I have two children -- my firstborn, Zachary, who has autism; and my daughter, who is neurotypical. There is an 8 year gap between the two. We waited because: 1) we were kinda busy doing the "autism is my life" thing, and 2) I was scared to death that my chances of having another child with autism were better than your average parent. It took about 2 years to sort out our feelings about the possibility of having two kids on the spectrum, and whether we could handle it, and in the end, we decided to go for it.
I remember being unbelievably relieved when I found out I was carrying a girl, since autism occurs much more frequently in boys. Whew! A good sign (I became a great believer in "signs") I told myself. Plus, I confess, I was secretly rooting for a girl. The whole mother-daughter scenario went through my mind. And, I admit, I desperately wanted the experience of having a child who would allow me a glimpse into the world of "normal", from which I was currently excluded.
And finally, there she was -- already too impatient to wait the full nine months, coming a month early. So tiny! And healthy. We were so happy. Life seemed to have settled down a bit for us. Zac was in a very good program that we loved, with teachers who understood him and cared about him and worked well with us. It allowed me to take a few deep breaths and enjoy those initial months of babyhood, where you and your newborn are getting to know each other.
Ah, but could I leave we'll enough alone? Hell no! It started around 3 or 4 months of age. I began looking for the tell-tale signs that something was wrong. Did she look at me? Was she babbling? Was she babbling enough? As she grew older, was she pointing? Did she seem engaged in her
surroundings? Any peculiar mannerisms developing? Was this one autistic? Or not. All signs pointed to "go", and we began to relax.
On her second birthday, a "well-meaning" relative in the education business remarked that she wasn't hearing some sounds that you usually hear at this age. That was it. Over the course of the weekend I became convinced that daughter-dearest was a member of the "A-Team". Every tantrum was suspect. Yep, her language was definitely delayed. Oh no, she wasn't engaging in "appropriate" play. Did she just look at her wubby too closely?? Talk about a meltdown. Only it was ME melting down, not the kid.
So we embarked on the rounds of evaluation. Behavior, speech, hearing, etc., etc. We spent a year with a wonderful speech therapist who told us after that time that she was fine. And she was right.
While she didn't say much at 2, now at 15 she won't shut up.
So I like to think that I have the best of both worlds. I have a son who is the strong, silent type, and a daughter who is a chatterbox. Zac and I can enjoy some peace and quiet over dinner, while Chloe and I dish over pizza. She helps to bring him out of himself a little, and he helps to tone down her craziness.
So what is the point of all this rambling? I guess to say that I wish I hadn't spent so much time worrying and wondering. I lost a lot of precious time that way, and I can't get it back. I wish I had just kicked back and enjoyed what I had, instead of mucking things up with my paranoid delusions. Things were bound to work out one way or another. They always do, it seems.
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