My Daughter, My Husband and My Heart

This is the final draft of the narrative essay I turned in a few weeks ago for my composition class.  My instructor gave me a rave review and suggested that I submit it to parenting magazines...I think I might go for it.  Wish me luck!

*********************************

Ask any parent and they’ll tell you that bringing up a child is the hardest, scariest, most rewarding experience they’ve ever gone through. When I became a mother, I was faced with a torrent of unsolicited advice from loved ones and even total strangers. I know they all mean well, but the fact of the matter is that every person – parent, child, sister, brother – is different. What people don’t seem to understand is that what has worked for them will not necessarily work for me. The most infuriating part is the implication that the advice-givers know better than I what is best for my child.


My daughter is everything and more than I ever could have asked for or expected in another human being. She is affectionate, funny and independent when she’s not needy. She’s so many other things, all wrapped up in the most beautiful little package I’ve ever seen. At nine months old, she had developed a vocabulary of four words: Momma, Dada, uh-oh and duck. By twelve months of age, nearly all of these vocalizations were mere memories. She was not picking up new words, and she had lost those which we thought she’d previously mastered. She refused to make eye contact with another human being, and was terrified by her own reflection. Something was wrong.

Many people took this opportunity to weigh in, yet again, with their opinions. It’s a phase, they said. Every kid is different. She’ll grow out of it. They were all right on one point: every kid is different. Though I knew they meant well, I just could not shake the feeling that this was more than my kid simply being a kid. I had to stop listening to the outsiders and spend some time with my family, listening to my daughter, my husband, my heart.

At her eighteen-month checkup with the pediatrician, my daughter was given a routine autism screening. This test combines information regarding the child’s day-to-day activities, obtained through a simple questionnaire completed by the parents, with firsthand observation of the child by his or her pediatrician. There are six points of concern monitored in this test, and if the child hits three or more, he or she is considered to be at risk for autism. My daughter hit all six.

Since that day, our family has been in touch with a local non-profit organization which works with special needs children, making sure they receive the care they need through available government programs. She began speech therapy immediately, but after a year it seemed to us that she was not progressing as quickly as she should. After we expressed our concerns, our service coordinator made an appointment for a medical diagnostic in Chicago. A team of professionals including a pediatrician, an occupational therapist, a speech pathologist and a developmental therapist analyzed my little girl by playing with and observing her. This team of experts informed us that same day that she was, indeed, on the autism spectrum. She is now receiving four therapies each week, and we have seen vast improvements in her demeanor. She’s making more eye contact and is able to look in the mirror for at least five seconds; her speech-type vocalization has picked up ten-fold; and she’s started communicating to us in her own language – a hybrid of signing and actions to indicate what she needs.

When other parents told me it would be hard, I nodded my head and smiled – my standard response to unsolicited advice these days. I had no idea what I was in for, but I wouldn’t change any part of it (or her) for the world. By blocking out the noise from the outside world and listening to my daughter, my husband and my heart, I’ve been able to provide The Princess the help she needs.