You know those people who can’t take a compliment? The ones who, when you offer up a complimentary word or phrase to them that you genuinely mean, either deflect it or just simply laugh? Well, sometimes they cry, because they just don’t know how else to respond.
If you don’t- you do now.
I’m one of those people.
I don’t know if I always have been or if it’s one of those things I’ve developed as an adult. But I’m exhibit A.
“You’re such an incredible advocate.”
“You’ve got the best laugh.”
“You are doing everything right for him.”
“You take bomb ass pictures.”
All actual words people have spoken to me, all of which have received a mix of an awkward smile, laughter, and in some cases, a “well we’ve just done what anyone else would do in our situation” as a response. And I’ve always believed the last part is true, even when I eventually learned it’s not true at all.
For better or worse, I’ve never seen myself as others see me. And that has proven to be both a good and a bad thing- depending on the situation. You see(or hear!) loud- I see passion that spills over. You see bomb ass picture taker- I see mediocrity, who may never live up to what I consider to be the standard of excellence. You see an incredible advocate- I see a pain in the ass who administrators hate dealing with.
Maybe all of that is why I don’t see him the way others do. And that…well, that has always served us well. He was eighteen months old- and I just KNEW. I knew something was off. Our pediatrician didn’t see a reason to worry, but gave me the number for Early Intervention, which eventually set us on the path to diagnosis.
I’ve always been drawn to the people in our lives who see him differently. When he was a toddler, he was noisy, stubborn, didn’t communicate, couldn’t self soothe- the list of things he couldn’t do was substantially longer than the age appropriate things he could. One by one, the steady stream of therapists ranging from early intervention educators to occupational therapists with years of education and experience came into our lives. And they saw him…they didn’t see his lack of ability, they saw his potential. They didn’t care that he wore pajamas all the time, they saw his willingness to try whatever task they put in front of him. And because they saw something different when they looked at him- he responded differently. He connected better. He responded. It’s an incredible thing, this whole “put your kid in a variety of therapy” journey. We moms specifically, grow these children for nine months and then they’re born and somewhere along the lines instincts take over. You figure out how to diaper, how to decipher cries, and nature takes over- until it can’t. Special needs families live in this alternate universe where we’re faced with seeking help for our children- and in doing so, we’re saying to each and every therapist “I can’t do this alone…I created this kid, but I don’t know how to help him.” There’s an unspoken bond between a good therapist and parents…the ones who see your kid realistically, but optimistically. They’re able to force a change in perspective- where you see sleepless nights because kids with autism are notoriously horrible sleepers, they see the opportunity to teach regulation and self soothing techniques- you see a lack of communication and they see the chance for your kid to teach them everything they know about their favorite video games.
This autism thing- it’s taught me a lot since it officially became a part of our lives. I’ve learned more about dealing with insurance companies than I ever thought I needed to know, I’ve learned how to fill out 37 different parent evaluations of my kid, I’ve learned how to survive on little sleep. But the thing I find myself the most grateful for? He sees the world so incredibly differently- and every day he’s teaching me to see the world, and myself through a new lens.
Maybe next he can teach me how to take a compliment.
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