Rowen is 5. He is a train. From where I'm sitting, I can hear him blowing his horn outside as he runs his familiar patterned-circle around the yard. He will stop to pick up passengers soon and then move on to one of his other familiar plays. The swing. Tickle Rockets, perhaps. Or maybe he will climb the tree again. When he comes inside he will either ask for a popsicle, or play with his trains. He is a pretty predictible little guy.
Rowen was diagnosed with autism in October of this year. High functioning, they say. I think that just means we still don't get it. Sometimes I see it like a Mack truck heading straight for my head. Other times, I don't even notice it. Of course, Rowen is our first born and we really don't know what "typical" development is. We just know Rowen. And we love him with everything we have. We just don't always know how to help him.
I know he might look different to some. To those who find their children struggling more intensely with autism, he may seem to excel. I'm not standing on a soap box to declare that this is how autism looks, or that one case is worse than another. I am just standing to say that this is our story. This is Rowen's story, and it is changeable. It will look different a year from now, as it did a year in the past. He might still be a train or utterly obsessed with fans and air conditioners, but he will always be Rowen. And he will always be loved.
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