We have always been incredibly honest with our son. It’s a policy that has stood strong against the test of time and has made our connection stronger. Sometimes, it is conversations about things like doctor’s visits and medication and other times he just has questions. The most important thing has been honesty in all things. Sometimes that means omitting information until he asks rather than volunteering everything upfront. That being said, there are topics that we dread. At 13-years-old, he is starting to ask those hard questions.
My son, Bug, is an incredibly smart and curious kid. When he was young, we had serious concerns though. So many of his early milestones were right on time that it was a little scary despite him not talking until he was almost four. Once he did find his voice, everything seemed fine. It wasn’t until he started school that we began to have real problems. By the end of first grade, we found ourselves with a diagnosis of high-functioning autism with ADHD.
To be honest, it was a relief to have an official answer.
For the most part, Bug is mainstreamed. He can do the work, but he struggles with staying on task, changes in his schedule, and social interactions. Believe it or not, this is getting easier. We have had to stay on top of his schooling, specifically with his Individualized Educational Plan {IEP}. When he reached middle school, we advocated for him to be part of creating and evaluating his own IEP yearly. It has brought up questions for him.
After a difficult week in 7th grade and his newest IEP, he started acting differently. Bug doesn’t always process his emotions as quickly as other people. He had been angry all week and was acting out. He refused to do desk work by crumpling it up, he tore up part of his planner, and we saw an increase in inappropriate sounds. We knew something at school was bothering him, but until he could process and vocalize it, we were stuck.
That cold, Sunday evening, as we were preparing for another difficult week at school, everything finally came crashing to a halt. It was nearly bedtime when he came to us looking more like a little boy with tears in his eyes than an angry pre-teen. He wanted to know why he was disabled. One word. One silly word had caused a week of chaos that extended from school to home and everywhere in between.
We had a long conversation that night. We talked about what autism is and how it affects everyone differently. We were open and honest as we had been his whole life. When we talked about describing him as “neurodivergent” he clung to it.
He said, “So I’m like Tris. I’m not broken, just different.”
We flew with his Divergent reference. He had devoured the book series and it gave us a common basis and understanding for our argument: he isn’t disabled, just different. We reminded him that differences are good and without them, the world would be awfully boring.
