4.

Theo at four.

I'll start with the most obvious and least important but fun nevertheless: he's gorgeous. Thick blonde hair. Big blue eyes. Wide, white beautiful smile. Lashes a women would kill for. Pouty lips and rosy red cheeks. All sitting atop a little scrawny body, usually draped in our friend Owen's slightly too big, high-end hand-me-downs. Theo is a stunning child. See previous post.

Moving on, the essence of Theo, the true beauty, outshines that handsome face. Theo is gentle and cautious. Shy and sensitive. He radiates innocence, yet carries himself like an old soul. His laughter is infectious. His fear of the unknown palpable. Ask me to describe Theo in one word? Well. I can't. And why would I want to? But if I had to pick a theme, or paint a broad-stroke picture of Theo, I'd say he's quirky. Eccentric. Marches to the beat of his own preschool-sized drum. He hates loud noises, wouldn't wear a Halloween costume, loves the Rolling Stones and Daft Punk. He won't take the gift bag from a birthday party or the prize from the dentist, insisting he simply doesn't want them. He will cry if he can't wear his tattered Red Sox Crocs, even in the rain. He hates shirts with buttons and won't zipper his jacket without a fight.

Ok. I'll pause here to let the reader in: Theo is on the Autism spectrum. So oftentimes I don't know what is quirky and what is symptomatic. What is my child and what is this nebulous diagnosis I am struggling to understand.

I don't like this topic. You see, I have not fully accepted the Autism diagnosis, though it's been since April that we found out. Referring to the Kubler-Ross five stages of grief, if I might, I have not reached the acceptance phase. I am still bargaining. Denying. Avoiding. Filled with rage.

Because my son laughs, speaks, looks you in the eye. He is wonderfully smart. Can dress himself. He can practically read, for heaven's sake. So what is the problem? And haven't we had enough chaos in the last few years? We're ready for a break, God.

That having been said, I know that the way out of suffering is through gratitude. So what am I grateful for? That Theo can laugh, speak, look me in the eye. That he is wonderfully smart. That he can dress himself. That he can practically read, for heaven's sake. Grateful that he can tell me when he is sad. Why he is sad. Grateful that he can tell me what Curious George story he wants before bed. That he laughs when I blow bubbles with my gum. That he looks up at me with those big eyes and asks me to snuggle with him until he falls asleep. We got the gift of Theo's voice, his laughter. His piercing gaze. Having educated myself a bit on Autism, I know now that not every parent gets that. To simplify it even more, we got the gift of Theo's life. Not every parent gets that.

So there. Theo at four? Doing just fine, thank you.