So I guess since Autism Awareness month is wrapping up it's best to get my "I have an autistic daughter" post done now. Which is wonderful, because I love the chance to write about what a spectacular being she truly is. I mean, of course, all of my children are wonderful and amazing, but Molly has that itsy-bitsy, extra dose of "zing".
To quickly recap: When Molly was two I knew something was off. I'm a mother, so how could I not know. Well I did know. And after talking with Ben and observing her we both decided to have her "looked" at. After several different opinions and a bunch of tests the end result was that Molly was a high-functioning autistic child. So immediately we got her help and she started school. And since placing her into this school we have seen a tremendous difference. Not just with her speech, but with her social skills and her self restraint. Well most of the time anyway. With Molly you can't walk up to her and start asking her questions or hope to have a conversation with her. She doesn't grasp that, yet. Molly will talk on her own terms and she will say what she wants to say and not what you're hoping she will say. She is no puppet and we certainly are not her puppet masters. And I'm hoping this strong suit stays on her through life. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting things your own way. However, since everything is on Molly's terms the mere suggestion that you might want to help her and direct her can set off an atomic meltdown. You must be a fool to think she would want the Finding Nemo underwear-or as she calls them underwams- when what she wants are the blue underwams. And who are you to try to help her brush her hair when she is more than capable of creating an even bigger rat's nest than before. We are foolish in our attempts and blinded in our efforts. This child is no dummy. This child knows how to eat her pancakes. Of course she knows that first you eat the cup of butter on top of them, then you eat the syrup, and then you pick up the whole pancake and you eat it. But, for us simple minded bumkins we are dumb enough to not know that this is how these pancakes were meant to be eaten. Which is the hard way we found out while out to breakfast the other day with my mother in law, sister in law, and all of our children. And so, my nurturing husband thought he was being a good dad, when he touched the pancakes, that set the mood from a glorious, sunny morning to a grey-sky, filled hurricane. The touching and directing of this child's pancakes changed her from a happy and silly little girl into an uncontrollable, angry, screaming child. Now we knew why she was screaming and having a fit. We knew that it wasn't because she is a spoiled brat who wants it her way. We clearly knew that it was because this screaming child is an autistic child. But the patrons around us did not. We could feel the burning of eyes on our backs. The cold air of under the breath remarks, about this screaming brat, filled the room. We get this everywhere. We get it at restuarants, we get it at stores, we get it everywhere. Even if I try not to let it bother me, any insignificant human could tell you that, it not only bothers them, but it hurts. The exterior armor doesn't always protect the inside suit. On the outside it may seem like I'm cool and collected, but on the inside I'm falling apart. What parent wouldn't be. I read an article this morning about a mother of an autistic child hearing a woman call her child a monster. A monster. Not a brat, but a monster. A word associated with creatures from the underworld, vampires, werewolves, killers, etc... And although I have never heard this word flung at my child--and I pray for the person who ever did say it, because undoubtedly rage would take over my body--I have heard remarks and I have seen face to face the cold hearted looks. These children are not monsters. These children are not brats. These children are our children. This child is MY child. My child that I carried for 9 months. This child that I sang to, read to and talked to while in my womb. This beautiful, bright eyed angel that I brought into this world. She is not a brat and she is no monster. She is a child living in a world that doesn't ride on the same tracks as she does. She is a 3 year old trying to figure out how to make her parents, her family, and everyone else around her understand what she needs. She can not, for the most part, form the words to tell us what she needs. What she can do is scream to let it out. Scream because something has upset the balance in her sensitive realm and her brain won't allow her to tell us what it is. I remember one day at the store I had a cashier ask me what was wrong with her and then ask me if she was getting help. Getting help. Like she is a savage beast who needs therapy and restraint. As if her screams were formed from nucleur gasses that could potentially level the whole store into a 3 foot high surface. I admit that I told her what was "wrong" with Molly. And normally I don't. For several reasons. The first reason being that I don't feel I owe anyone an explanation as to why my 3 year old toddler is pitching a hissy, and the second, even without autism, isn't that what many 3 year olds do? I've seen children practically 10 years old throwing tantrums and why?? Because they're children! I'll never get used of how immature, undisciplined, and ignorant adults can be. When you're staring at a screaming 3 year old and mumbling who, in this situation, is the real monster? It's not too hard to figure out. But with all of this social misery comes alot of joy and alot of satisfaction. The amazing sound in my ears when hearing my 3 year old finally call out Mommy. In seeing her finally be able to get her pajama's on by herself. Feeling the warmth and love from this child as she grabs my face to kiss my cheek. She is no monster. She is no brat. She is beauty at its finest and love at its grandest. She is that ray of sunshine that catches my eye, on a cold and rainy day, when she comes in the room with her bathing suit on, a witch's hat on her head, and sunglasses on her face and she starts singing "Someday my prince will come." And while she is waiting for her prince to come I'm enjoying every moment I have with her. Every single moment be it happy, sad, angry, or downright unbearable. I'm not just watching this child grow and learn. I'm watching her sift through the vines of life to find her own path. She doesn't need to be guided and directed. She just simply needs a hand to hold, so that the person she's walking with, can see the amazing world this child has created for herself and everyone around her. She is no monster. She is no brat. She is a beautiful, thoughtful, and loving child who just happens to be autistic.
