It was the year my son named Jack was born, and you were born right along with him.
At first, we had no idea. He was just a squirming chubby baby who didn't sleep too well and hated to be swaddled and cried a little more than we expected.
Slowly, you made your presence known.
The sleep got worse.
The cries got louder.
The quiet got quieter.
He was sick all the time; reflux and ear infections and a deep, barking cough.
Then eighteen months later, on a gray day in early November, an official diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder.
I charged full-steam ahead. I wanted to read about you and research your symptoms and figure out the best plan for speech and occupational therapy and maybe some sign language and then integrated preschool and if we had time we should do music class because everyone knows music is great for kids who don't talk a lot.
My husband, Joe, took the wait-and-see approach. He wanted to slow down, and understand you. He wanted to be thorough before we jumped into anything.
I was right, he was wrong. He was right, I was wrong.
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To finish reading the full story, visit the blog, "Carrie Cariello: Exploring the Colorful World of Autism": http://bit.ly/1WmyWtn.
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