Da Boys

Da Boys
Eating Old Fashioned Candy on the Banks of the Mississippi

A blog about the poetic adventures of two curly haired and boys...and Autism.

This blog was started after many friends told me I should keep a journal of my daily activities with my two sons. Our days are usually filled with fun details, sometimes some sad ones but when you have a child diagnosed with Autism.....there is always Adventure!

Sunday, July 25, 2010

How.....do I tell him?

In the whirlwind that follows the diagnosis of Autism,
Much occurs.
Time passes quickly.
There is little time to breathe,
Even less time to live.

In the sea of appointments,
On the other side of the revolving door of therapists,
One little boy stands alone,
Wondering why all this attention is directed toward his brother.

He stands...
Not understanding why these ladies are not here to see him,
When he talks.
He performs.
He socializes.

How do I tell this child?
What do I say?
Autism...a hollow word to a five year old.

"Why", he asks. "Why can't I talk with the ladies."
My heart breaks for him.
He lives for communication.
He craves conversation.
He devours attention.

"My, Gio," I say cupping his beautiful face my hands.
In a split second, as if all time has stopped,
I ask God for clarity on what to tell his child.
He hears my request and swiftly gives me the gift.

"My, Gio. The ladies are here to help your brother," I try to explain.

"Why?" he begs, "Why aren't they here to see me?"

"Your brother cannot talk and play like you. They are here to help him."

Tears well up in his soulful brown eyes.
"Oh, no!", he cries, "What's wrong with Alessandro?"

The wisdom I prayed for floods out from my mouth supernaturally,
Overriding the torrent of emotions that I want to let loose
When I see my baby boy cry.

"You know, what happens when your trains tracks are not set up right?", I ask.

He looks at me with a mixture of delight because I am talking about his favorite subject and confusion because he really doesn't know how this applies to this conversation.

"Yes." he says waiting for me to explain my reasoning.

"In your brain, " I tell him," You have little tracks, just like your train tracks and all your messages follow these little tracks."

He smiles and follows my thought.

"Your brother....", I pause," ....well....your brother's messages are not on track. The tracks are broken and the ladies are here to fix them. They know how to fix his tracks and even though they like you...when they come to see us, it's their job to help your brother get his messages back on track...just like when you fix your train tracks. So they cannot spend all their time talking to you."

He begins to draw a similarity to a Thomas the Tank Engine story.
"Yes," I say smiling, "Just like that."
"And someday when his tracks are all fixed,
He will be able to talk with and play with you."

He happily accepts this explanation. From this day forward
He will tell everyone he meets about the ladies that come to his house
That help get his brother's messages on track.

He knows the language of trains.
He knows his brother is getting help
at the tender age of five,
He knows what Autism is...without ever having to mention the name.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Vingettes of Boy Conversation

Walking in the newly cooled air, along a pathway cleaned by the afternoon rain, two little boys and their mother pass by a dying bush of flowers. All that remain, are the bald heads of what were once the center of bright, cheery flowers.

The oldest boy steers clear of them as if they were a mange ridden animal and quickly warns his mother in a heroic effort to save her from harm.

"Um.... Mommy", he says, "I think those flowers have bee germs."

His Mother's laughter can be heard from the other side of the fields.

"Yes, son," she manages to compose herself long enough to speak. "I do believe ALL flowers have "bee germs"."

The End

Friday, July 2, 2010

Confessions of the Only Girl

When my second son was born,
I became the only girl stuffed into a house
with three guys.

I upped my eye makeup
By using heavier applications,
With more and more colors...............

As a silent protest.

The End.