These are three (fictional) entries taken
from the journal of Allie's mother and were
written to depict the onset of Allie's disorder.
Autism varies greatly from
individual-to-individual, and I'm not trying to
illustrate how a "typical" child with autism
evidences symptoms of the disorder.
Rather, I'm trying to convey how (and when) a
child might be affected. . . and what the
mother of this child might be feeling throughout
the experience.
December 1, 2002
I assume all mothers claim their baby as human
perfection, but little Allie takes the cake. She
was born on her due date, exactly six months
ago. What child enters the world exactly as
predicted?
She's a lovely baby. She's got a full head of
jet black hair, and a matching set of beautiful,
dark eyes. Her eyes are almost mystical,
brimming with an unusual and unworldly
curiosity. She has her father's eyes, and
while it's bittersweet their original beholder
can't share the joy of my (our) baby's
existence, the love a mother has for her child
is unconditional. From the moment I laid eyes
on my Allie, I knew I would give my life for
her.
Don't interpret my sentimental nature as any
sign of naivety. I'm still adjusting to the
responsibilities of being a single mom.
However, aside from feeding, diaper changes, and
doctor's check-ups, Allie's surprisingly
low-maintenance. She grasped the concept of
sleeping through the night with relative ease,
and is meeting all the classic developmental
milestones right on schedule. She's
started making the most adorable babbling
sounds. ("Memoomema", I believe, is the last
utterance I can quote her on.) I pray everyday
that she will grow to be happy and healthy, my
baby girl.
April 1, 2004
I have to laugh when I watch Allie play. She
amuses herself effortlessly, displaying an
extraordinary interest in the most ordinary
things: a doorknob, a pop can, the texture of
the carpet, etc. Her father was like that. He
was an incredibly gifted man, infamous for his
ability to make something out of nothing.
Allie's a sweet, calm baby, but I
can't help but worry about her.
Her listless and almost disinterested demeanor
makes me apprehensive.
As
soon as she learned several classic baby words,
(Mama, baba, bibuh. . .big bird, I'm certain), she
stopped her meaningful babbling altogether. Now she makes
sounds, on-and-off, for hours upon hours in a
day.
I was woken this morning by her soft purring,
which continued as steadily as a motor. I walk
to her crib, pencil and notebook in hand. She
is awake. I am standing right beside her, yet
she does not stir. She jiggles her left foot,
(she favors her left side), and passively
continues her grating, "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
Laying on her backside, her beautiful brown eyes
are dazed, off-center. . .can she be lost inside
her own mind? I want to help her (oh please
say I can help her) but how can I when she
doesn't even see me?
June
5, 2004
If my wish was to experience the sleepless nights of
a new mother, my wish has came true. Something
is wrong with my baby. She
started throwing tantrums a few weeks ago, but they
were sporadic, and provoked by something
identifiable and external.
Now her tantrums are incessant. Out
of this teeny, tiny body come the most terrible,
blood-curdling screams. I run to her aid, but she
cannot be consoled. Sometimes she lets me pick her
up and hold her; she'll be calm for a little while.
Other times, hugging her makes her writhe in pain as
if the mere sensation of touch is unbearable.
"She's teething," my friends insist, or "Sometimes
kids start their terrible twos early." "But
I've caught her clutching the bars of her crib,
banging her head against them! This can't be
normal!" I cry. Her unhappiness is my
unhappiness; her pain is my burden. I think of
her at ten months, when her eyes would meet mine and
she would smile. She used to point, to crawl
around, to attempt speech . . . but now it's just
noise.
"Allie!" I
say. (No response.)
"Allie!"
(Still nothing.)
"ALLIE!"
She looks up, momentarily, before
allowing her gaze to drift around the room.
"Allie, you really. . . you really can't hear my
voice, can you?" (I'm talking to myself at this
point.) "All right. I'll. . . I'll call the doctor."