It seems that God, in his infinite wisdom, only blesses parents with children capable of rocking them to their fundamental core. I have two such children in my life.
Before I became a parent, I dreamed of what my future children would be like. And I knew that those perfect kids could never be a reality. I’m a realist after all. But even the reality check of birthing twins thirteen months after the birth of my daughter didn’t prepare me for what else God had in store for us.
My twins Logan and Porter were born six weeks premature and then required a little extra care after a brief NICU stay (they needed apnea monitors because of acid reflux). Logan
Porter tries my patience. “I can’t do it!” You must say it as if you are impersonating a whining Arnold Schwarzenegger. “I CAN’T dewit!” ("Do It" becomes all one word with a W sound uniting the two words)
I hear this phrase all day long. Nothing tries my patience like whining. And you don’t need to point out the disparity of the situation. I’ve told Porter on more than one occasion to go out and get his own blog and own followers and they can listen to him whine all day long if they're so inclined.
“I can’t wike (like) it!’
“I can’t dewit (do it)!”
“I no want to!”
“No, No NOOOOO!”
All day long….
He’s also a hypochondriac, which sucks in our house because we have views on antibiotics. Our view is they cost money and money is better spent on things that dull the pain, like booze and Darvocet. The hypochondria came about because we took Porter to the doctor because of a stomach bug that was going around and now all I hear is, “We go see my doctor?” And when I tell him you only go to the doctor when you are sick, he tells me, “I no better now.” Yeah….
Myriam is the second part of this pair. Myriam is autistic. Not sit on the floor and rock or flip out if anyone touches her autistic, but autistic none the less. That fact colors everything we do, everything we are. It’s so hard sometimes. Sometimes I cry when no one is around—in fact I cry everyday. It’s so hard not being able to help your child. Not being able to fix it. I would give anything I have to take this barrier from her. Because that’s what Autism is--a barrier. Autism bars you from accessing your true child. I see glimpses of the child Myriam should be, minus the Autism. Those glimpses are just enough for you to know that this wasn’t the way she was supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard for her or us. I want so very much for her to be normal and to have a normal life. But that’s not the path that’s been chosen for us. That fact is the worst part, the not choosing. I guess that explains why I do this, why I write this blog. Humor hides the pain. Humor allows me to express the grief I feel. My life didn’t turn out like I expected it would.
Myriam is autistic. It’s all that I think about. It’s all that I know.
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