Autism: Wonderful Ones

I have people ask me all the time how we first found out the Dog Walker was autistic. I must confess that my life was crazy busy at the time (maybe even busier than it is now). I was working two jobs, 40 hours a week at home as a technical writer, and part-time in the evenings, teaching writing classes at a local college a couple of days a week. At his 12-month checkup, our little Dog Walker was a healthy, happy baby. He could walk, eat most solids, empty a cupboard, unroll a roll of toilet paper, and jabber "Mama," "Dada," and "ball." His motor skills were right on track for a 1-year-old. He loved music, Barney, and ice cream. He had his regular immunizations with no side effects and he’d survived the love and attention of three older sisters and one older brother. 

By the time he was 18 months old, he was running and playing. He loved balls, cars, and stuffed animals. He thought his grandpa was the greatest and the Dog Walker appeared to have an aptitude for music. He loved the piano and he played the keys softly and beautifully, not like other toddlers. He had progressed normally except that his 3-word vocabulary had increased to only 5 words. He had added the words "no" and "mine." It was 1995, and as a mother of five, I was convinced that he was fine; he was simply developing his language skills a bit more slowly than my first four children. I had plenty of evidence that children develop at different rates. 

My sweetie and I had both been late bloomers when it came to speech. I didn’t say anything but "Mama" and "Dada" until I was nearly two years old. Then one day I spouted sentences, beginning with, "May I have a piece of cake?" I was convinced that my little Dog Walker was just like me. By the time he was two years old, he had progressed in every way except language. He was extremely athletic; he could catch and throw better than his 4-year-old sister. He still loved TV, and he could mimic words from Barney and Winnie the Pooh although they didn’t quite sound like they should. When I took him for his 2-year-old checkup, the pediatrician suggested that I have him tested by a speech therapist. 

I was devastated! He seemed to be making progress. I had increased his TV watching, hoping that the mimicking would help. I had turned a blind eye to the fact that he couldn’t understand simple instructions and he didn’t know any of his siblings’ names. He was unable to dress himself (he hated clothes anyway) and he showed absolutely no interest in potty training. He was extremely independent. If he wanted a drink of milk, he would bring me a cup and a gallon of milk. If he wanted his lunch, he would bring me the bologna and a plate. He just helped himself to whatever he wanted or needed. 

He and I also had a system of hand signals that I mostly understood. If he wanted his shoes off, he would grab my hands and place them on his shoes. If he wanted something that he couldn’t reach from a chair, he would lead me to the item and point until I got it down for him. Sometimes he and I would both become frustrated with our lack of communication and he could throw an amazing tantrum. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that we were facing something much more serious. Come back tomorrow click the link below and I’ll tell you what we did next.

Jump to part 2.

Super Bowl Birthdays

I was almost 2 years old when they played the first Super Bowl. You know those guys on TV who talk about how they miss babies and marriages and funerals, but they won’t miss the Super Bowl? I’ve known people like them! Because my birthday falls on January 25^th every year, it was only natural that at some point my own special day and the Super Bowl were going to collide. 

The first time it happened was in 1981. The Raiders were playing the Eagles in the Superdome. The Raiders were the winners and I was the loser! It was my 16^th birthday and forgive me for having itty bitties, but its celebration was definitely secondary to the bash going on in front of the TV. 

Photo by The Kobal Collection – © 1984 - 20th Century Fox

 
The second time the Super Bowl fell on my birthday was in 1987. My sweetie and I had been married for 3 ½ years. I was extremely pregnant with my second child and very hormonal. First let me say that I married a terrific guy! But on that particular Sunday in that particular year, he blew it big time. His beloved Broncos were playing the Giants. Let’s just say that the Broncos weren’t the only losers of the Super Bowl that year. It was officially banned at our house for about the next 5 years. (He claims I banned all NFL games for 5 years, but I don’t remember being THAT mean!) 

The last time my birthday landed on the Super Bowl was in 1998. My hubby had learned his lesson well and offered to stay away from the TV even though his Broncos were playing the Packers. I guess I had matured enough that year to watch the game and have a party too (even though I was hormonal with #7). Just in case you were wondering, the Broncos were also the winners that year. (Thanks for all the info, NFL.com.) 

Now they have moved the Super Bowl to the first week in February and I don’t have to worry about it landing on my birthday anymore. But remember that sweet little baby I was pregnant with back in 1987? Well, last year he turned 23 and celebrated his birthday on, you guessed it, Super Bowl Sunday. Funny, it didn’t seem to bother him as much as it did me.

Modified from cakecentral.com