By Beth Cato
While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.
~Angela Schwindt
When I was two months into my pregnancy, the very first thing I bought for the baby was a little Pittsburgh Penguins outfit. I presented it to my husband as one of his birthday gifts, and he was so happy he could have burst. Jason loved hockey. He was devoted to his Penguins. He played roller and ice hockey. It was safe to say that regardless of our future child's gender, the child was going to be raised knowing about pucks, sticks, and Mario Lemieux.
While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.
~Angela Schwindt
When I was two months into my pregnancy, the very first thing I bought for the baby was a little Pittsburgh Penguins outfit. I presented it to my husband as one of his birthday gifts, and he was so happy he could have burst. Jason loved hockey. He was devoted to his Penguins. He played roller and ice hockey. It was safe to say that regardless of our future child's gender, the child was going to be raised knowing about pucks, sticks, and Mario Lemieux.
Our baby, Nicholas, wore that Pittsburgh Penguins outfit and lots of other hockey-themed attire as he grew older. His eyes were bright and took in everything, but he was slow to walk, slow to speak words. At age two, he couldn't even form sentences or interact with other children. Then the diagnosis came: autism.
To say this was devastating would be an understatement. But Nicholas was still the same boy to us, a very happy-go-lucky kid most of the time. We simply had to learn how to connect with him — and how to connect him with an outside world that could be so overwhelming.
A change in jobs brought us across the country to Phoenix, Arizona. Jason's new work schedule freed up his evenings to watch hockey on television at home. Nicholas began to watch too. He didn't seem to follow the actual game play, but there were several other things he did love. Nicholas enjoyed game shows like The Price Is Right, full of exuberant people and bright lights. The crowds during hockey exuded that same enthusiasm, and he would cheer and dance until sweat soaked his hair.
Then there were the numbers.
Nicholas adored counting and math. During his game shows, he was more excited about the price of a car than the car as a prize. When a goal was scored in a hockey game on TV, it was clear he didn't understand what that meant to the team. But it did mean an increase in numbers, and that was a miraculous thing. He would squeal and dance with joy regardless which team scored — much to his dad's chagrin.
All of this pleased Jason, but he still had one big wish to fulfill: for us to attend a National Hockey League game together as a family.
The Phoenix Coyotes played just thirty minutes from our house, and we supported the hometown team (unless they were against the Penguins, of course). There were a lot of big "ifs" involved with taking Nicholas to a game. First of all, a crowd like that is a challenge to any child, not just one with autism. Then there was the noise. Nicholas was hypersensitive to sound and often covered his ears in public. Loud noises made him cry and scream. He loved flashiness and excitement on television, but reality was something else entirely. What if he had a total meltdown? I worried that we were going to spend a lot of money on tickets and then leave early, mortified by our son's misunderstood behavior.
There was only one way to know — we had to give it a try.
Nicholas was three years old and starting to speak in sentences. I kept telling him about the game and what to expect. "There will be lots of noise. You can wear your hood to cover your ears. It's going to be a real live hockey game and lots of fun."
"Lots of fun," he echoed.
As we stood in line to enter the arena, Nicholas was wide-eyed as he looked around. So far, so good. We went inside. Nicholas gasped. "Stairs!" he said.
These weren't just stairs — they were escalators, one of his favorite things in the whole world. He squealed with joy as we went up to the next level.
The crowds were thick on the 200 level. I was getting more anxious, wondering when my child would explode in a tantrum.
Jason pointed to the right. "Our seats are this way." He walked forward.
"No!" Nicholas yelled, anchoring himself against a pole.
I looked at Jason. Oh, no. The tantrum was starting.
"Numbers go up!" Nicholas said, pointing the other way.
That was it. We were going backward in the numbers, not forward. Jason nodded and smiled. "We can walk around the long way."
Nicholas chanted all of the seating area numbers as we passed. He gasped in awe when they started over at 200 and had no problem counting up to our seating section. We went down the stairs and found our seats.
The game was about to start. I tugged Nicholas's hood up. He already sat with his hands over his ears, but his expression was of curiosity, not alarm. How would he handle it when the game started, with all the horns blaring and people chanting? The lights dimmed and the announcer began to speak.
I watched Nicholas more than the ice. He stared slack-jawed at the light effects and then focused on the Jumbotron. "Zero, zero, S-O-G zero, two, zero, zero, zero," he said.
"That's right," I said. "The first period is twenty minutes and no one has scored a goal yet." I coaxed him to stand for "The Star-Spangled Banner" when it played. "There are fifty stars on our flag," I whispered.
"Fifty," he whispered back, bouncing in place.
We sat again after the anthem. The game started. Nicholas continued to watch the Jumbotron, breathily counting down the seconds on the clock. I looked across Nicholas to Jason. My husband was intent on the game, leaning forward against his knees.
"See, little guy? The Coyotes have the puck," Jason said. "Number 19 is their captain, Shane Doan."
"Nineteen! Doan!" Nicholas squealed. He almost bounced out of his seat.
Music began, echoing through our seats. "Let's go Cah-yotes! Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom. Let's go Cah-yotes!" Everyone around us began to cheer. I joined in and looked at Nicholas. His eyes searched mine and I recognized a flare of understanding.
"Let's go Cah-yotes!" he yelled, waving his little fists in the air.
This was like the game shows and hockey games he watched at home. He got it. Nicholas didn't need to grasp the mechanics of hockey to have a good time. It was about fun, pure and simple, and he soaked in the crowd's energy like a sponge.
"Go, Doan!" yelled someone behind us.
Nicholas half-turned, then looked back to the ice. His little eyebrows drew together in concentration. "Go, 19!" he yelled. His voice was so small against the crowd, but Jason and I heard him loud and clear.
To say this was devastating would be an understatement. But Nicholas was still the same boy to us, a very happy-go-lucky kid most of the time. We simply had to learn how to connect with him — and how to connect him with an outside world that could be so overwhelming.
A change in jobs brought us across the country to Phoenix, Arizona. Jason's new work schedule freed up his evenings to watch hockey on television at home. Nicholas began to watch too. He didn't seem to follow the actual game play, but there were several other things he did love. Nicholas enjoyed game shows like The Price Is Right, full of exuberant people and bright lights. The crowds during hockey exuded that same enthusiasm, and he would cheer and dance until sweat soaked his hair.
Then there were the numbers.
Nicholas adored counting and math. During his game shows, he was more excited about the price of a car than the car as a prize. When a goal was scored in a hockey game on TV, it was clear he didn't understand what that meant to the team. But it did mean an increase in numbers, and that was a miraculous thing. He would squeal and dance with joy regardless which team scored — much to his dad's chagrin.
All of this pleased Jason, but he still had one big wish to fulfill: for us to attend a National Hockey League game together as a family.
The Phoenix Coyotes played just thirty minutes from our house, and we supported the hometown team (unless they were against the Penguins, of course). There were a lot of big "ifs" involved with taking Nicholas to a game. First of all, a crowd like that is a challenge to any child, not just one with autism. Then there was the noise. Nicholas was hypersensitive to sound and often covered his ears in public. Loud noises made him cry and scream. He loved flashiness and excitement on television, but reality was something else entirely. What if he had a total meltdown? I worried that we were going to spend a lot of money on tickets and then leave early, mortified by our son's misunderstood behavior.
There was only one way to know — we had to give it a try.
Nicholas was three years old and starting to speak in sentences. I kept telling him about the game and what to expect. "There will be lots of noise. You can wear your hood to cover your ears. It's going to be a real live hockey game and lots of fun."
"Lots of fun," he echoed.
As we stood in line to enter the arena, Nicholas was wide-eyed as he looked around. So far, so good. We went inside. Nicholas gasped. "Stairs!" he said.
These weren't just stairs — they were escalators, one of his favorite things in the whole world. He squealed with joy as we went up to the next level.
The crowds were thick on the 200 level. I was getting more anxious, wondering when my child would explode in a tantrum.
Jason pointed to the right. "Our seats are this way." He walked forward.
"No!" Nicholas yelled, anchoring himself against a pole.
I looked at Jason. Oh, no. The tantrum was starting.
"Numbers go up!" Nicholas said, pointing the other way.
That was it. We were going backward in the numbers, not forward. Jason nodded and smiled. "We can walk around the long way."
Nicholas chanted all of the seating area numbers as we passed. He gasped in awe when they started over at 200 and had no problem counting up to our seating section. We went down the stairs and found our seats.
The game was about to start. I tugged Nicholas's hood up. He already sat with his hands over his ears, but his expression was of curiosity, not alarm. How would he handle it when the game started, with all the horns blaring and people chanting? The lights dimmed and the announcer began to speak.
I watched Nicholas more than the ice. He stared slack-jawed at the light effects and then focused on the Jumbotron. "Zero, zero, S-O-G zero, two, zero, zero, zero," he said.
"That's right," I said. "The first period is twenty minutes and no one has scored a goal yet." I coaxed him to stand for "The Star-Spangled Banner" when it played. "There are fifty stars on our flag," I whispered.
"Fifty," he whispered back, bouncing in place.
We sat again after the anthem. The game started. Nicholas continued to watch the Jumbotron, breathily counting down the seconds on the clock. I looked across Nicholas to Jason. My husband was intent on the game, leaning forward against his knees.
"See, little guy? The Coyotes have the puck," Jason said. "Number 19 is their captain, Shane Doan."
"Nineteen! Doan!" Nicholas squealed. He almost bounced out of his seat.
Music began, echoing through our seats. "Let's go Cah-yotes! Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom. Let's go Cah-yotes!" Everyone around us began to cheer. I joined in and looked at Nicholas. His eyes searched mine and I recognized a flare of understanding.
"Let's go Cah-yotes!" he yelled, waving his little fists in the air.
This was like the game shows and hockey games he watched at home. He got it. Nicholas didn't need to grasp the mechanics of hockey to have a good time. It was about fun, pure and simple, and he soaked in the crowd's energy like a sponge.
"Go, Doan!" yelled someone behind us.
Nicholas half-turned, then looked back to the ice. His little eyebrows drew together in concentration. "Go, 19!" he yelled. His voice was so small against the crowd, but Jason and I heard him loud and clear.
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