As an Associate Producer at KPRC 2, I spend a lot of time fighting to make my community better and giving the voiceless a voice.
In my personal life, as a mother to an autistic child, I also work hard every day to give my speech-delayed son a voice.
There’s a side to raising a child with autism that a lot of people don’t see. As we close out Autism Awareness Month, I wanted to share our family’s story, and shine a light on how you can help families like ours.
We first became concerned about my son Noah at his third birthday party. It had become clear that something wasn’t right.
We gathered around to sing Happy Birthday, just as we had the year before, when Noah began to cry and cover his ears. That alone wasn’t an indication that anything was wrong, but when my husband and I paired it with other recent behaviors, a pattern emerged.
According to the Centers for Disease Control, children should be able to have a conversation with you using at least two back-and forth exchanges by age 3. They should be able to ask who, what, when, where and why questions, and their speech should be understandable.
But our sweet boy had stopped making progress with speech. They say to not compare your child with others, but when we spoke with the other three-year-olds at Noah’s party, we couldn’t help but notice that he was behind.
His tantrums and outbursts were also becoming more intense and frequent. It would take both my husband and I long periods of time to calm him down.
After the party, my mother-in-law told me I could take him for a free behavioral assessment at our local school district, so I made an appointment to have him evaluated.
The appraisal staff asked me a series of questions and observed Noah moving about the room as he looked for the door to escape.
They asked me if Noah walked on his tippy toes. Yes, I said, all the time.
Does he pull you to what he wants instead of asking you? Yes, I said, as he pulled me to the door.
Does he flap his arms and hands? Yes, I said.
And finally, does he cover his ears when he hears loud noises? I thought back to his recent birthday party and said yes.
“Well,” a staff member said kindly, “these are all signs of autism.”
I didn’t want to believe it was true, but a neurologist later tested him and ruled out other possibilities. I had suspected that Noah might be autistic, but hearing it confirmed broke my heart. The future I had hoped for him seemed to pop like a bubble.
But there was hope, the staff said. There were ABA (Applied Behavioral Analysis) programs that I could enroll Noah in to help him speak. There were children just like Noah who grew up to live completely normal lives, they said.
So, we began the process of finding the right program for him. We tried one through the school district, but when he showed signs of regression after about three months, we decided to start over.
We then found Spectrum of Hope, and they seemed to check all the right boxes, so we enrolled him there.
He’s been in ABA therapy for about two years, and I can see he’s on an upward trajectory. His teachers work with him 5 days a week on improving his speech, regulating his emotions, and interacting with others. He also goes to a professional speech therapist once a week.
But for all our efforts, we still have our bad days.
Noah recently turned 5 years old, and he still can’t tell you how old he is when you ask. He can’t tell you who his favorite superhero is, or what he wants to be when he grows up. He still has problems sitting still, running away, and can violently thrash when he’s overstimulated or told “no.”
His outbursts in public have led to many apologetic explanations. I have often had to tell a frustrated adult or a confused child that Noah is special.
When this happens, I try to quickly rush Noah away, and sit him down somewhere quiet to explain why he did something wrong.
But what I won’t show Noah, or anyone else, is the overwhelming pain I feel in these moments. The judgmental looks and comments I have received cut me deeply, and I will often need to go somewhere quiet myself to try to work through it.
Despite these painful moments, we also have many good days. We’ll go out to the store, and Noah will tell me he loves me, grab my face for a kiss, and maybe even use a three-word-sentence to ask for what he wants.
I have hope that one day Noah will be able to speak like other children, and that he’ll go on to excel in school and anything else he sets his mind to.
Waiting for him to speak is difficult, as is the fear that he may never start speaking. But we continue to be patient and understanding, as we work to give Noah all the help he needs to reach his full potential.
I hope that you, the person reading this, can also show patience and understanding for these special children too.
If you believe your child may have autism, there are resources available to help you. Visit AutismSpeaks.org to learn more.