My Origin Story

People often ask how I knew. What they usually mean is - he doesn't look different, maybe my kid is weird too, how would I know?
My son is autistic. He is formally diagnosed as High Functioning Autistic Spectrum Disorder Level 1. If we'd had him 'tested' a year or two earlier it would have been called Asperger's Syndrome.
But how did we get there?

Ratbag was born when I was 21, I didn't drink at my own 21st birthday celebration.  I dropped out of uni with one term left of my degree.  My partner and I called him our 'happy accident'.  I had a largely uneventful pregnancy, and a difficult but incident free birth - I'll spare you the details.  Aspie Dad remembers the worrisome wait as the doctors whisked away our little one's tiny body because he wasn't breathing right away, but he was only gone for a couple of minutes before they handed him to me.  He was ugly - bald and reddish purple, gooey and wrinkly - like a goblin just climbed out of a cold vat of jelly. I didn't feel an immediate connection at all.  I had been told about the wonderful feeling you get when you hold your child for the first time - but it wasn't there.  I put it down to being a rational thinker and not a romantic and that people glorify parenthood to trick us into it. Or that's what I told myself.

We had sleep issues and feeding issues.  I felt isolated and resentful of my new role.  There was So Much Crying.  I spoke to maternal health nurses, chemists, GP's, sleep clinic specialists, the best pediatric gastroenterologist. Eventually my partner suggested I might need help, more than he could offer.  I saw a community mental health service and they diagnosed me with post natal depression.  I went on medication and did everything in my power to get well again, but it didn't change my son - only how I responded to him.  I blamed myself and my depression for our lack of connection and this for him not responding to me as I'd expect.

We moved interstate when he was about 6 months old.  Away from all family and friends. We started over in a new town.  We loved our new home and, despite the money stress that comes with running a home with 3 people on a graduate salary, life was going well.  I'd stumbled into a mothers group and was making friends and helping my growing bub learn to socialise.  But my depression wasn't getting better.  I'd spend hours on the couch. Watching whatever was on TV. Trying to get the boy to sleep or keep him entertained to avoid more screaming and crying.

Going to mother's group was the best part of my week.  It was a reason to get up in the morning, to shower, to exercise (I didn't drive so I would put Ratbag in the pram and walk).  I got to speak to other adults, and to compare my child to others.  He was different. I couldn't put my finger on it.  Maybe it was because he had been so sick? Maybe he was really smart? Maybe he was an 'old soul' like my grandmother said? Maybe.... maybe it was me?
We soon discovered that he was, in fact, quite intelligent.  He said his first word as he took his first step around his first birthday.  One of his first few words was the whole alphabet, and by the time he was 2 he could read most picture books.  He watched The Wiggles as much as humanly possible.  This was great for me because I didn't have to leave the couch, I'd just repeat the same dvd over and over until we both knew every word by heart.  I still get Hot Poppin' Popcorn stuck in my head 8 years later.  It was really cute and funny that Ratbag had a strong British accent (even though we didn't know anyone British), but when he recited lines from his dvds he had the same accent and intonation as the original characters.
He was generally happy but when he wasn't happy everyone knew it.  It was always one or the other - no in between, just extremes.

When we found out that we were expecting another child, we weren't as excited as the first time.  We were happy about the news, but not blissfully excited like we were last time.  We were exhausted and wary.  So when my little Froggie came along a week before Christmas I was prepared for another deep depression. But this time, they handed her to me and I felt it. That magic I'd been promised. I loved her immediately and had all the mushy feelings that I'd expected the first time.

Ratbag wasn't much fussed about his little sister. She'd cry a bit and he'd just go about his business. He'd interact with her if prompted to do so, but really she may as well have just been another book on the shelf that he'd pick up and read then leave lying around somewhere.
She had an infectious smile and giggle. She was so full of life and was happy as long as she was moving - fast.

At pre-school they'd noticed that Ratbag was different too. Eccentric. Really smart and just a bit eccentric.  One beautiful teacher, we'll call her T, has recalled to me the first time she met him.  He was holding a book and she asked him if he wanted her to read it with him. A fellow teacher shook her head and T soon found out why. Ratbag read the book to T, not the other way around as she'd expected!  Another teacher who really helped him refine his young love for music, is a beautiful woman who just happens to have short hair. Ratbag referred to her as 'him' or 'he' for three whole years because he just couldn't get his head around the haircut, no matter how many times we corrected him or showed him other women with short hair.

With all of his talents and 'quirks' came tantrums like I'd never heard of before.  It was like he was a different person.  I frequently found myself cradling a toddler sized Froggie and trying to calm her while I sat with my back pushed up against my bedroom door while Ratbag tried to beat it down, screaming.  I was afraid of my 5 year old.  I was afraid that he'd accidentally hurt his sister, himself, or me, while in one of these turns.  I knew something had to change. I knew there was more to it than just tantrums.

One day I was so tired and helpless that I was sitting on the floor in the lounge room crying uncontrollably.  Miss Froggie, who was walking but couldn't really talk yet, found me crying and walked to a nearby sideboard, found a framed photo of her and her brother and brought it to me.  Then she sat in my lap and hugged me as I sobbed.  Soon her brother reappeared.  He'd calmed down and seemed to have forgotten all about being angry - the other Ratbag had gone.  He asked if he could have something - I can't remember if it was a snack or tv show or whatever - he clearly wasn't bothered by the state he found me in.  I was exasperated at his apparent lack of empathy and, with tears still falling, I asked "Can you see that Mummy is upset?". "No.".  Nothing. I thought "If the 2 year old can recognise my feelings but her 5 year old brother couldn't, there must be a problem."
That was when I decided to call the local community health centre.
I remember crying on the phone and the nurse arrived with a wad of paper work - maybe the same day, maybe the next.  But that's where it started.

Ironically, my daughters' behavior that prompted me to get help for her brother is actually one of the symptoms of her own autism.  I didn't know it at the time, but sometimes autism presents as a 'lack or empathy' and other times the person is 'overly empathetic'.  My explanation is that neither is 'lacking', both are misinterpreting.  They are not processing their emotions in the same way that non-autistic or "Neuro-typical" people (NT's) do.  I'll have to rant about 'girls on the spectrum' another time - I encourage you to google it if you think you might have an aspie girl in your world, and I'll share some links and resources soon too.