FINDING THE PERFECT GIFT

Every year as the holidays approach, I start making lists of gifts to buy for family and friends. For several years, my son Sam was hard to shop for - or maybe I should say easy to shop for, because it really didn't matter what I got for him. He liked unwrapping things, loved counting the presents, and would happily shred mounds of wrapping paper. But no matter what was inside, he ignored the gift.

As a toddler, Sam never played with toys in an appropriate way (as defined by my conventional thinking). He would turn his trucks over and spin the wheels, he would line things up, and anything that made a noise would be sounded over and over and over and over. I used to buy a lot of things hoping to pique his interest, hoping to hit on something that would engage him, that we could play with together, that would stimulate any kind of interaction. Nothing seemed to work.

I started for feel sorry for Sam and for everything he was missing out on. My sister's girls always do crafty things with her, bake cookies, and are in plays. Sam was even afraid of Santa. (He would stand grimly next to Santa and glower at the camera, and Santa would look slightly perplexed in the picture.) All my friends would complain about what greedy monsters their children were being, while my guy wanted practically nothing. He liked watching the same videos over and over, and reading the same books.

I enjoy finding the right gift for all my loved ones, and I put a lot of thought into it. Finding the perfect thing that will not break my paltry budget is quite a challenge! I wanted to find something that delighted Sam, other than chocolate, french fries, or ice cream.

The year Sam was six, he wrote his first letter to Santa. He wrote, 'Dear Santa, I would like the letter A. Have a good trip. From Sam Levine'. I obsessed over this, trying to figure out what he meant. Was this Wheel of Fortune echolalia? Did he want something that started with an A? What should I do? Finally, I went to a craft store and found some wooden letters about eight inches high and bought him the letter A. When the presents were opened, the relatives all rolled their eyes. However, Sam was delighted, carried his A everywhere and even brought it to bed.

This was the beginning of my understanding of autism. For years, I had been trying to make Sam fit in. It was for his sake, I told myself. It began to dawn on me that I was in a mourning process for the parent I wanted to be, and the feeling of missing out on normal experiences: the loss of my idea of what parents and kids do together. I was having a hard time coping with the changes in my own life expectations, and my own feelings of competence as a parent. When babies smile and gurgle and appreciate your every glance, you feel wonderfully rewarded. But if your child doesn't give you that kind of unmistakable feedback to reinforce your good parenting behavior, it's not so easy to keep going; it's demoralizing. Gift giving is very similar. It encapsulates some of the frustrations and self-doubts that go along with parenting a special-needs child. I finally realized that this stuff bothered me, not Sam. He was happy counting pretty packages and shredding paper. I was the one who was disappointed and felt left out. I began to let go of unrealistic expectations, and to try to see the world through his eyes. It's actually been a big relief.