Magic Day!

Gooseberry finally went through official testing for Autism Spectrum Disorder last week. (It reminded me of how important it is to keep a record, because between this blog and my Facebook posts, I was able to piece together developmental information that I wouldn't have had otherwise. So I may be posting more frequently, just for that!) This week, we got confirmation that yes, he is very clearly autistic. Having it confirmed was difficult - more for Jeremelon than for me. I had suspected since he was teeny-tiny brand new and he cried and kicked at me every time I tried to snuggle him. I got a funny feeling the only time we took him to get professional photos done, and he glanced soulfully at the camera but never stared or laughed or even cried during the shoot, no matter what we did to change his mood. The bottom fell out of my stomach the first time I watched him play with Duplos on his Lego table, matching the colors to the squares on the table instead of building. Deep down, I knew. So when they did his initial testing about a year ago that suggested autism, that was my hard day. That was the day it was official, for me.

That was the day I sobbed, and the day I realized I had to give up a lot of my mommy dreams.

See, a lot of autistic kids can't play pretend. Their brains are wired for things they can see and touch. At the high-functioning end of the spectrum, this predisposes many of them to being good with logic, numbers, and technology (I've mentioned before, but one of my Anthropology professors hypothesized that one reason ASD is on the rise is because our environment is selecting for it - the more we rely on technology, the more we use it and it changes the pathways in our brains, the more successful people with ASD and ADHD will be compared to those who aren't). Gooseberry taught himself to count to ten by the time he was two and a half. He'd already have been reading at his fifth birthday if he understood how language works. With help, he will learn how to use language; learning how to think in a different way than what's natural for him? I'm not sure that's possible.

We've never seen any real signs that Gooseberry can think abstractly, that his brain is wired for abstract play. He's never made cars go "vroom-vroom." He lines up his dishes and play food on the table but won't ever "cook." He smooshes any stuffed animal that pretends it's alive and throws it across the room. He will not pick up a stick and use it like a gun, a sword, or any other such object (which at five, I feel confident in saying many, if not most, boys do). The most he ever does is giggle at the silliness of me drinking from an empty cup. To him, a cup is used to drink real fluids (preferably milk). A stick is something that belongs on a tree.

The tantrums, the lack of communication; none of the challenges that come from parenting a child with ASD have yet compared with the heartbreak of believing I would never be able to share the magic of imagination with him. That magic makes up so much of who I am and how I live that when I dreamed of having kids, I dreamed of creating otherworldly childhoods. I couldn't wait to be able to infiltrate enemy bases and survive in post-apocalyptic wastelands or even just cook a glorious banquet with my kids the way I did with my siblings when they were little. I still spend copious amounts of time daydreaming. I still play pretend at least a couple times a week to keep my sanity and creative well filled up. I have conversations with empty space. I use my Kindle like a tricorder. I duel imaginary enemies - sometimes with plastic swords. I get angry. I cry. I fall in love. Those actions and feelings become scenes. That empty space becomes a character. I play out the fiction I write, and I write down my fictional play. It provides a glorious creativity feedback loop...and just makes life a lot of fun. That was what I wanted to give to my kids, to my Gooseberry, since long before he was born. And that was what I realized I had to give up the day they told me he's probably autistic.

It took me most of a year, but I finally reconciled my heart to concrete-only play, to puzzles and science and mechanical toys only. After all, I watched my older brother find wonder and amazement in astronomy. Chemistry lights up my youngest brother's world. Dinosaurs rock. Heck, I even find rocks pretty cool. I'm not just a creative writer, I'm also a scientist. I grew up in a science-positive family that filled my head with plants and geology and logical thought processes as much as it fueled my love of fantasy and wonder. I still love puzzles of all kinds. So it's not like I can't fill his life with wonder...it would just be a different kind of magic.

Except today, Gooseberry played pretend.
Not just a brief, "Hey, look - the horse is eating! What silliness!" But half an hour or more of full-body, individual play.

His only prop was his blankie, which became at times a cloak, a scarf, and a boat. Though I could only make out one or two words every three minutes (like "catapult" and "They disappeared!"), he talked nonstop the entire time. He used the entire house, adding in some "floor is lava" techniques between rugs, and avoiding people like giant boulders standing in his way. Clearly, he was starring in his own action-adventure story. He even came over twice to say, "Give it a try, Mama!" He didn't actually invite me into his play, but I was still part of his story.

For my part, I stood beside the table, crying. Standing, because the second I sat down, he stopped playing to sit in my lap. Crying, because I could see in his eyes the same thing that happens when I write. Gooseberry had filled the house with an entire world of his own (I could tell, because his adventure involved a lot of travel). I can't describe what it looked like, but that world was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

While I stood there at the table, my body growing uncomfortably hot as I lingered too far from a ceiling fan, I was completely okay with never sitting down again.

Today is Magic Day, and I never want it to end.