Just a Bigger Boy on the Beach

Yet another report of an autistic individual—Angel Brooke McKinnley, a 22 year old woman in Provo—-who is missing. There’s been numerous stories about autistic children and adults missing this summer, and Project Lifesaver has been mentioned a couple of times. A friend’s son has one of the Project Lifesaver devices and I was surprised at how big it is; it’s a lot of plastic strapped onto a small boy’s wrist. He’s okay wearing it but I don’t think Charlie would tolerate it at all and would probably try to get the device off his wrist, and not be too happy when he was not able to.

Impossible these days not to look at Charlie and think, big kid. Standing on the edge of the ocean, deeply tanned and with strong shoulders, he’s (as Jim likes to say) a long, tall, drink of water. I know he was just not so big last year, when I often noted that he was “a few inches shorter than me.”

That day when our child looks down at us: What kind of pride does a parent feel (a bit in awe, in my case). When you’re the parent of a disabled child, there’s twice as much the pride, but also something more of worry and a twinge. Another friend visited us at the beach on Monday and I found myself, for several minutes, holding her one-year-old baby. I felt especially aware of how small he was, and how easy it was to steady his weight on my hip and support him on my left arm. I knew Charlie had once been as small though he always had very long limbs and seemed to be wriggling and moving most of the time.

Needless to say, those days are long, long gone. My mom gave Charlie a sleeveless shirt which he has not wanted to wear (shirts must have sleeves, I guess) so I’ve been wearing it. He used to like to wear my shoes for fun but now they;re too small for his feet. Charlie’s every inch the adolescent and, being such, seeking his independence; testing limits and pushing at boundaries and wanting to do things himself, like swimming in the ocean. Charlie knows he’s supposed to swim between the two flags and nothing has been annoying, angering, him as much as when Jim or I remind him that he has to walk all the way over: We’re barging in on his space; we oughtn’t to to be holding his hand; he wants to do it all himself, and we have to be parents and remind him, rules are rules.

I recently read a book by the father of an autistic child; the authors notes that his son will always be the same age inside, that he’s  sort of like Peter Pan, a boy who never grows up. Charlie’s delays are clear and obvious, this summer on the beach, but far from being a toddler in an adolescent’s body, he’s an adolescent in an adolescent body. A couple of times, of late, there’s been crying “out of the blue,” there’s been mood swings, and I’ve thought back to my own adolescence, and stormy, up and down memories of emotions and feelings: Why does growing up have to be so rocky sometimes?

One thing about my now older, approaching teenagehood son. So far, it doesn’t seem like we’ll need (fingers crossed) a Project Lifesaver device. While younger, there were times when Charlie wandered off, into a neighbor’s yard to use their slide, and much panic ensued. He’s been pacing in the yard and driveway of the beach house, and seems not at all inclined to wander off; he seems to know he needs to stay close to home and wait for Jim and me.

Though I think I’ll always have my ears attuned for the sound of Charlie’s voice, and my eyes making sure I see his ever taller form close by.