December makes me feel reflective. 

Eight years ago, we were at a Christmas party put on by our early intervention provider. A super well meaning staffer asked me how things were going- at this point we’d been enrolled in early intervention services for about six months. 

And she asked me, and I burst into tears. And to this day, I can replay the conversation almost like a movie in my head. I felt like he was capable or more, and we were missing something. She suggested a developmental pediatrician, but mentioned they were extremely hard to get into. All I heard her say was that they existed, and within the next 14 hours I had secured him an evaluation appointment the day before Christmas Eve. And that developmental pediatrician who was allegedly going to be impossibly long to get into? He had an appointment open up a week later- and in a span of about 12 days from my meltdown at that Christmas party- we had what we probably always knew was coming- an actual autism diagnosis. Which is a fun thing, because you think that maybe you’re going to get answers and you really end up with a lot more questions than answers. Nobody has a glass ball that sees the future, so you get a lot of “well typically, kids on the spectrum do __________.” And it’s fine, because they’ve got to say something but what they’re saying is this huge and somewhat vague generalization that’s based on hundreds of thousands of kids who have carried an autism diagnosis. And the beautiful thing about that diagnosis? Or any diagnosis? Every kid is an individual. And they’re all different. And that’s okay and it’s this incredible thing to have a front row seat to. And with that front row seat comes the honor of witnessing the big stuff and the little stuff- and I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. 

That day in December when he was diagnosed- he was walking, but not talking. There were sounds, but they didn’t really mean anything. He didn’t point, he didn’t respond to his name. And so from that day on- we did all the things. Tacoma for therapy, Seattle occasionally for doctor appointments- we did them all. And then the day came that he went into Kindergarten and let me tell you, that was terrifying. All of a sudden my front row seat became one that wasn’t even in the stadium and had to rely on any shred of communication from other people who didn’t know my kid like I did. And four months into that kindergarten experience, this happened: 

And that? That’s another conversation that I can replay in my head like a movie. He got off the bus and at this point, I’d asked the same question every day since school started and I’d never gotten an answer. 

But then I did. And I remember crying. I think I texted Ken. It was one of those moments, one of those things that the magnitude of it- it’s just hard to explain unless you lived it. 

December makes me reflective. 

That conversation happened four years ago. Four years prior to that was when he was diagnosed.

Which brings us to today. Last week he explained in detail where he sits in the classroom. Like, “I SIT IN THE TOP RIGHT CORNER SO NOBODY IS ON MY RIGHT IT’S JUST THE WALL. AND A GIRL SITS ON MY LEFT BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER HER NAME.” (Ken and I decided a few years ago that he speaks in all capital letters. Everything is full of passion- math homework, or talking about his favorite video game.)  His teacher sent a note home saying he was on fire that day, and described the day as awesome- a fact that he was incredibly proud of. A few days before that, in an attempt to keep our home somewhat PG-13 I described something as awesome AF. He immediately said to me, “EMLEE AF IS SHORT FOR AS FUCK.” And I mean, he obviously wasn’t wrong, so I just laughed and said yep, you’re right buddy. 

Sometimes I think about the things they told me eight years ago in December that he may or may not do and I laugh. Who could have predicted this child? This kid who is the wittiest, funniest, sassiest little dude that you’ve ever met. Who would have known this was where he’d be now?? The path is long but dude, the work is worth it. 

December makes me reflective- because amidst the holiday chaos, and the parties and the presents being wrapped- somewhere out there, families might be getting a diagnosis they were expecting for a two year old kid who is a bit of a mystery. Oh man, I wish I could tell that family what I wish somebody had told me- hang on tight, because it’s going to be a ride. Trust your gut, because it turns out you’re right, and nobody knows him better than you do. That speech you’re fighting so hard for him to learn? It might include a lot of swear words, but that’s okay. The people who are about to come into his life will change his- and yours. And nobody will make you laugh harder than him- especially when he masters the art of a well placed F-Bomb by age ten. 

December makes me reflective- not because I think of the day eight years ago as a day that our lives changed- but more of a benchmark. A beacon in the sea. And then I think about all the places we’ve been since that day, and how far he has come and how hard he has worked? It’s one of the best front row seats I’ll ever have. And for that, I’m grateful- all the time, not just in December.