We’ve been living with an “official” diagnosis of The Boy Child’s Autism for a year.
I would so like to say that things have gone from strength to strength, but that wouldn’t be true.
However, there have been things to celebrate. Of course there have.
The Boy Child is thriving at school. He’s awarded gold stars for good work when no-one else in the class is. He can read. He can read very well. He has friends. He can balance on a curbstone approximately two inches wide. He can skip. He can watch a film at the cinema with very little inappropriate calling out or bouncing in his seat. He loves to talk at weekly Show and Tell. He can initiate proper conversations, with a beginning, middle and end.
On the anniversary of the diagnosis, I was inspired to write this post by my friend Robyn. She frequently blogs so articulately about her two boys and the problems they face and overcome.
She appears to be so much accepting of Autism than I am.
I’ll be honest.
I don’t want to be the parent of an Autistic child.
I don’t want to be labelled.
I am the parent of a beautiful, intelligent, loving, kind-hearted and funny six-year-old boy.
And that is enough.