A friend told me last week that his daughter was recently diagnosed with autism. His voice was quiet, tinged with sadness and a hint of apology.
We talked about symptoms and testing and therapies. We talked about some of her social and developmental delays. And we talked about how others react to his daughter.
He told me that sometimes he feels like he should make his excuses for his child. He feels the need to explain her behavior. He’d like to politely turn away the well-meaning but misguided relative who insists the little girl should be potty-trained by now.
I know what he means. To some degree, every parent does. Every child has a quirk or two, something that sets them apart from the others. Some children, like my friend’s daughter, are saddled with much more than quirks — they have conditions that can control their lives.
My son lives with dysgraphia, dyslexia and a touch of sensory processing disorder. Nothing life-threatening or independence-robbing. Some of his movements are awkward, his pronunciations comical, his handwriting immature.
And though I’d never clothe him in a T-shirt that says, “Please be patient with me: I’ve got a lot going on,” I admit that there are moments I’d like to.
I’d like, in one fell swoop, to explain why there are textures that Cooper refuses to touch or eat. To explain why he fidgets almost all the time. Why his schoolwork posted on bulletin boards doesn’t seem to be on the same level as his peers.
At the same time, I don’t want to make excuses for my son. He’s not perfect, of course, but he’s just how God intended him to be. For every one of his challenges, he’s got a much longer list of strengths — compassion, curiosity and creativity, to name a few. How he uses his talents to meet and overcome his challenges will partly define who he becomes.
My daughter doesn’t struggle with her brother’s issues, but she has some of her own. She is emotionally intense, to the extreme. She brims with passion. She is hypercritical of herself and sometimes others. She feels the highest highs and the lowest lows.
I have no way of knowing how much of Katie’s intensity comes from her personality vs. ongoing grief related to her daddy’s death. Steve was diagnosed with cancer when she was 2; she’s lived most of her short life surrounded by medical crisis or a heavy absence.
When she overreacts in public, and folks are staring at her like she’s a discipline problem and me like I’m a hapless parent (at least that’s what I gather from their gawking), I wish I could pull out a huge sign that reads: “Emotionally intense 5-year-old with grief issues. We’re doing our best.”
Just like her brother, Katie is going to grow into her challenges. That passion is going to fuel something big. She will eventually embrace the art of self-control. Her grief will help shape her relationships and empathy for others.
As my friend and I ended our conversation, we talked about how much he and his wife longed for and prayed for their daughter and what a blessing she was and is. About the intense, immeasurable, immense love a parent feels for a child. And how we all want the world to feel the same about our children.
Parental love requires no apology.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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