Embracing Every Moment: A Letter to My Son With Autism

I used to get so upset when people stared at you. Angry. Defensive even.

You’d be flapping your hands. Or making happy noises. Communicating nonverbally. The only way you knew how.

One second you’d be on the floor and the next running only to drop to the ground, roll, laugh and pat the ground. Or you’d be frustrated by the world. Telling me with sounds, not words, what was wrong.

I’d look around. Make eye contact with a stranger or two. And look away. I’d think in my head, stop. Stop Cooper. Stop drawing attention to yourself. To us. Everyone knows.

But it’s not for reasons you think. I wasn’t embarrassed. I wasn’t ashamed. I was scared. I was nervous. I worried they were judging you. Labeling you as bad. Or delayed.

Yesterday I sat on the ground with you in the middle of a path at the park. There were kids and people everywhere. You were struggling. Tired. Hot. Covering your ears.

You needed a break. That was all. And for me to understand you. To listen. To believe in you.

So I sat down with you. I held your hands. I put them to my cheeks. And we counted to ten.

You leaned into me. Your forehead rested on my chest. I could feel the stares on my back.

We were under a microscope.

1, 2, 3, deep breath. By 10 I helped you up. And we were off. The crowds parted as we walked through.

And off we went to the slide.

I used to care what people thought about us. Not anymore. Because what these people don’t know is I prayed for this. We walked, as a family. Two of your siblings rode their bikes. I pushed the baby in a stroller. And you walked with us.

Your hand rarely leaving mine.

I really didn’t know if it would happen. But I never gave up. Not on your or us or this.

I promise you kid I will sit with you and deflect every stare for the rest of my life. And your siblings, I know they will do the same.

You be different. You be loud. You flap your arms with joy. You dance and crawl and squeal with joy. You be you. And I’ll be right next to you.