“Quiet hands, Andrew.” “Andrew, quiet hands.” I can’t count how many times those words passed through my lips the first few years after Andrew’s autism diagnosis. The people with the official paperwork attached to official clipboards told me it was the right thing to do. It will help him fit in. Flapping is an inappropriate…
I’m sending out a distress signal. I know you’re out there somewhere and I need your help. My son Andrew is hurting himself, and I cannot get him to stop. Neither can my husband. Or anyone else for that matter. We’ve tried mittens and gloves and squeezes and shiny things. We’ve tried massages and…
It was one of those mornings: too much to do in too little time, and I found myself feeling slightly annoyed as I joined the back of a long line at my local overcrowded Starbucks. Extra foam. No whip. Triple shot. Not too hot. Not too cold. Nonfat. 2%. Soy. Every single order seemed more…
He hasn’t heard the words yet but I have. “I feel so sorry for him,” they’ve said, right to my face, their tones casual, as if they’ve just announced their coffee is stale instead of making unsolicited assertions about the well-being of my youngest son Ian. He hasn’t seen the pity in their eyes, too…
This is my son Andrew. He has autism. He loves the ocean garbage trucks bounce houses stained glass windows his brother Ian the tractors from CARS getting raspberries from his daddy being helpful Jesus and his iPad Andrew has autism. He may be different in a lot of ways, but he is most certainly not…
Is it just me or should someone over at quality control have thought this particular sequence of sounds through a little bit better?
So one of the most amazing things about raising our special needs son Andrew is the joy he finds in the things most of us overlook or take for granted. His laughter and unfiltered happiness is absolutely contagious and we can never seem to get enough of his smile. Tonight he discovered the fort that…