I Didn’t Know How it Would Go

So many times last year I’d get asked, “How's Hudson going to handle first grade?” I'd respond the same way to everyone by saying, “I don’t know?” with a pit in my stomach.

Because I didn't know how it would go. On Thursday, he officially completed first grade.

I’ve been quiet this year about his progress. I was hesitant because kindergarten was so rough for him. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, thinking his year was going too good to be true.

And we did hit some obstacles. Bullying, running, some aggression and isolation. But even those things didn’t occur until April-May. When they happened I thought, “here we go, back to where we were last year…”

But Hudson surprised me and was able to work through it, with the help of his support staff, of course. And now here we are, officially finished with first grade and going into second.

I’m incredibly grateful for his team this year. They all recognized the struggles from last year and worked hard to help improve anything that wasn’t right for him. Whether it be recognizing his boredom and creating harder spelling lists or coming up with social stories to help him through certain situations, they worked together to create tools he needed. And I think as he’s growing he’s learning how to navigate these situations better for himself, too.

I’m super grateful for his teacher who not only accepted him for who he is but also took the time to teach his classmates about him, and why he sometimes does things differently. It was amazing to watch 6 and 7 year olds support him through the hard stuff. Earlier this year Hudson learned about his autism, and it was great to see his classmates accept him for it.

I’m just so proud - and relieved - that he was able to do this. Watching him overcome obstacles never ceases to amaze me.

Here’s to summer! And second grade!

A Father’s Day Celebration

Today was my first Father's Day event at Hudson's school. And it was nothing short of amazing.

The school gym had tables and snacks setup for a Father's Day celebration. He and his classmates formed a receiving line to greet Fathers and Grandfathers as we walked in. In typical Hudson fashion, he broke rank from the line and rushed to hug me tightly while saying "Welcome to your Father's Day coffee break!"

The moment he held me I felt tears welling up.

Hudson led me first to a table to grab our donuts and coffee, and then to our seat where personalized gifts awaited me. While other Dads around us opened their gifts and talked about the things that were made for them, Hudson read my an A to Z book on insects.

I wanted nothing more than to look at each gift with Hudson while expressing my joy and gratitude for his hard work. But that wasn't what he wanted or needed. When he's excited about something, his stimming kicks into high gear. I sipped on my coffee while Hudson asked me what I thought about each insect in his book. He would redirect me back to his book with each question that I would ask about my gifts.

And that was totally fine with me.

To many people unfamiliar with autism, stimming can appear to be a selfish act; one where the individual is concerned with their agenda only. But that's often not the case for Hudson. He had so much excited energy for the day that he channeled that into what was comforting to him at the time. Reading facts about insects wasnt something he did out of boredom but rather out of necessity as it was the "valve" he had available to relieve the nervous pressure that was growing.

Through all the stimming, Hudson made sure to hug me and tell me how much he loved me. There is no greater gift than that from your children, autism or not.

I took Hudson home from school after the coffee break. This is pretty common for most Fathers during this special day, and I knew Hudson would

be triggered if he had to stay. I watched him play games for a bit at home before we grabbed some lunch together.

Having a child with autism often means that you miss out on some fun school events because they can be too triggering and overstimulating. I am forever grateful that Hudson worked as hard as he did on this event and that my work was flexible enough to allow me to attend. When you see a certificate that was colored in by hand, I see an incredible level of detail from someone who struggles with hand gripping. I see detail that was no doubt very painstaking for him to add.

I am grateful for today and for the effort Hudson put into making it special for me.

Isolation

Autism is often described as a "bright and colorful world." And we see that in Hudson most days.

But it can also be an island, all on its own with no map to show you how to safely navigate through the rocky terrain. There is no guide to redirect you when you get lost, have an accident, or feel disoriented. There are no signs to lead you back on the right path when you make a wrong turn.

For all its beauty, autism is also isolation.

Earlier this school year we were made aware of behavioral issues in PE. Hudson struggled regularly with not being as fast, as strong, or as coordinated as his peers when working through lessons in gym. He was frequently triggered by this and would often lash out at his classmates. We opted to pull him out of regular PE and put him into adaptive PE instead, where he works one-on-one with his PE teacher to get through lessons each week.

The behavioral issues haven't been limited to just PE, though. There have been triggers from other peer interactions in the bathroom, on the playground, during lunch, and in the classroom. He has also recently experienced his first bout with bullying.

The bathroom triggers were rectified by giving Hudson access to a private bathroom in the nurse's office. Just last week, we were informed that Hudson was going to eat lunches with either the nurse or with Kayla to try and avoid the loud chaos of normal lunch from triggering him. He has also started spending more time on his own at home, where he enjoys his alone time to play, read, draw, or watch videos.

Each of the measures taken seem logical on paper individually. But they all have one common denominator... isolation. He no longer eats lunch, participates in PE, or shares a bathroom with his peers. Every decision made to avoid a triggering situation leads to more isolation in his world.

We have unintentionally put Hudson on a path that distances him more and more from his peers, and from us. He seems to find at least some comfort in his isolation, but it breaks our hearts.

The choices we have made for him have not always been the right ones. We will be the first to admit that we don't know what we're doing or how to live in his world full-time. I remember back to last summer when we put him through a series of traumatic doctor's appointments and tests to see if he had a rare medical condition that could further hinder his ability to have a "normal" life. We followed the signs and the guidance of his doctors, and he ultimately ended up not having this condition (thankfully). Looking back, it's hard to say if we made the right decision or not. But the guilt remains for having put him through something that tortured him without his ability to understand why we were doing it.

As his parents, we feel isolated more and more with each issue that occurs. We want to help him grow and learn, but we don't know if each decision we make will be good, bad, or both for him. Friends and family will offer words of encouragement from a distance, but the reality is that they are often just as lost as we are when it comes to his autism. If you don't know what to say or do in a situation, isn't it often just easier to avoid it altogether, or to keep your distance?

In our search for answers and support we've often thought about starting a local support group for autism in our community. It feels strange to think about leading a group to educate, inform, and guide others on autism when we ourselves feel lost. How can we lead anyone if we don't have the slightest idea what we are doing or where we are going in this journey??

When things are going great, autism really is beautiful. But living a day with autism rarely is "great" from start to finish. The lows sting to no end and there's often no one there to help soothe the pain, or to tell us how to make any of it better. When a trigger is resolved for Hudson, he can go from having a two hour meltdown to being perfectly content while seemingly forgetting all about having been upset at all. We simply don't have the same ability to recover like he does, so our wounds cut deeper and take longer to heal.

For us right now, autism is isolation. And it's hard to feel this lost or alone.... it's hard to feel like we don't know how to make the right decisions to make his life better.