We’d made it. After a
long day of driving from Phoenix, a quick dip in the hotel pool at the
insistence of my son, and eating hotel lobby cookies instead of a proper
dinner, we had arrived at the amphitheater in front of Carlsbad Caverns in time
to watch thousands of bats depart the cave in search of their evening
meal. When I was a child, I had the
opportunity to see this spectacle during a cross-country road trip with my
parents and sister. The magnificence of
it – on par with the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall of China – had stayed with
me throughout my life. I couldn’t wait
for the opportunity to share it with my two oldest children.
As soon as we sat down, I could tell my eight-year-old son
was antsy. The amphitheater was crowded
and noisy with sounds of conversation and a Park Ranger attempting to lecture
over the din. He kept asking to go back
to the hotel, not understanding what brought us to this place in the middle of
the New Mexico desert. Soon he was
standing up and speaking loudly, insistent that he didn’t want to be there.
When we embarked on this 4500-mile trip to our new home on
the east coast, I was uncertain how the challenges of autism would manifest
themselves. He had struggled to understand why we didn’t arrive at our ultimate
destination in “The Virginia” within 49 hours after departing our home, since
that was how long Google Maps said the trip would take. During our drives, he would randomly ask “Time?”
and I would dutifully show him how much longer the to the next hotel. “Three more hours, champ.” Invariably, he would seek to negotiate a
faster arrival. “Two hours?” “Sorry, buddy. I can’t alter the time-distance equation that
significantly.” But all in all, my son
had done quite well to this point.
Despite the hectic pace of our journey and the constant change in
environment, we had managed to maintain rudimentary routines to provide an
adequate sense of constancy for him. He
was content.
Until we got to Carlsbad Caverns. The Park Ranger had just finished explaining
the importance of being quiet while viewing the bats, and requested that
parents take any noisy children outside the amphitheater to avoid disturbing
the animal’s echo-location. Judging by
some of the looks I was getting, I’m guessing some of our fellow visitors were
disturbed as well. Now I was caught in
a dilemma. If I took my son out of the
amphitheater, would my daughter be all right on her own? It was going to get dark during the viewing,
and ultimately be night by the time the event finished. Was it fair to deny her the opportunity to
see the bats because her brother was being obstinate? Didn’t her life already have enough
limitations due to her sibling with special needs?
I checked with her that she would be ok sitting by herself,
explained to her where she could find us after the show, and led my son up the
steps and out of the theater. Our purgatory for the next hour was the
landscaped walking paths between the parking lot and the amphitheater, which he
explored and re-explored with abandon as I hustled to keep up with him. I was hoping to be able to at least sit on a
curb with him and catch a glimpse of the bats, but he wasn’t giving me even
that.
I hadn’t been so frustrated with my son in a long time. Most days, the fact that we have a child with
autism is just something that lurks in the background of our more quotidian
struggles. But his behavior on this day
brought things into stark relief, combined with the fact that the stress of my
self-imposed timelines on the trip was catching up with me. I
wished he was able to sit still for an hour.
I wished that he could understand when I said “be patient, it will be
worth it.” I wished my son could be as
captivated by nature as he was with the videos on his iPad. I
wanted to scream, “Why can’t I just have a normal son?” and I knew right then I
had reached a breaking point, indicated by my use of that blasphemous adjective
in blatant violation of autism parenting orthodoxy.
And in that instant, my son gave me what I needed. I suddenly heard him say, “Hello friend!” He was on all fours, giggling as he
inspected a centipede that was crossing the path. The insect zigzagged on the sidewalk, much to
my son’s delight. I crouched down and
watched my son watching his new discovery.
He was totally captivated, and even after the centipede left the path
and crawled into the dirt and shrubbery, he followed his friend’s journey with
rapt attention and encouragement. “Go to
your home, friend!” Overhead,
thousands of bats swarmed overhead, leaving the caves in search of their
evening food, but my son and I stayed focused on the ground beneath us.
Every day of fatherhood is a much-needed lesson in patience,
selflessness, and perspective. My son
had done such an amazing job handling the demands of the trip on my terms. And the one time that he needed me to
approach things on his terms, I failed him and got frustrated. Those five minutes on our hands and knees in
the New Mexico desert, watching a centipede scramble home, turned into one of
the best moments in my life. That was
when I learned to see and appreciate things from my son’s vantage point. I am so incredibly grateful for him and the
journey he has taken me on as a father.
My only hope is that I’m somehow able to return the favor, and teach him
as much as he has taught me.
