"Now I can tell people what I want to say.  I am very much excited about this.  My just monotonous life shall be so much better.  You did not know that I have a just like you brain." -- Daniel's thoughts on typing with a QWERTY keyboard and Word Prediction, typed April 19, 2018,

Last October I pulled Daniel out of school.
I consider it the best decision I ever made.

I could write volumes about how the public school system failed Daniel. But, for now, I want to focus on the positive things going on his life, and there is so very much of that.   (It is not an exaggeration to say, though, that Daniel languished, for years, under a school roof.)

On October 17, Daniel and I started what I told him would be our "school at home" experience, which would mean working every day, really hard, with the letters on his keyboard.

We started our first school-at-home day with a book.  I can't remember which one.  But when you don't know what to do, why not read a book.

We read and read and read.  And I asked and asked and asked.

What did the boy eat?  What did the dog want?  Where did the girl go?

Daniel answered.  With one finger, he typed the answers, frequently furrowing his brow and looking over his shoulder, as if the very sight of the keyboard was painful to his eyes, or the calling-up of the correct words required every bit of energy he had, or both.  But the answers were right there--in his head.

I almost am too embarrassed to admit that those first few books were so juvenile.  Somewhere along the way, I had stopped reading to Daniel--one of many mistakes I have made as his mom.  I wasn't sure if he was even listening, much less understanding, and I had a daughter who implored me to read to her every night.  So bedtime consisted of story-books for Olivia, but only songs and snuggles for Daniel.  

My heart aches at the realization that he yearned for story books, too.  

I quickly realized that Daniel not only could answer simple "who, what and where" questions  about the stories but also "why" questions that required him to ascertain a person's plans and motivation.  (One of the conceptions of people severely affected by autism is that they have difficulty relating to, and understanding, what another person is thinking or feeling.  I know now that in Daniel's case that is a complete misconception, and I think that also is most likely true for the vast majority of people living with autism.  An inability to communicate is never synonymous with an inability to understand.)

His first full sentence on that initial school-at-home day was in response to the question, "What do you think the dog is going to do now that Nancy left the room?"

The dog will eat the cake.

It was such a victory.  I considered every word, every sentence, a gift--and a testament to the decision to take him out of school.

After a few days of books meant for early readers, I took to Olivia's room in search of more difficult stories.  I found Beverly Cleary's Ralph the Mouse series.  He loved it.  But poor Daniel. I tested and I tested--seeking confirmation that I wasn't living in a dream, that my son who had gone 14 years with extremely limited communication was not only typing words but comprehending what I read to him. 

Each time we sat down to read, I would quiz him on the events from the previous chapters.  

What did the boy give to Ralph?

A toy motorcycle

Why do the mice like it when children stay in the hotel rooms?

Because they are messy

Why is Ralph upset?

He can't ride his motorcycle.

I also learned that Daniel knew the meanings of every word we came across.

What does it mean to confess?

telling something you did bad  

What does it mean when someone is self-centered?

They think only of themselves 

What does it mean to have empathy?

To understand how other people feel 

For 14 years, I wondered if Daniel understood abstract concepts.

Time to wonder no more.

During our Ralph reading came the first moment of personal sharing--the first time I learned something about my son because he told me with words.

Ralph had described how much he loved the smell of peanut butter.  I turned to Daniel and said, "Can you tell me a smell that you really love?"

He smiled and typed: Oranges

How do you measure the joy in a word?

When your child has been deprived of a voice for 14 years, and he finally is offering a word to share something about himself--even something as seemingly simple as a favorite smell--you cannot.  The joy rises through you and you wonder if you might be lifted off the ground.  You know you will remember it forever.

We loved Ralph so much that we were sorry to see his story end.  But my son was able to tell me which of the three books was his favorite, and we discussed literary terms like plot, idioms and metaphors.  (Have I mentioned that the school district was under the impression that he could not identify the letters of the alphabet?)

Next we picked up Charlotte's Web, and before we started I asked Daniel if he already knew anything about the story,

Only that it is about a spider

So many years I wondered:
Was he listening, was he understanding, was receptive language hard for him?

And he knew that ole Charlotte is a spider.

Yes, yes and no.

The past six months have been filled with moments of indescribable elation.  I have learned so many things about Daniel that I never would have known without his words.

I have loved Daniel since the moment I first saw those two blue lines on a stick.  I loved the very thought of him; I loved the feel of him in my arms after he entered the world.  I love the way he taught himself to swim, his curiosity about the things he encounters in nature, the way he lights up whenever his family is all together.  

I love his heart.

But I always felt like there was so very much I could not know.  I had started to wonder if those things would forever be out of reach.

They are not.

As Daniel put it--I am very much excited about this. His brain is not really a "just like you brain."  It is unique, and I know now that he sees the world in amazing detail.  As I continue to learn more about him, I only want to know more.  It truly is a pleasure to finally be meeting the son I always have loved.