep in his world to even hear you. He doesn’t have friends. His speech teacher said one day this will change. One day he’ll want to be social and strive for it. That time isn’t now.
Like any child, he hates cleaning his room. He annoys his sister. He loves his sister. He makes his sister feel safe. If you joke with him too much, he’ll get mad. He thinks he’s a ninja. He is an elephant (even I can’t make footsteps sound that loud).
That’s my son. And that’s the autism that is my life, my world.