Regression

When you have a child with autism, the little victories are hugely gratifying.  By the same token, the little outbursts seem humongous, and you begin to doubt that anything you are doing is making a difference.  Some days are wonderful, but those other days...well, they make you want to throw in the towel, especially when there are a bunch of them strung together.  And you catch yourself praying that this tantrum will be the last one of the day, of the week.  But you know it's not.  

If he starts with a tantrum in the morning over breakfast, every meal or snack will be a battle.  And God help you if you want to get him dressed and out the door.  Oh he'll agree to go out, but of course will refuse to put on shoes and a coat.  And once he's crossed the threshold, good luck catching him.  Then there are the screaming fits in the middle of the grocery store, when he hits you and you try to calmly restrain him but he gets even angrier and bites you.  And you know that he's overwhelmed and stressed and having a bad day, but everyone around you is giving you that look:  the one that makes you feel like you're wearing the scarlet letter of parenthood - the bad mother who can't control her child, the one who's obviously taught her child that it's okay to act like this in public, who must hit her child otherwise how would he know how to do it.  And you want to just have a meltdown right there with your child, because you're both so confused and frustrated.

But you keep going, finding the strength somewhere, to cross the items off your list, check out, and load everything into the car.  He's still crying and you still want to join him, but you get yourselves home again, and let him run off some of his seemingly boundless energy.  As soon as you call him to come in, he takes off in the other direction.  You finally coax him in the house with the promise of Thomas and Cheerios, and he comes running to you.  For a split second, you feel a surge of hope, that he's running up to give you a hug.  But no, he just runs around you, shouting, "Thomas!  Thomas!  Watch Thomas, please?"  And you're so grateful to hear him talk, to request something so clearly, that you just scoop him up and cover him with kisses while you put Thomas on for him to watch.

He settles in on the couch, and you curl up with a book next to him, while he watches Thomas.  He sings with the songs, and jumps up when Thomas comes on screen.  But after awhile he becomes so enthralled with the story, that he calms down and scoots over to you.  And he lays his head on your arm and absently pats your hand.  And that's when you realise that everything is going to be fine.