My son is turning four in August. He still has those charming features heās had since he was a newborn: The big, kissable cheeks and his soft little belly. But heās steadily transforming from a toddler into a kid. As I gratefully welcome the next phase, I canāt help but feel some sadness that my first bornās baby phase has reached its twilight.
His fourth birthday has been looming as a developmental benchmark for a while now. Iāve read or been told so many times how autistic children who donāt speak by age four likely never will. Iāve accepted my son may never speakāand I certainly havenāt given up on helping him communicate in whatever way works best for himābut the thought of never having a conversation with my son or to never hear him say āI love you dadā continues to pierce my heart on an almost daily basis.
There are times when I drop his younger sister off at daycare and, opening the door to her classroom, Iām greeted by a group of talkative little boys. Walking back to the car, I often find myself imagining what it would be like to hear my son talk to me about his toys. Alone and driving to work, I give myself permission to feel sorry for myself. Then, I feel bad for feeling bad.
Yet, with his fourth birthday approaching, my sadness carries with it practical concerns, and their immediacy eclipses any of my self-centered grief about the conversations that may never be. As my beautiful boy shifts from baby to kid, the way the world interacts with him also begins to shift. Strangers tend to be forgiving and loving toward babies and toddlersābut patience and grace wane as children age out of their veneer of innocence and blame can more readily be assigned: Donāt you know better?
In my sonās case, once his neurodivergence becomes noticeable, once he can no longer pass as a ānormalā kid, he is subject to the caprice of folksā interpretation of his difference and how they choose to respond to it.
I recently found myself at the urgent care with my son after he was sent home early from daycare for having green snot. Although I understand the policy, itās frustrating because I know the snot is a lingering symptom of a cold that has long since passed. I know he isnāt contagiousājust fine, in fact, based on the laps heās been running around the houseābut now I need a doctorās note corroborating my intuition before the daycare administration will let him return to school before the end of the week.
My wife and I both have full-time careers, and we desperately need childcare. So, here I am at urgent care in need of a doctorās note to tell me what I already know.
The kind woman at the desk tells me itās only a 45-minute wait and takes down my phone number, saying Iām free to wait outside.
For this, Iām grateful.
The waiting room isnāt full but still modestly occupied, and I feel folks looking at me as I hold my son, his loud yells and noises drowning out Drew Careyās voice as he takes bids on a dishwasher in an episode of The Price Is Right. But Iām not worried about the noises so much as I feel self-conscious about holding himāheās nearly 40 pounds and getting tallāand I imagine some of the parents in the room are wondering why heās in my arms instead of walking around the waiting room on his own.
If I let him run around, I know heāll only stop to put random objects in his mouth and chew, and I know heāll climb onto furniture and sweetly grab for strangersā hands.
Yes, I can set him down, but if he really wants to run, I can only hold his hand for so long before it becomes a tug of war, and then I become self-conscious and worried about holding his wrist too tightly or pulling on his little arm.
Most alarming, and what the folks in the waiting room donāt know, is that heāll run away from me if I put him down. Elopement, they call it. I know thereās always the potential for him to run outside when the doors slide open, and itās happened to me before: Iāll never forget the primordial fear that gripped my chest as I once ran after him with my heart and stomach in my shoes, watching his blonde hair swing from side to side with joyful, childish glee as he ran down the middle of the street.
And, as I learned that day, no amount of panicked screaming can make him stop.
So, I hold him in my arms, and he rests his head on my shoulder like he has since he was a baby, and we step away from the eyes in the waiting room and out into the surprising warmth of an Indiana spring afternoon.
The real struggle begins when we find ourselves with the nurse: My son wonāt stand still long enough to have his weight taken, nor will he lean against the wall to have his height measured. His agitation and confusion grows with each failed task.
Once weāre in a room, the nurse puts a clip on his finger, and he promptly removes itāagain, again, and againānow crying and flapping his arms. Understandably, the nurse is getting frustrated. She leaves and returns with a different clip, one to put on his toe this time, and he kicks furiously until she gives up.
I do my best to help. I restrain him. I offer treats. I put Cocomelon on my phone. I play a lullabyānothing works. He just wants to be left alone, and I get it.
Boy, do I get it.
More than anything, I want to tell him so much of life involves putting up with nonsense, being poked and prodded for no particular reason.
I think of the small sign I used to read while washing my hands in my childhood home:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
I donāt think this is going to work right now. Heās too upset, I say to the nurse as my son wipes his green snot on my shoulder. The folks at daycare definitely werenāt lying about that.
Defeated, she leaves with her clips, and itās a long time before anyone comes back.
The next person to enter the room is the doctor, a sharp looking woman with red-rimmed glasses and a blonde bob yielding to a barely discernible encroachment of gray.
Mercifully, the extended silence paired with the tears and struggles have put my son to sleep in my arms, and he breathes loud, rattling, snotty snores in my ear as the doctor comes by and gently holds the stethoscope to his rising and falling back.
āYouāre a good dad,ā she tells me, surely having seen this situation before and no doubt sensing the exhaustion pervading the room.
I suddenly find myself fighting back tearsāthereās no way Iām crying in front of this doctorābut I wonder if she knows how badly I needed to hear a stranger say that? Maybe thatās why she said it.
I always feel like Iām failing my son in some way, failing to do something that would make his life easier or more manageable given his challengesāsome infinite thing Iām missing.
And Iām so tired.
In this moment, her compliment heals me.
With the exam completed, we get the doctorās note: Heās not contagious. No cold, no flu, and no COVID as the test results later reveal.
He can return to school.
Walking to the car, Iām grateful we both received the care we needed today.
so much love comes through in these stories about your son, love reading them
Oh man! I feel you. There are so many things in your text I can relate to. By the way I think that strangers kind words always got special power. You donāt expect it and they hit you so hard in the moment youāre down and someone nails it with their comment.