I bet if I asked you to tell me details of that fateful day on September 11, you would remember exactly where you were and what you were doing the day a plane was flown with malice into the twin towers. You could probably recollect what you were wearing and whether or not you abandoned a half eaten waffle with two squares filled with maple syrup on the table to listen closer to reports on the TV.
I bet if I asked, you would be able to tell me exactly what you wore when you had your first kiss. You would probably remember the way you hesitated before that moment, not knowing if the other person would reciprocate, but hoping that they would. You could probably access that memory and the feelings that went with it pretty easily.
Psychologists say that when something monumental happens in our lives, details of the event are imprinted on our brain forever. Sometimes, the event can be such that it alters our brain chemistry from the time of the event going forward into eternity.
Such an incredible mind blowing event happened to me today that I am sure the details will never become just a faint wisp of a vapor in my memory. They will stay real, vibrant, and noteworthy.
I remember standing in my kitchen, a half of a cup of luke warm coffee, heavy on the hazelnut creamer, in my right hand. My hair sticking up on all sides, my glasses falling too far down on my nose. Up beside me comes a little red haired boy who grabbed my arm. He started tugging it in that way he does when he wants something that requires me to decode his request by using the skills I've honed over the years that would rival any seasoned, chain smoker police detective who has been on the force for thirty years. It's not easy to decipher the wants of an individual who has limitations on their ability to talk.
I felt the tug on my arm and in slow motion, my head turned toward the little red haired boy. He was looking up at the ceiling and twirling his fingers. His mouth uttered words I hadn't heard before.
Tugging my arm, he said, " I love you, mom."
After countless draining IEP meetings, I never heard "I love you mom."
After seeing specialist after specialist, I never heard "I love you, mom."
After fighting with the school principal on his behalf, no "I love you, mom."
After endless episodes of Diego and Clifford, I never heard "I love you, mom."
On his own time, in his own way... "I love you, mom."
You see, people who are autistic don't do anything unless they really, really want to. That's the nature of the problem- they don't care what you want them to do, they will do what they want and if it means twenty episodes in a row of Diego while chewing on a towel and sitting in their underwear- so be it.
It's the very nature that makes my little boy's words of "I love you, mom" life changing and utterly priceless.
You see, he wouldn't have said it if he absolutely didn't want to.
It took overcoming language and processing disorders to utter those words, meaning he had to work and work just to make those four simple words leave his lips.
So I will remember standing in my kitchen, a half cup of lukewarm coffee in my hand, heavy on the hazelnut creamer, hair disheveled, glasses falling down the bridget of my nose and those four words that he wanted to say that day.
Spontaneous. Non- Prompted. Beautiful.
"I love you, mom."
