During my online browsing last week, I stumbled upon a headline that suggested a connection between autism and circumcision. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Over the years, I’ve encountered a slew of theories explaining the origins of autism, including:
- Mercury exposure causes autism.
- Lead is a trigger for autism.
- Autism can stem from insufficient maternal bonding.
- Certain pesticides may induce autism.
- Plastics play a role.
- Gluten worsens autism spectrum disorder.
- Increased strawberry consumption is beneficial for those with autism.
- Automotive exhaust is a significant contributor to autism.
- Chemicals from non-stick cookware could trigger autism.
The assertion regarding maternal bonding strikes a personal chord. I genuinely struggled to connect with my son, Max, when he was an infant. The little guy cried incessantly for an entire year. He started sleeping through the night at six weeks, only to stop again when he hit three months. Exhaustion set in, and my partner, Tom, and I found ourselves caught in a cycle of bickering and long, drawn-out arguments. It felt as though my marriage was slipping away, much like sand through my fingers. Meanwhile, my firstborn, Sam—sweet and easygoing—was just a year old, which only magnified Max’s fussiness.
Yet today, I can confidently say there’s no one more connected to Max than I am. And despite that bond, he still experiences autism.
I’ve come to understand the cause of Max’s autism, and I’m ready to share my revelation. Here it is:
Drum roll, please.
Max has autism because, as his younger brother, Leo, puts it, he was “bornd-ed” with it. I firmly believe autism is a genetic condition. Somehow, my DNA mingled with Tom’s, resulting in a child who perceives Wednesday as the color orange. Perhaps Max’s unique genetic makeup makes him more susceptible to environmental factors like lead, mercury, and plastics.
The notion about strawberries—well, I’m skeptical about that one. For years, I placed the blame for the autism gene squarely on Tom’s family. However, attending a recent family funeral opened my eyes. As I glanced around the room, I began to wonder.
Just last week, while at a coffee shop, a woman approached me and introduced herself. She mentioned that her daughter, Emma, is in Max’s fifth-grade class. After exchanging pleasantries and collecting my coffee (and, okay, a cupcake), I turned to leave.
“Wait,” she touched my arm gently. “I wanted to share something. Emma told me that a boy called Max weird the other day in class.”
I winced. “Oh, yes, that happens.”
“Emma insisted that he isn’t weird. She told him he’s exactly the way he’s meant to be.”
This presents a dilemma. If I were to run around declaring autism an epidemic, demanding answers about its origins and potential cures, I would contradict the message of acceptance and tolerance that I strive to promote. The delicate glass house we’ve painstakingly built over the years would shatter into countless pieces.
Yet, it’s hard to ignore that autism does seem to be on the rise. Other families will continue to have children, and they may want guidance on preventing this intricate spectrum disorder from affecting their lives. My own children will grow up and have families of their own, and if automotive exhaust is indeed a factor, it would be prudent for us to transition to electric vehicles.
Still, I don’t want to become so fixated on the what and the how that I overlook the who. Because, ultimately, I don’t care where it originated. But I can’t deny that I’m curious.
It doesn’t matter to me why Max has autism. Nevertheless, having that information might be beneficial. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him.
He might have a tendency to talk excessively about gum varieties available at Wal-Mart, and while that can be overwhelming, I wouldn’t change a thing. I celebrate the beauty of autism, even if it sometimes drives me crazy.
Max is not broken; he is whole. Autism is nobody’s fault. Perhaps I should reconsider using Tupperware or insist he eat strawberries despite his distaste. Maybe I should repaint the house to eliminate any potential lead exposure or even discard our frying pan.
Could it be that I should have loved him more deeply when he was a tiny bundle in my arms? Maybe this is my fault.
As you can see, my feelings toward Max’s autism diagnosis are as complex as a prism, reflecting countless colors and angles. Some days, my doubts whisper softly in my heart; other times, they scream in my ear.
I am not a scientist, nor do I claim to be one. But I am a mother. And while I may not be the most knowledgeable, I understand autism from that perspective. I recognize the rigidity, the obsession, and the frustrations that come with having an aide at school. I am familiar with the disappointment and fear, as well as the quiet longing that accompanies being different, which I witness daily.
Living with someone who has autism often leads to the phrase “for now” becoming a staple in our lives.
- For now, the radio is set to the right station.
- For now, he isn’t screaming.
- For now, he’s sleeping.
- For now, he’s safe.
So, for now, I choose to believe Max’s autism is a result of genetics and heredity. For now, I will endeavor to add vibrant colors to the stark black and white of scientific understanding. Together, we will paint a clearer picture of autism.
I don’t yet fully grasp what that picture entails, but I envision it as a sort of utopia—an ideal fusion of science and humanity. A place abundant with strawberries, puppies, and plenty of peppermint gum from Wal-Mart, particularly the kind in the blue container.
There are tall, blonde girls named Emma and boys with glasses named Max. If you look closely, you may even spot a glass house shimmering in the sunlight on the horizon. It’s breathtaking.
A closer examination reveals an inscription on the front door—a simple yet profound sentence. This collection of eight words stands as a bastion against the flood of uncertainty. They shine brightly, providing peace, forgiveness, power, and pride. The first time I encountered these words, I was in a coffee shop, purchasing a cupcake.
“He’s exactly the way he’s supposed to be.”
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Summary:
The author reflects on the complexities of autism, sharing personal experiences with her son, Max, and emphasizing that his condition is likely rooted in genetics. Despite the challenges, she embraces his differences and promotes acceptance. Ultimately, she finds solace in the belief that autism is not a fault but a part of who Max is, underscored by a poignant statement that highlights the importance of understanding and acceptance.