Recently, at bedtime, my wonderfully inquisitive 9-year-old son, Oliver, was sharing his experiences from recess. In this particular story, he described how a boy named Max from another fifth-grade class was throwing stones and making threats. While some classmates rallied to support Oliver, he still felt unsettled by the encounter. He expressed concern about Max’s behavior, suggesting that he might be autistic.
As I listened, I found myself grappling with the chaotic world of playground interactions. My instinct was to react strongly, but I focused on Oliver’s words, which revealed his deep understanding of the situation. He mentioned that it was fortunate Max was in a different class, as having two children with autism together could create challenges. Curious, I asked him if anyone in his class was autistic. He replied, “Well, me, Mom—haven’t you noticed?”
Indeed, I had noticed. Over the years, I’d wrestled with the idea internally, often choosing to avoid confronting it directly. Oliver, however, had an astonishing self-awareness that I hadn’t anticipated. He shared that his suspicions about being autistic began two years ago after watching a documentary about Legos and their role in fostering friendships for autistic children. This prompted him to question, “Is that why I feel such a strong need for Legos at school?”
He elaborated on his research, stating, “I meet a lot of the diagnostic criteria, but not all of it.” His insights were striking: “I get sarcasm but struggle with irony. The texture of fruit bothers me. I’m not great at sports, but I can often sense what others are feeling. I dislike the cafeteria smell, and eye contact is tough. Oh, and I’m really into cars.”
When I finally acknowledged his self-diagnosis, he asked why I had never mentioned it before, speculating that I feared it might upset him. My answer was simple: “I wondered if you would be upset.”
This moment revealed a profound truth about his neurodivergent perspective. My attempts to shield him from the reality of his autism had more to do with my own fears than with his needs. Yet, rather than feeling disheartened by his diagnosis, Oliver was excited. He pointed out that several of his heroes, such as Elon Musk—who is making strides in sustainable technology—and Thomas Jefferson, were on the spectrum. He even brought up Mozart and Steve Jobs, two figures who have made significant impacts on the world.
Parenting is full of surprises. Oliver took his first steps at 18 months just as I was about to seek early intervention. Just when I feared he might struggle socially, he came home with a close friend he couldn’t stop talking about. Whenever I worried about his capacity for empathy, he would show kindness and wisdom in his interactions with his younger sibling. And when I fretted over his introversion, he organized a 5K run to raise funds for immigrant families.
Ultimately, parenting often defies logic. Autism, too, is complex. When Oliver confidently stated that he is autistic, I realized he was absolutely right. Any contrary information simply emphasizes the rich and varied nature of his identity. His autism is unique, just like every child’s experience.
What I’ve learned from Oliver is that my tendency to avoid painful truths is a significant aspect of my parenting style, while his strength lies in facing reality head-on. I once thought he wouldn’t cope with the truth of his diagnosis, but it was my own neurotypical mindset that misled me into believing I had all the answers. When we truly listen and observe our children, the insights we need are often right in front of us.
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In summary, my son’s self-realization of his autism has opened my eyes to the importance of understanding and embracing his unique identity. Rather than viewing his diagnosis as a limitation, it’s become a point of pride that reflects his individuality and potential.