See Sam Run: A Mother's Story of Autism

Year Two

Y E A R TWO Favorite Toys “HE’S GOT SOME VERBS HERE. That’s something,” Nancy said, adjusting her glasses to look through the list of fifty words. She explained that Sam was almost a year behind in normal language development. “It won’t be as hard since he’s using some verbs. We want to work toward some combinations, like ‘Car go.’ You know, simple two-word sentences.” She handed the list back to me. “Does Sam imitate you?” “What do you mean?” “When you talk, does he ever repeat what you say?” “No. I guess I never realized it before, but no,” I replied. “My god, Nancy, how can I teach him to imitate me?” “Let’s not worry about that right now. I brought a video for you and Mark to watch. It has some basic techniques to elicit speech.” From her satchel, she pulled out a tape inside a simple white box. “I want to show you one idea from the tape,” she said. Nancy had put a bead roller coaster on the floor before she looked over Sam’s fifty-word list. Sam was already moving a 47 “It’s my first day to walk.” Favorite Toys 49 line of yellow beads up and down the thick, cherry-red wire mounted on a sturdy pine base. She sat next to him and began to narrate his play in the same quiet, deliberate way she had first talked with me on the phone. I had seen that kind of toy only a few times before. Even as an adult, I found moving the beads felt soothing and purposeful. “Look, Sam, you’re making those yellow beads go up and down. You’re making them go up. Now you’re letting them fall down. That’s fun, Sam,” Nancy said. She turned to me. “Just describe what he’s doing. He’ll make the connections between the words you’re using and what they’re for. This toy is good for eye-hand coordination and visual tracking—the kind of motor skills he will need to learn to read.” I began to wonder whether I was Sam’s problem. Of course, Sam wasn’t talking because I wasn’t a chatty mother. My quiet love wasn’t enough. I should be walking up and down the aisles of the grocery store going on about red apples, and green peas, and orange oranges, I thought. That must be why he doesn’t know his colors. I didn’t coo. I didn’t baby talk. I didn’t refer to myself in the third person. But I still couldn’t understand. The world around us was noisy enough. Over the next few months, Nancy helped unleash more words from Sam. I made myself talk about everything we encountered , even about inane things. Sam’s speech became chunkier. He repeated large phrases, whole sentences. For Sam, language was like a thousand-piece puzzle that someone had already put together and returned to the puzzle box with big, fat sections still intact. He might recognize a section and put it in the right place. I had to fill in the gaps of individual pieces of speech that were missing. Now that I knew how to play with Sam, I spent more time with him just playing on the floor. I saw Mark shared my enthusiasm. Sam understood more of what Mark and I said to him than first we thought, at least in a general way. When I asked Sam if he wanted to go to the store, he knew where we were going. While Sam’s communication skills improved, his behavior did not. If we waited in a restaurant foyer for carryout, Sam had a meltdown. He couldn’t stand being in a checkout line. If something bothered him in public, he’d erupt. Mark and I often quizzed each other during meals or while running errands, trying to figure out what set Sam off. Since he didn’t throw a tantrum for the same reasons as other toddlers, such as being denied a toy or treat, we often argued about what caused his meltdowns or what was the best way to stop them. Even when Sam was content, he elicited rude looks and heartless comments from strangers. He wiggled and whined like a normal kid, but with a sharper edge. At the corner grocery one day...