By Kay Klebba
Happiness is life served up with a scoop of acceptance, a topping of tolerance and sprinkles of hope, although chocolate sprinkles also work.
~Robert Brault
I slumped in the doctor's office chair. "Your son exhibits the symptoms of Asperger's syndrome," the doctor said. "It's a form of autism." While she danced around the words, careful only to say he had the symptoms, I tried to remember what I had read about this confusing, multi-faceted syndrome. Did kids with Asperger's function at a high level, or were they the children who rocked silently in corners? I searched my memory while she casually knocked my world off its axis. "Cooper is very highly functioning," the doctor told me as she picked hairs off her sleeve. I wanted to scream and shake her, but I sat and said nothing.
Happiness is life served up with a scoop of acceptance, a topping of tolerance and sprinkles of hope, although chocolate sprinkles also work.
~Robert Brault
I slumped in the doctor's office chair. "Your son exhibits the symptoms of Asperger's syndrome," the doctor said. "It's a form of autism." While she danced around the words, careful only to say he had the symptoms, I tried to remember what I had read about this confusing, multi-faceted syndrome. Did kids with Asperger's function at a high level, or were they the children who rocked silently in corners? I searched my memory while she casually knocked my world off its axis. "Cooper is very highly functioning," the doctor told me as she picked hairs off her sleeve. I wanted to scream and shake her, but I sat and said nothing.
Questions raced through my mind. Does she mean that Coop will never be normal? What is normal anyway? Why do I have a child with autism? Why would God give me this child when I was clearly not ready for him?
For months, we had suspected something was wrong with Cooper, so we started him in speech and occupational therapy. Twice a week for seven weeks, I piled all four kids in the hot van for the forty-five-mile trip to the therapist. Tired, frustrated, and overwhelmed, I now faced the ugly truth.
Will Cooper ever want to play with the neighborhood kids? Will Cooper ever have a friend when he can't reach out? How will he communicate when his little world is black and white and the English language is shaded gray?
It wasn't fair. I didn't ask for four children, including a set of twins, but I'd rolled with the punches and kept smiling. I loved them, watched over them, and prayed for them. All I wanted was normal children.
But Cooper had Asperger's syndrome along with developmental delays. There was no cure, no known cause. Over the next few weeks, I struggled to control my emotions. As a mother, I felt disheartened. As a follower of God, I felt angry. Why would God do this to me? To my family. To my child. Could someone please tell me how God was taking care of this mother of four? Was I some cosmic joke to Him?
All of my children would be affected by Cooper's problem. Was the situation fair to them or to Cooper? Stumbling, swearing, and just about cursing God, I found no answers and put away my Bible in disgust.
A few weeks later, the phone rang. "God put it on my heart to call you," my sister Dawn said. She asked how I felt, and I opened the vault. I cried and yelled and cried some more. When I was spent and exhausted, Dawn quieted my heart. "God knows you are angry, and this is not about you."
"What do you mean this isn't about me?" I said. "This has everything to do with me and how Cooper's autism affects my family. I have to change our meals, our schedules, and everything about our daily lives. How in the world is this not about me?"
Dawn answered with God's truth. "This is about God giving Cooper the perfect mom for him," she said with love. "God knows you will stand up for Coop and fight for him. You'll care for him, and Cooper will become the best Cooper possible because of you." She paused and added, "You are the perfect mom for Cooper."
Dawn was right. At that moment, I felt God's undeserved grace wash over me, filling me with strength. I couldn't focus on me; I had to focus on Cooper. I would be his protector, the one who let him explore and expand. I would be his advocate in countless school meetings and doctor appointments. When I didn't have the strength to go on, I would open my Bible and pray. I'm not a perfect mom and never will be, but I could be a pretty good mom for all my kids, especially Coop.
I still struggle with my son's autism. I battle to accept who Cooper is and what he can do without limiting or overprotecting him. I cry when I make Cooper study his spelling words one more time because he spells words according to their sounds rather than the dictionary. I rejoice when he gets 100 percent on the same test he took the previous week. If a new treatment doesn't work, I try something else. I can never cure Cooper, but I help him start the day calmer and handle situations differently. My son is funny and wonderful, and I laugh at all the "Cooperisms" that come from his mouth.
You see, motherhood isn't about me. It's about God giving a mother to four wonderful children, including one who stands out and demands a little more work. I am God's gift to Cooper, the perfect mom for a unique child. And he is God's gift to me.
For months, we had suspected something was wrong with Cooper, so we started him in speech and occupational therapy. Twice a week for seven weeks, I piled all four kids in the hot van for the forty-five-mile trip to the therapist. Tired, frustrated, and overwhelmed, I now faced the ugly truth.
Will Cooper ever want to play with the neighborhood kids? Will Cooper ever have a friend when he can't reach out? How will he communicate when his little world is black and white and the English language is shaded gray?
It wasn't fair. I didn't ask for four children, including a set of twins, but I'd rolled with the punches and kept smiling. I loved them, watched over them, and prayed for them. All I wanted was normal children.
But Cooper had Asperger's syndrome along with developmental delays. There was no cure, no known cause. Over the next few weeks, I struggled to control my emotions. As a mother, I felt disheartened. As a follower of God, I felt angry. Why would God do this to me? To my family. To my child. Could someone please tell me how God was taking care of this mother of four? Was I some cosmic joke to Him?
All of my children would be affected by Cooper's problem. Was the situation fair to them or to Cooper? Stumbling, swearing, and just about cursing God, I found no answers and put away my Bible in disgust.
A few weeks later, the phone rang. "God put it on my heart to call you," my sister Dawn said. She asked how I felt, and I opened the vault. I cried and yelled and cried some more. When I was spent and exhausted, Dawn quieted my heart. "God knows you are angry, and this is not about you."
"What do you mean this isn't about me?" I said. "This has everything to do with me and how Cooper's autism affects my family. I have to change our meals, our schedules, and everything about our daily lives. How in the world is this not about me?"
Dawn answered with God's truth. "This is about God giving Cooper the perfect mom for him," she said with love. "God knows you will stand up for Coop and fight for him. You'll care for him, and Cooper will become the best Cooper possible because of you." She paused and added, "You are the perfect mom for Cooper."
Dawn was right. At that moment, I felt God's undeserved grace wash over me, filling me with strength. I couldn't focus on me; I had to focus on Cooper. I would be his protector, the one who let him explore and expand. I would be his advocate in countless school meetings and doctor appointments. When I didn't have the strength to go on, I would open my Bible and pray. I'm not a perfect mom and never will be, but I could be a pretty good mom for all my kids, especially Coop.
I still struggle with my son's autism. I battle to accept who Cooper is and what he can do without limiting or overprotecting him. I cry when I make Cooper study his spelling words one more time because he spells words according to their sounds rather than the dictionary. I rejoice when he gets 100 percent on the same test he took the previous week. If a new treatment doesn't work, I try something else. I can never cure Cooper, but I help him start the day calmer and handle situations differently. My son is funny and wonderful, and I laugh at all the "Cooperisms" that come from his mouth.
You see, motherhood isn't about me. It's about God giving a mother to four wonderful children, including one who stands out and demands a little more work. I am God's gift to Cooper, the perfect mom for a unique child. And he is God's gift to me.
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