![]() He threw every toy in the apartment on to the floor. "We already watched Elmo, let's do something else." "Show," he whispered, all the time staring at the screen. Luke grabbed my hand and took me away to the computer, placing it on the table next to the trackpad his way of requesting a cartoon. "Mama loves you, Harry," I whispered, kissing his cheek, desperate to win a second of his attention. He just wanted to say his alphabet in a corner, picking the magnetic letters off the A/C unit, one at a time, bringing them close to his face to look at, then away again to examine at a distance, before returning them to their correct place in the ABC lineup. ![]() Not only did he not make eye contact with me or play with any of the toys, but he cried and threw his body against the ground in protest. That morning I had tried to interest Harry with a puzzle. But there was this one day that something clicked into place. I was choking, sometimes literally, from the desperate feeling that I was failing my children. All first-time parents suffer from imposter syndrome, but this was a morbid case. I'm a stay-at-home mom who freelances, so until the therapists were in place, I was alone with two children who were ostensibly the same children I had parented the days, weeks, and months before, but who I no longer felt qualified to parent. I knew something was wrong, but nothing could have prepared me for hearing those words.įor awhile I was in a sickening fog. ![]() Earlier this year, my two-and-a-half-year-old twin boys Harry and Luke were diagnosed with autism. ![]()
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