Posts Tagged ‘boy’

I’m often asked how my son Cooper is doing. Typically it’s from a friend or family member. Someone we haven’t seen in a while. They ask the question entirely with love. I’ll tell them he is doing great. That he rides a horse named Winston. And plays baseball with his brother. And is starting seventh grade soon. I brag about how he is communicating in his own ways and typing words into YouTube and cracking my amazon password. He adores his brother Sawyer and likes to cause trouble with Harbor…

‘Will his autism go away?’ That’s what the woman asked me. In front of 200 people. Honestly, you could have heard a pin drop as the heads in the room snapped from her to me. And I practiced the pause. I was presenting at a conference down south to a large group of folks who work with kids and adults like my son Cooper. The presentation I had just finished was called Finding Joy in the Secret World of Autism. For 90 minutes I shared my story. And my boy.…

When my son Cooper was diagnosed with autism at age three they told me he was nonverbal. I didn’t even know that was a thing. At age five they told me he might never speak. I didn’t know that was a possibility. At age six the silence was deafening. So we dove into alternate forms of communication. Sign language. Spelling. An AAC Device. And I learned in a painful beautiful way that communication was the goal. Not words. It took time though. Time for my mind and heart to accept.…

I was recently in Target without my kids wandering as moms do when they have an opportunity to take in the magic of the red circle. As I walked up to the register, I saw a Mom with two daughters, one in the cart sitting quietly and one becoming upset. As we both waited to check out, I could see the young girl getting more and more dysregulated. I watched as the Mom started to try and navigate the situation. Her daughter then began to yell. This wasn’t a tantrum…

A letter to my son Cooper: My son, you matter. I feel the need to say that today. Loudly. To all of these people who read about you. Who love you and want to learn about you. Not to remind myself. Or you. Because I know you are amazing. I know that you work harder than anyone I know to do the things that most people take for granted. In the beginning, when you were diagnosed with autism, I was told all the things you would never do. The list…

To the mother with her adult son at Thomas the Train: You had the oldest child here. I’m guessing he was 25. Your son was tall. He was a man. He even towered over you. I saw him immediately when you arrived. He was practically levitating he was so excited. It was like he had an aura around him. His joy. It radiated. He ran in. Loud. Arms a moving. He ran right up to Thomas and started chatting to himself. Fingers stimming. Head down. Twisting back and forth like…

My sweet boy, 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…