The Confessions of a Father of An Autistic Child

This is the face of an autism.

Hi, my name is Frank Priegue, I’m the father of an autistic child.  It felt good to write that.  This isn’t a deeply held secret, our family and friends are aware.  If you follow me on Instagram, I’ve included hashtags like #autism, #autismawareness, and #autismdads to my posts for over a year.  I’ve alluded to Cristian’s autism but never dedicated a post to this topic—until now.  This is Cristian’s official coming out as an autistic child.

Although greater awareness exists these days, few individuals without a relationship to someone on the spectrum know much about Autism Spectrum Disorder.  Before I became a parent, my only exposure came from the film Rainman.  I knew nothing of IEPs, Developmental Pediatricians, or District 75 schools.

Like many parents, I went through a stage of denial when Cristian was diagnosed.  My wife and I sat quietly with our mouths hanging open as we read the diagnosis.  How could our child be autistic?  He had a few eccentricities, which a specialist diagnose as sensory issues or developmental delays, but that doesn’t mean he’s autistic.  I convinced myself that autism is the flavor of the month diagnosis doctors are handing out in large numbers until the next one comes along.

Denial can be a potent concept.  You can justify anything if you repeat it enough—I know this because I did this with Cristian.  Esther and I are first-time parents of a delightful little boy.  He loves attention and admiration, rewarding those who played with him with a 1000-watt smile.  So when we noticed oddities, I easily justified them.

Cristian didn’t say his first words until well after a year, but so did I.  I didn’t speak until just before my second birthday.  I was a Stay at Home Dad for two years, working as a medical biller.  Cristian played with his toys or watched Sesame Street for a while I reviewed spreadsheets.  I kept convincing myself—he wasn’t receiving enough stimuli.

How can our child be autistic?

Cristian played by himself during story time at the local library and didn’t interact with the other kids during his My Gym class.  I thought it was odd he didn’t play with children he’s seen for several months.  The teachers told me many children less than a year old engaged in parallel play, so I didn’t think very much about it.  Cristian is an only child of older parents, we tried scheduling playdates with his cousins to socialize him, but they were 3 and 4 years older than him.

I was aware there were a few peculiarities making him different from other kids his age, but he was a healthy baby, his pediatrician assured of us this.  He scored high on the growth charts and he liked adults.  How could there be something wrong with him?

It became increasingly difficult to keep ignoring the obvious.  On a trip to Puerto Rico to introduce Cristian to the family did the differences become more apparent.  Esther noticed that he wasn’t exhibiting appropriate behavior for a year-old baby, as he played with cousins who were his age.

Despite Esther’s background as an early-intervention coordinator, I wasn’t totally convinced.  She was also a first-time mom, who worried if it was too hot or cold.  First-time moms worry about everything. It wasn’t until Cristian started rocking back and forth in his car seat with greater frequency or ran back and forth down the hallway in our home like he was running wind sprints that we decided to get him evaluated.

Being the parents of a special-needs child is challenging, but raising any child, is about meeting challenges when they arise, and giving the illusion that you have everything under control.  Don’t feel sorry for Cristian, he’s not feeling sorry for himself.  He’s a happy four-year old, who loves to run, play, and read books.  As his parents, all we ask for is patience, understanding and awareness.  Take the time to get to know him and be part of his world on his terms.  You might be surprised at what you see.

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Exorcising the Demons of 2016

How I’m feeling these days.

The beginning a year is for dreams.  Dreams of self-improvement, of being healthier, happier and more productive. It’s a time for resolutions—you know change the things you didn’t do last year—or the year before that.

When 2016 ended people were bitching and moaning on social media sites about what an awful year it was.  John Glenn, Prince, and Carrie Fisher died, there were numerous terrorist attacks, and an alligator attacked and killed a two-year old child at Walt Disney World in Florida.  A lot of things about 2016 sucked.

I spent most of 2016 as a Stay at Home/Work from Home Dad, and although I spent much of the year chasing an active toddler, I wasn’t as active as I hoped.  I didn’t need to step on a scale to know I gained weight—I knew by the way my clothes fit—I just didn’t know how much I gained.

Judgement day fell on New Year’s Monday, when my better half and I stepped on a scale, like we do every year, to see how bad the damage was.   For me it was pretty bad, it said 242.2.

242!   That’s not bad, that’s enormously bad, 12 pounds more than a year ago.  How did things get so out of control?   Too much beer, fast food, and binge eating, spending more time waiting in line at the drive-through window, then at the gym is usually a good indicator.

 

Denial is a wonderful thing.  I’ve been here before, gaining weight, and losing it, gaining it back, and losing it again, and again and yet again.  Over the years, I’ve lost 200 pounds, twenty pounds ten times.

Like many I have storage bins of thin clothes and really thin clothes neatly packed in storage bins in the garage, ok maybe not so neatly, and fat clothes hanging in the closet.  The difference is these days my fat clothes are fitting tight.  During my job interview in October, I couldn’t button the jacket of my suit.

Running and climbing a flight of stairs, takes more effort these days, and going down a few flights of stairs feels like I’m wearing a 30-pound backpack.  I spent more time walking than running during this year’s Hangover Run on New Year’s morning.

So once again, I’m beginning another weight-loss journey.  The task seems daunting and although I don’t have a specific goal weight in mind yet, I’m keeping things simple.  One day at a time, one meal at a time, one pound at a time.

Esther, Cristian and I during this year’s Hangover Run – Photo Quicksilver Striders
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