Howdy,
My daughter has Autism. When I first heard those words two years ago, it devastated me. The lovely Charity picked up on early signs because she’s intelligent. I dismissed her initial impulses.
“Don’t overanalyze everything!” I said. (Which is quite rich, by the way, coming from me).
But the lovely Charity, as she often is, was right.
I wish I could say I handled that news with aplomb. I did not. It was before I went to the mental health hospital (AKA, the funny farm, which is what all of us called it). I had become hardened by Afghanistan, but even this news shook me.
After 1500 days in Iraq and Afghanistan, I’ve grown accustomed to the worst-case scenario. My mind started racing immediately. How would I adjust to make sure she was cared for?
For no reason, to be honest. But I was mad. I shook my hand at G*d.
Little did I realize that her autism was part of my healing path.
My daughter is wicked smart (I write that in a Boston accent). She wakes up in the morning and often starts reading. Her playroom is full of books. She not only memorizes the stories, but she also plays them out. It’s astonishing.
This week, we started with Presidents. She’s 3, and she’s already memorized quite a few of them. She studies things intensely, from all angles, before feeling comfortable. Her mind is ferocious.
When I read books to her, she will stop me in the middle of a sentence if I forget a word—even if she’s halfway across the room.
“No. Back.”
We wrestle every day on the bed. We do body slams, piledrivers, backbreakers, suplexes, and sleeper holds (after I put her in a sleeper hold, she pretends to go to sleep). It’s a lot of fun.
She’s a special little girl.
To be honest, I wanted a boy. Of course, I had planned out an entire training regimen in my head. When would I give him his first weapon? (Deal with it.) When would I teach him to fight?
But, instead, and thank G*d for it, I got a little girl. I needed my little girl. She softens me—and, maybe you’ve noticed, I might need a softer edge occasionally.
Well, she provides that to me. I’m learning to remain present. I’m trying to enjoy the simple moments in life instead of constantly pursuing the next thing.
Be here. Right now. With her.
My mind has never worked that way. It races. Four years in war will do that to a man. I’m constantly unpacking decisions, analyzing them, and making sure my plans to take care of my family will succeed.
To quote The Godfather, “A man that doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man.”
However, protecting and providing for my little family differs from spending time with them. So, as I plot my next steps in life, I’m learning to be with them. I’m not great at it, but I’m making the effort.
However, the time with my daughter helps me heal the most. She gets frustrated easily (she comes by it honestly). When I miss a page in a book or a song doesn’t go exactly how she memorized it, it crushes her soul.
I know how that feels. Afghanistan crushed my soul.
So now, I often cry along with her. It’s important that she sees Daddy cry so she knows there’s nothing wrong with it. We share tears—and also laugh.
She’s helping me heal from these wars, and I’m helping her deal with this world. It’s a beautiful thing.
She will have challenges. She’s learning to read a room and act appropriately. It will take time, but I have all of it to give. And there’s nothing more important than her.
Nothing.
Until Next Time.
In my experience, most autistic kids have some form of intellectual super-power, an area of exceptional ability or excellence that sets them far above their peers, and which, if properly nourished and encouraged, will lead to a happy and satisfying life. Take advantage of the resources offered by your local early-childhood intervention program, usually administered by your local school district. They have an amazingly effective toolbox for helping your child in those areas where they may need a little extra help in fitting in with their peers.
Love my Alice girl