Not So Much A Diagnosis As An Explanation…
If you are new to this blog, or if you are confused because I have never spelled this out in black and white, my son, Edward, who is eight, does fall on the autism spectrum, specifically with a diagnosis of Asperger’s.
(Like many of you dealing with a new diagnosis, I write this with mixed feelings of both relief and trepidation. This is a label that I am just now beginning to absorb. After so many “possibles” and “closely resembles” from a host of doctors, the need for services at his new school necessitated this label, and I am OK with that.)
<<Breath>>
As with any child, Edward’s behavior vacillates wildly, so there are situations where he is completely like his peers and there are other situations where his differences stand out more. Soccer is an area where he gels fairly well, so I struggled with telling his coaches about his diagnosis.
I am new to this town and I don’t know what to expect. Will they still let him play on a “typical” team? Would they treat him differently? Do I want him to be treated differently because he has made it perfectly clear that he does not want to be treated differently.
After much agonizing and reading various professional and parental opinions about how to handle just this type of situation, I decided to simply share that he has issues with focus, attention and self control, and might need more patience than some of the other players.
So I’m standing there yesterday at the first practice, my heart sort of racing, waiting to see how he will or will not fit in with this new group, and I see a mother rush over to her sobbing player. Initially, I think nothing of it–they are seven and eight-year-olds–they still sob from time to time, neurotypical or not.
(Deep inside, I am somewhat glad another child is getting upset because that will make it less of a spectacle if Edward gets upset. I know that might be a strange way to think, but I’m just being honest.)
The little boy keeps crying, although it’s clear that he’s not hurt, and some of the other mothers (whom I have just met) begin to murmur among themselves about the reasons he might be so distressed. Then the coach’s wife steps forward and gently explains that this little boy is autistic. He is actually a twin, and his brother is on the team, but is not autistic. Everyone nods in understanding and returns to their conversations about crock pot recipes.
My initial feeling is one of odd relief, and I say a silent prayer of thanksgiving. God knew what he was doing putting my child on this particular team.
This was a hard post to write in many ways, but as I sit here at 3 am, I am slowly, but surely, beginning to feel a bit more free.
I am tired of skirting the issue like it is something to be feared or ignored or talked around.
So many of you have given me the courage to press on with this by writing about your own children.
Thank you.
I am ready to talk.
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