Zoo Day

I am becoming intimately familiar with the term "blindsided."

It's an interesting thing. Although we're not having him tested until October 7th (oh, yes, did I mention this very good news? Riley called! We're on the calendar! That woulda been a good entry...), I am starting to find myself in the "accepting" stages of grief with this whole thing. I'm starting to identify with families who have special-needs children, and of course, those affected by autism. I know you could probably call that labeling him, or putting him in a "box," or whatever. But here's what. I know what he has. I've read enough, I've had him in therapy long enough, and I've heard enough opinions of professionals who can't, themselves, offer a diagnosis. I know what he has. I just need a doctor to say it so he can get the help he needs.

Anyway, like I said, I'm starting to accept this thing--the goal being to move on, not to have something to add to his (or my) identity. I'd rather not have this as a part of our family. Really. But it is a part of our family, and if I ever want it to be different, we need to get on the move now. And so I am.

You'd think, with that mentality, that it wouldn't still jump out from behind the corner at me and take my breath away.

But it did, again. We went to the zoo yesterday morning. I'd always heard that autistic children are hard to take to the zoo, because they're more interested in the fencing than the animals. And that's been exactly what William's done in the past. I don't know why I thought yesterday might work differently, but, whatever. I thought, even if he's just interested in the fences, it shouldn't hold us back from doing something fun as a family. We should do it anyway (which, by the way, is a position I still hold...just a little more, um, aware). So, we went.

It's amazing how I can walk through a crowd of children I don't know and not see children, but milestones. I saw babies just able to sit up starting to wave at people walking by. I saw toddlers trying to climb on fences to get a better glimpse at the giraffes, my daughter included. I saw Nora shouting unintelligibly about the fish in the aquarium that looked like Nemo and Dory and the jellyfish, and I saw William stare, blank-faced, at the carpet.

It hurts. I picked him up, but he screamed. He wanted the stroller. And if he didn't scream, he just wasn't that interested. He showed mild interest in the manta rays (i.e., he followed them with his eyes, again, blank-faced), but that was it.

We came home, and I was pretty cranky. I took it out on George, and of course, he was all like, come on! So, we had a conversation.

I ended up crying my face off, telling him I wanted William to say he loved us. I wanted him to point to a zebra and say, "Look, Mama!" I wanted him to play a pretend game with his sister. And why, why does it have to be him? He's so beautiful, so perfect! Why does it have to be him?

George held me, and we both cried. He told me to just let it out, for both of us. He feels the same way. We don't know why it has to be our little guy, and it sucks. We're angry. We're hurt. We want him to get better. We cried and cried. When I dried my face, he started telling me what an amazing job he thinks I'm doing with all of this. An hour later, William woke up in a poop puddle. Seriously, it was disgusting--like whatever would reasonably fit in three diapers, he tried to get into one. George walked in on me cleaning this up, and ran. I'm like, thanks. Then he returned with a trash bag to dispose of the nastiness. He looked at me, while I'm kneeling on the floor, like, elbow-deep in poop, as if I'm the most amazing, beautiful thing he's ever seen. "I love you," he said, shaking his head. "I just love you so much."

I've felt all alone in this for a long time. I've had some great support from family members, but I needed George most of all. Truly, I can think of a million less hurtful reasons for us to have to cling to one another like we did yesterday, but that was our reason. And he was exactly the man I needed.

I could not possibly be more grateful.