Attitude Adjustment: How I Learned Not to be Embarrassed by My Boys' Autism

The pastor asked us to pray together.  I half closed my eyes or rather I closed one but kept the one closest to Gideon wide open.  Last time I closed both eyes he made it half way down the main aisle. He seemed settled enough, which was a good sign. We'd been late to church . . . again.  (Surprise, surprise).  We slunk in a few minutes after the service started and sat down quietly (quiet being a relative word) in our regular sitting pattern.  Daniel sat in the row across from us because he's too cool for the likes of us.  Then my husband, Ben, Gideon and me at the end of the aisle.  Katherine flitted back and forth between us, appropriating a lap as she saw fit.

Thus far things were going well.  It was always a bit touch and go when we were running late and sometimes made for bad moods and badder behavior.  Maybe because it was Father's Day, but all our little people seemed to decide to toe the line. And then we prayed . . . .

Everyone's heads bowed, most eyes closed (except for the one I kept open) and the pastor prayed aloud. It was then I heard a little, high pitched voice say quietly, "Up pup. Pup is up."

I waited, hoping that would be the end of it.  It wasn't.

"Hop pop.  We like to hop."  The voice was a little louder now, the words crystal clear.  

"Gideon," I whispered.  "Quiet mouth."

He blinked his eyes and looked somewhere over my head.  Gideon hears every word I say every time I say it.  Whether or not he chooses to listen is an entirely different story. I stared him down, as best I could without making direct eye contact, waited a few beats and then settled back into my seat when it seemed he was done.  He wasn't.

Roughly 3.4 seconds later, I heard, "We like to hop on Pop!"  (Have you guessed Gideon's current favorite book yet)?

"Gideon!" I whisper-yelled.  "Quiet mouth." He gave a little giggle and bounced in his chair for a minute.  I waited . . . . longer this time and Gideon didn't make another sound. Now, he was done.  I was certain I was right.  I wasn't.  

You see, a few seconds later when it seemed to be completely silent in the church, Gideon yelled out, "STOP!"  Not quietly in his little voice, people.  Yelled.  Someone giggled.  My husband caught my eye, a little half grin on his face.  

"Gideon!" I said in his ear.  

"STOP! You must not hop on Pop!" He continued, not quietly, and glanced at me, making eye contact briefly, but smiling broadly.  

I grimaced.  I did not want to take him out of church.  If I took him out of church, I would have to stay in the foyer until it was time for children's church and, okay, a part of me feels like he wins when I let him get his way.  And make no mistake, Gideon knew exactly what he was doing. So, I stuck it out.  A head or two turned our way, with a smile, but most people seemed to not hear him at all.  Then again, us parents always think our children are the loudest.

The prayer ended, thank you Jesus and amen, and soon Gideon went off to worship training for the little ones. I sat down and took a deep breath, relaxing a bit into my chair and replayed what I shall now call The "Hop on Pop" Incident.  Seven year ago, when we were just starting to wade through autism waters with Daniel, my reaction to a similar situation would have been 1) immediately removing the child, 2) extreme embarrassment which would have lead to 3) profusely apologizing to anyone that would stand still for five seconds.

I've always been one of those people that apologize constantly.  Once a friend told me that because I grew up as a "parentalized child" so I felt responsible for everyone and everything.  "Don't tell me you're sorry," she said.  "I can take care of myself."  This gave me pause and I've thought about it often since then because she is right.  (Also, secondary lesson learned here: if you are friends with a licensed counselor, be ready to hear some truths about yourself). 

I also realized that I'd started a terrible habit: apologizing for my children's autism. 

At first, it was just natural. "I'm so sorry.  He has autism."  "Please excuse how loud he is.  It's the autism."  "I'm so sorry he broke that.  He's autistic."  I said these words or a variation of these words all day long.  At the grocery store,  At the doctor's office.  At restaurants.  At church.  The worst part though was, accompanying all these many, many, many apologies was my embarrassment.  I was embarrassed by my children.

When one of them made a scene or broke something or had a meltdown, I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.  The sorry's would tumble out of my mouth as I scrambled to right whatever wrong they'd done.  My cheeks would flame bright red and I'd feel tears burn the back of my eyes.

After it was all said and done, there was the guilt because of my embarrassment.  My children have autism.  This effects their behavior and communication.  In fact, their behavior is communication.  99% of the time these behaviors are expressions of curiosity, anger, happiness, excitement.  All emotions they feel deeply but have no other way of expressing them.  They are not an embarrassment; this is part of who they are.

Slowly, consciously, I began to shift the way I thought.  I would not be embarrassed about who my children are.  Sometimes I need to be embarrassed for them.  There's a difference.  The boys don't understand social norms and they do not understand when people are laughing at them.  Once, one of the boys came out of the rest room with his shorts around his knees.  At a public pool.  I refused to overreact.  There were some gasps and more than a few giggles. I calmly pulled him back in the restroom, fixed his shorts, and explained why we don't walk around naked.

I worked hard to change my words to other people.  Instead of saying, "I'm sorry he's so loud.  He has autism," I try to say, "I'm sorry if the noise bothered you."  The words I choose are subtlety different but the meaning behind them mean the world to me.

See, I am not going to apologize for my children having autism.  The autism is a part of them but not all of them.  As much as I'd like things to be easier for them, this is our reality right now.  So, I'll let waitstaff or a new friend know our boys have autism but I will not say I'm sorry for what that autism looks like right now.  They will change and grow and learn and mature.  I will be changing and growing and learning and, yes, maturing right along side them.

Yesterday in church, I realized how far I have come, how much my attitude has changed.  And no, I didn't apologize, not one time, for Gideon's autism.  Gideon's flaws are obvious; ours might not be. Yet each of us was knit together exactly as we should be and I will hold on to this truth.  This is who Gideon is, take him or leave him, but know he's made just a beautifully and wonderfully as each of us.

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